A Sort of Elegy

Where is G'Kar when you need him?
Tonight will mark the taking down of one Ditty Bops calendar and the putting up of another. That's the only noticeable change my room will undergo.
I've been trying to think of something eloquent to say to cap off the year. In a perfect world, I would have spent a few weeks or a month reflecting on the events of the past twelve months and distilling my thoughts into a stirring elegy. I would sit at my desk, trusty pen in hand, and bask in the shining Uniball ink as I wrote out the final words of the piece that at once encapsulated the energy and pathos of the past year and channeled it into a resolve to carry on with renewed vigor and determination for the one about to begin.
But it's an imperfect world.
So what, pray tell, made this year unique? Every year is filled with sadness and despair. With walks and memories and screams and laughter. With chocolate and cheese.
Is it the names of the players? Was her hair red this year, while in years past it was dirty brown? Is it the changing scenery? The songs coming from the stereo? What were you doing when the balloon dropped over the masses last time around? I can barely remember. It seems so unimportant. What's one moment out of a whole year? It's like a single drop in the 2006 pail, slowly filling from the crack in the roof. What else is in the water?
Check all that apply:
Fall in love?
Lots of heartbreak and tears?
Holiday sickness?
Moments of sheer joie de vivre?
The death of a family member or friend?
Overwhelming, absolute readiness for the end of this year paired with a delirious, screaming eagerness for the blank slate afforded by the new year?
Am I the only one who scored 100% on that little test?
Perhaps it is precisely the sheer commonality of our collective experience that we will be celebrating when we raise our glasses tonight. The dirt under our nails. The dead skin that fell wherever we walked, and became dust. We pay for our existence with sweat and blood, and this is what the year keeps. Somewhere inside us are bits and pieces, loose ends and minutiae, made up from the grime and residue of the beatings we've taken each day this year. Imagine that they're located in a specific place inside your body, and that come the morning you will be taking them out and putting them away. You might throw them, good riddance, hurtling into the night to be crushed underneath the wheels of trucks, gliding on the freeway. You might just tuck them into the furthest recesses of your closet, not gone, but well out of sight. You might place them on your bedside table. But whatever you do with these tangled memories and emotions, they are what truly made this past year distinct from every other. It's the details, the change which have defined the year. Not vague lists or photographs, but the visceral reality that we went through what we did. All 2006 asks now is that we remember it, and hopefully learn from it as well.
So I offer this as a toast. Raise your glasses of wine, your pints of beer or your shot glasses of Makers Mark; even a glass of ice water will do:
May the pieces of yourself that get put away never cease to teach you how to live better, starting tomorrow. May each day henceforth serve to give those pieces meaning.
Tomorrow is Monday.
You can have tonight off.

Do what you love, and fuck the rest.

Cheers.




Wolf Parade - I'll Believe in Anything
Inner - Slither
Modest Mouse - The World at Large
Merle Haggard - If We Make It Through December
Neutral Milk Hotel - Two Headed Boy, Pt. 2
The Decemberists - Grace Cathedral Hill

'Twas the Night Before Decemberween

'Twas the night before Decemberween
and all through the house
MacBook Pros and G4s purred
with no need for a mouse.
The stockings were hung
by the electric fire
enticing the house cat
to curl up and retire.
We ate a grand dinner
we all had our fill
Now I sit and write to
some old Built to Spill
Pitchfork rounds up its lists
from this year nigh extinct
and I download the best
of what they all think
Homestar and friends
all ornaments on a tree
one fully afro'ed
none other than Coach Z
Letters to tube socks
and to socks argyle
as Decemberween comes closer
I just have to smile
The presents are safe
inside my bag by the bed
sealed in wax
some black and some red
So off to bed with me
time to turn out the lights
Happy Decemberween to all,
and to all a wight, wight!

















Death Cab for Cutie - Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)

Dreams to Remember

An extra blanket, that's what I need to get out of bed in the morning. As counterintuitive as this seems, the extra warmth will make the harsh morning air seem less awful and I'll have an easier time making it to my coffee pot for reinforcements. This theory was proven last night when I stayed at a friends' house - catsitting while she's out of town. She has a down comforter on her bed, something I've not slept with in a long time. It didn't hurt matters that I had a very friendly cat named Pixel curled up with me for a good part of the night, once he'd settled down enough to stop headbutting me in the nose repeatedly. He just got out of the hospital after an operation, and apparently was very glad indeed to be home. I attempted to do a bit of journaling in bed, only to have the page bonked every few seconds, smearing my handwriting all over the place.
Never have I met such a persistent cat. Bonk. Bonk. Bonk.
When I awoke this morning I had little trouble getting myself out of bed. It must be the heat (or lack thereof, in the case of my own bedroom), that keeps me stuck in bed. So here I sit, an extra blanket draped over my knees as I type away.
This past week, excuse me, these past few weeks have been both pleasantly productive, and full of wasted time and counterproductive energy. It's been an albatross around my neck to sit down and make time to write in here, let alone anywhere else. But I have pulled off my first ever Christmas wherein I've made all my presents by hand. It's endlessly more satisfying than finding something out in the shops; even if it is something cool and perhaps even useful to the person you're getting it for, it doesn't compare to something made by hand. At least that's how I feel about presents. I can only hope that others will share this view come Monday.
As I write I'm wrapping up the last details of the presents, and trying to keep my head on straight with a bit of severe scheduling. I don't know about you, but I rarely find myself needing to pull out my calendar and plan out my activities and obligations for the next several days. But it's the only way I'll get it all done. I have endless details to attend to, packing, mailing, letters and bills to address before venturing home to the California warmth on Sunday. I can't even bring all of it to mind right now. And that doesn't include all the things I intend to get done once I'm there.
I've been stuck, lately, on the question of proper perspective. I've been through a few emotional rough spots lately (Honestly, who hasn't? Synchronicity is real), and there were moments when I lost my head completely. Despaired. You know the drill. One little thing, played back again and again through your mind, each time a little more distorted, a little further removed from what actually happened, until the real cause of your pain is buried under a mountain of props and perfumes. It's only when you step back and look at things with perspective that you realized it's not as bad as all that, and if anything you've orchestrated this whole nasty business yourself.
Well.
I have, with a little help from my friends, pulled myself from the wreckage by trying to keep proper perspective. My tendency toward self-destruction/sabotage (is this what Freud would call my Death Wish?) notwithstanding, I've been flashing on this more and more lately, always to calming effect. Look at it another way, one just as if not more valid than the way you're thinking now that keeps you so crazy and depressed. Take a step back from yourself and see things on a grander timeline. Or look at all the things that are going right, rather than wrong. The list goes on and on.
Yet we human-types seem to have the damnedest time keeping perspective. There's not much I know now that I didn't know at some time or another in the past, which, had I remembered it, could have saved me considerable pain and wasted effort. But isn't that just part of living and forgetting? And is anything ever wasted? Well, yes. Not learning from your mistakes (or learning from them, and promptly forgetting about it) seems to be the textbook definition of a wasted experience. But if I keep perspective I know that this is pretty normal, all things considered.
But what I'm coming out with from all this is that when people deviate from reason and coolheadedness, it's almost always on the side of things that are going to make them miserable and self-destructive. If you hold us up to the model of the 'ideal philosopher' (in whom reason is absolute), we err on the side of totally fucking crazy every time. I'm no different.
Alas. We're going to carry on anyway. It may be part of our nature to self-destruct at every opportunity, but so too is it our nature to fight tooth-and-nail against anything trying to put us back in the dirt.
The extra blanket is in place. The pieces are falling where they need to fall.

Catching Up

I'm well past the point of feeling a bit guilty about not writing. The it's time stage came and went, followed by the no, it's really time, Dave, followed by a paralyzing sense of apathy and regret. I'd lapsed too long; too many thoughts had flown through my mind, begging to be set down, and what was I doing instead? Getting stoned with a few co-workers and listening to Johnny Cash on vinyl. Playing around on Insound. Damn my addiction to playing on the internet.
Speaking of addictions, and in case you didn't catch the multiple hints I just dropped, I've become entirely addicted to shopping for vinyl. The ol' turntable is out of the closet and equipped with a new stylus, counterweight, and pre-amp, and everything is running splendiferously. The difference in sound quality is staggering. I'm listening to Thom Yorke's The Eraser and cannot believe how much better it sounds than the measly mp3s I have on my lappy. I'm certainly no audiophile - I don't understand why it sounds like the band is in the room with me. But it does.
It was almost a week ago that, in a haze of word wars and novelist fuel, I wrote approximately 10,000 words over the weekend and found myself Caught Up on my wordcount for the first time since I began. It felt extremely satisfying. But now I'm finding myself a bit restless. Instead of having to throw myself into a frenzy just to reach my goal, I only have to write a little bit each day. It's not sexy. Not exciting. Also, the story seems to be nowhere near winding itself down, unless I pull a blatant deus ex machina and simply wrap it up with a few reductive sentences. No! No! Bad writer, no muffin.
I am reminded of Michael Douglas in the film Wonder Boys, when Katie Holmes (Boy, I never, ever, thought her name would wind up in my blog) gently critiques his latest work-in-progress, saying "You always encourage us to make choices in our writing. And while this is really, really, beautiful, it just feels like you didn't make any choices, Teach."
That's me. The end keeps getting further and further away because nothing is risked, and I'm not committing to my characters and binding myself to their actions and natures. Instead it's just kind of plodding along, not awful, but not terribly interesting either.
I guess it's not too important. I'll get to 50K, even if it is a drab, boring, and entirely unfinished mess by the time I get there.
I'm racking my brain to come up with a good list of things I'm thankful for, even if it is coming a few days too late. I think this kind of thinking is best done at night, to be honest.
I will get to it, and soon. And I will try to be better at writing when I have something to say, and not leaving it to pile up and accrete until I am more blocked than the grease trap at my work after two months' neglect. To steal from Wonder Boys again, I'm just a little sad these days.
Such is being alive.
Big big love, friends.

Remember, Remember, the 11th of November

I have a friend who happens to look at the clock precisely at 11:11 on an almost daily basis, and is more than a little wary about this fact. We've talked about it a bit, and I joke with her that when November 11th rolled around, she ought to stay indoors entirely to avoid whatever catastrophes and pitfalls might be waiting for her.
Yesterday passed seemingly without incident. I saw her at our local coffeeshop, and she was smiling. I couldn't help but think that she had forgotten the date; otherwise she'd be far more apprehensive.
I've spoken to a few other people about this, and it seems we are not alone in our tendency to glance at our watches at such particular moments. Apparently there are many studies and groups which deal with this, such as the Midwayers and other New Age-y types. It was also the day of the ceasefire of World War I, back in 1918 (though it was only 11am when it was declared). It is the new number of evil, as well as a record by the lovely Regina Spektor.
But while most of the links I got after googling 11:11 seemed to focus on angelic intervention, it is still curious that we find ourselves looking at the clocks at these times. What's more, ever since I became aware of my friends predisposition towards it, I've been looking at my own watch at 11:11 far more often.
The novel progresses. I'm having a decent time writing in little bursts, taking breaks for coffee and tea, and then doing it over again. Over and over and over again. I've got a few characters who please me. However, control freak that I am, I'm not really letting them do their own thing just yet. That, and I'm just making life far too easy for all of them. Although I just killed off the character who was originally going to be my protagonist, and have found that he's far more interesting now that he's dead.
I went for a walk late, late last night. Soft, sprinkling electronic music came through the headphones as I walked over the I-84 freeway. I had been laid out by the two Terminal Gravitys I drank after work, and was still a bit buzzy when I meandered into the parking lot of Fred Meyer to deposit a check. Naturally the Wamu ATM was out of deposit envelopes. However, on my way round the building, I noticed that one of the sliding doors parted as I walked by (this was around 2 in the morning), and, unable to resist the curiosity, I crept inside. The inner doors opened as well, and I stood briefly beside the watch racks and electronics department, surveying an empty Freds. There were workers at the far end of the store, stocking and cleaning. I hid behind sales racks.
After my jaunt to the ATM I tried to go back in, and somehow in my semi-inebriated state I failed to notice that one of said workers was standing just inside the door. He barked at me: "We're CLOSED, man!" I hurried out with my tail between my legs.
In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have ventured in a 2nd time. But there is something intriguing about being in places during the off hours. And the beers probably didn't help either. C'est la vie.
Last night while we closed down the restaurant, one of the girls I work with was talking about some customer (excuse me, guest. We are a nice restaurant) who had come up to her and literally tapped her several times on the arm to get her attention. She was discussing how lonely people must be, how desperate for any kind of human contact, that they will reach out to servers or waiters, trying to engage them in conversation when they clearly have work to do. She spoke rather disparagingly of this guest, which was fair enough. But I realized, as she spoke, that I was no different from this man who'd tried to connect with her for a moment. So many times I feel myself nearly insane with the desire to feel my hand touching another's body. Just to feel it. Or at the very least to be out amongst people, like that old Smiths song talked about. The thought stuck with me the rest of the night, and as I walked home from Freds the feeling grew so intense that I detoured to Holman's for a late dinner and the company it would afford me. I paid for the French Dip, but what I really came for were the drunken people at the table adjacent to me, the neon beer lights and jukebox, the server who smiled and told me to spin the wheel. Is this it? Is this why bars succeed and people put poison in themselves?

I apologize for having to turn on word verification for those of you who would comment, but I was getting spam with increasing frequency. I hope it won't dissuade the rest of you fine people from leaving me notes. They always make me smile, no matter how small or insignificant they might seem to you.

In Which We Are Plodding Along

Every now and then I need some serious time alone. I forget it sometimes, when I get so desperately lonely that all I want is be out amongst people, out with my friends, my co-workers. Have a few drinks, a few laughs, and go home to fall contentedly asleep. But I've run a bit short on solitude lately, and am feeling it tonight.
It doesn't help that it's November, a.k.a. NaNoWriMo when I am (and I'm not alone in this, I imagine) prone to being very grumpy and high-strung. I find myself feeling put out by anything that demands my attention unless it's a) something I'm being paid for or b) my novel. Writers. We are a sensitive bunch.
Speaking of said novel... well, it's coming. Slowly, and a bit behind schedule, but it's coming. It feels completely different from last year, when I had such particular emotional dilemmas to resolve (read: write about transparently in novel). This year the field is wide open. Instead of being overly serious about the whole process, I'm hoping to enjoy myself a bit this time around, and maybe taste of bit of the good craziness that is so intrinsic to the heart of the thing. The delirium that comes from hi-speed creation.
So far, it's mostly filler. But it is decent filler. And it hasn't felt like pulling teeth. Not yet at least. If you are interested, you can track my progress with that little icon near the top left corner of the page.
Naturally, having to write this novel has pushed my non-noveling productivity into overdrive as well. I'm getting a lot of little tasks done in the name of avoiding the blank screen. For instance: After letting it collect dust in my closet for at least three years, I've finally gotten my beautiful Sony turntable up and running. As I type this, Elliott Smith's eponymous record is spinning, the rain is coming down in torrents, and I think I'm having an honest-to-god Portland Moment.
I bought a few of my favorite records on vinyl recently, and am getting a huge kick from walking over to the turntable, flipping them, and hearing the crackle crackle of the record as it gets compressed and sent through my speakers. Grin. I was getting really heartsick from so much digital music on my computer, acquired through the tapping of a few keys, and played just as easily. It warms my heart to listen to music in such an involved way again.
I walked to the library to return some books, stopped for Chinese on my way home, and got utterly soaked. It was glorious.
Onwards!

Get Behind the Wheel, and Let's Go

Here's the theory: If what's inside is a lot of wank, then what comes out will be wank as well. And you can dress it up with big word and clever phrases, obscure it all you like, but underneath all the perfume and frills, it's still wank. It stares out at you, its whining, petty little heart beating fast. Unmistakable.
I mention this only to point out that each time I sit down to write in here, several thoughts jump up that compel me to spew endless amounts of the stuff. Write something good. Something thoughtful. Witty and enlightening. Please them. Please them. Sadly, this was your life.
Blogs written under that ridiculous mentality are no fun to read, and even less fun to have written and then have to look at after the fact.
So. I try to clear my mind of shoulds, desired results/etc, and just sit down with an open, clear mind and write a new blog for you.
Naturally, in the interim between now and my last, a number of blogs have died in utero. Last week I rode to Freds and picked up a lovely 23 lb. pumpkin from their massive cardboard bins. When I got it home I logged into the Homestar stencils page, printed one out, and went to work.
Here is what I came out with:


















I experienced a simple sort of joy doing this. It seems clichéd to say, but it's true: I felt like I was young again. The wonderful sticky guts. The seeds set aside to dry. Endless scooping. Time for your lobotomy, Jack! Every second of it filled with delight.


There were others, but they are lost. Onwards.
I have letters to write, and, in two days, a novel to begin. Yes, NaNoWriMo is upon us once again. We are all waiting with bated breath, runners awaiting the gun. This year is going to be another experiment in sheer manic rambling and stupidity; I don't have a plot, characters or anything. Only a desperate sense of determination: I must succeed, and go forth despite it all. It's terrifying having no idea what to write about, but I'm trying to see it as liberating rather than daunting. It will be a brilliant experience, that much I know. It is like nothing else; the frenzy, the giddiness, and the glow that comes from it are invaluable. Nothing else comes close. A month of stubborn ramblings and digressions. I will give free reign to my tangential mind; set it loose upon the blank, um, Word Document. Fuck writing this thing by hand. And while I may not be so wonderfully coherent and articulate as, say, Eddie Izzard in my bounding free associations, I will still have fun.

So in honor of Nanowrimo, here are a few songs. For my fellow writer-types, let these serve as a bit of a send-off, and for the rest, simply enjoy. Music is endless, it belongs to no one and everyone. And it can mean something different to everyone. That's the beauty of it. Jeff Buckley once said, when asked what he hoped people would get from his music, "whatever they want, you know... whatever you like."

So wish us luck.

Godspeed You Black Emperor! - Storm
The Long Winters - Pushover
The Red Paintings - Walls (Alternative Ending)
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - Details of the War
Tom Waits - Tango 'Til They're Sore
Christian Kiefer - Stumble

One Week, No Shaving

I didn't wear socks, but still had bad dreams. With the blinds down it felt like 6am. I was grateful to have hours until I had to rise.
Some days it's sad music. The desperate, forced attempts at misery. Some days it's as simple as chopping 35 yellow onions for the evenings' meals. Your body doesn't know the difference as long as the tears are there. Between you and me, I prefer the onions.
A shower and cracking open the window transform the world. A hermitage becomes a playground. Outside, children shrieking like they're being murdered race around swing sets, and it is a terminally beautiful day.

Keep Your Eye on the Finger

Just past midnight. Time creeps. I keep telling myself not to care, not to dwell. O angel, won't you call me? No no no. I don't care. I care desperately. I tear myself apart. I run into the night, determined not to stop until I arrive at some sort of answer. Until I track down some reason. Are we going to survive this damage? Will we ever come back again? We must. Must we? Naturally we must.
Reading Dave Eggers does this to me.
The plan is as follows:
Keep busy. Keep busy. Keep busy. November is coming. Don't leave the haiku til bedtime:

olivia tremor control
says please please please
don't you ever change your mind on me

There is the stale smell of incense on the air. Memories of years gone by. The smell of every room you've lived in. Jeff Buckley's favorite. Aphrodisiac for the world.

Consider the adage: Eat, Drink, and Be Merry, For Tomorrow We Die.
If you're at all like me, you feel fairly secure that, while anything is possible, you will rise tomorrow feeling healthy and very much alive indeed. That you will continue to do so for many days to come. All things being possible, we may die before the morning comes. Though the odds are against.
But if we are to die tomorrow, then tonight, we must dance.
Take a drink to loosen your limbs, or follow this ingeniously simple suggestion from Mr. Jason Webley:
Point your right index finger towards the heavens, hard and erect. Hold it up proudly. Look at it. Look at it as if it were the only thing in the universe. Don't look at my finger, look at your own damn finger!
Keep looking at it...
Now: spin around twelve times. Keep your eye on the finger...

Come, I'll do it with you.

Are you ready?

One!
Two!
Three!
Four!
Five!
Six!
Seven!
Eight!
Nine!
Ten!
Eleven!
Teeeen....
Eleven...
TWELVE!


Dance. Sing.

And rest.

It's a Magical World

Hello! The time is at hand.
If I had written this a few days ago, well, it would have been different. I would have written about walking home from the Belmont library, listening to Stephen King talk about his childhood in that nasally voice of his. I would have written about how I was walking down Stark by Laurelhurst park, feeling generally absorbed in the gray half-rain of the evening. How I felt something hit my nose, which startled me back to my senses. I brushed my hand over my face. It had to be a spider. I looked down, seeing nothing. Where was it? I patted myself all around. Then I saw it, sitting on my scarf.
It was not a spider.
It was a little yellow larva.
I brushed it into the bush, and kept walking. Then, blinking in the bright light filtered through the drizzly gray, I saw the rest of them.
Little yellow specks, floating in the air. In the middle of the street, dangling from treebranches on invisible silk strands. Spinning in the dew like living lights.
I would have written about that.
How things come and go! They are born, seemingly out of thin air (Why is it always thin air? Why not chubby air, could-stand-to-lose-a-few-pounds air?) and you capture them or just let them go. There's no looking back!
I have no pretty pictures to paint for you at the moment. I love the sight of the Willamette River at night. I love feeling gravity pulling me down Salmon Street on my bicycle. I love anything that makes my heart light. I love you, as well. I struggle to know you truly, to see past my idea of you. I want to know you. And I want to be known to you.
Please, tell me something. Take me out of my head for awhile.

Did you know?



















And do you realize?








O, October! Will you marry me?


The Decemberists - The Crane Wife 3
David Ford - I Don't Care What You Call Me
Regina Spektor - Samson (she is coming to town on the 25th, and you should all go. PDX folks, anyway)
Okkervil River - Love to a Monster
Thom Yorke - Harrowdown Hill
The Album Leaf - The Light

Bollocks and Band-Aids

Before entropy sets in completely, let's get a bit of an update here.
I'm still churning out the same whiny shit in my notebooks, but I'll spare you that rubbish here. I set in to work today, thinking the whole thing through, and reckon I've made some progress on how to cut down on the wanking and just get on with my work a bit easier.
The job is good, yet I am managing to constantly fuck my hands up. Between peeling roasted pimentos, blanching kale and doing load after load of dishes, I find myself with withered, exfoliated hands on a daily basis, and a variety of cuts and pokes as well. I type this now with five band-aids covering various fingers. Either I'll grow thicker skin or learn to be more careful. I worry at the fact that many of these little holes I find in my skin appear inexplicably. I don't know how I got them; it's as if someone were sticking pins in a voodoo doll.
I am fascinated, when I come home to clean these wounds by pouring hydrogen peroxide over them, just how much of my hands light up white as the chemicals react to the bacteria. My skin bubbles and stings. Then the handsoap, the rinsing, the wrapping of transparent band-aids. The rest will attend to itself.
I don't know if anyone else has this, er, tendency, but lately I've felt inclined to adopt an English accent whenever I speak, and sometimes even incorporate English slang into my language as well. I admit that I've always been something of an Anglophile, but I think I'm going through some kind of phase as well these days. Maybe it's all the British television I've been watching. Spaced, for instance. Good lord, where have I been? I've just been loaned all four dvds of Black Adder as well, which I've never seen. Apparently I'm in for a treat. I'm enjoying The Smoking Room quite a bit. Not to mention this hilarious bit from Extras wherein Daniel Radcliffe finally escapes his Harry Potter trappings.
So it has seeped into my language a bit. I find myself wanting to greet everyone with an 'alright?' instead of a 'hi how are you?'
It makes more sense. Brief, to the point, and no answer is expected. Not to mention the fact that hi, how are you is, at least for me, a hollow exchange that I feel more or less obligated to spit out but hate all the same. I imagine other people are just as tired of it as I am. But I also imagine that I'd get many an odd look if I went round saying 'alright.'
Getting back to my point. If you were a fly on the wall while I happened to be talking myself through something serious (it's helpful, what do you want) you'd probably find me slipping into a bit of an accent. Even if I were alone. I feel like a bit of a wanker for doing so, but I also don't really like my own voice and feel ridiculous when I hear myself saying anything. So getting a bit in character is useful. And if it works, well, fair play to me. Alright?
That about covers things for now. I'll try to debut some proper fiction before too much longer, if I can successfully get past my ridiculous hangups and such. I'm writing this and that, and I've begun a new webcomic just for kicks. But I need more. I'm still holding back. Still looking for some magic key, some golden ticket.
It hardly needs mentioning that summer has finally turned its toes up, and fall has come at last. So in honor of that, here's some tunes for you.

Hawksley Workman - Autumn's Here
Elf Power - The Spider and the Fly
Tim Buckley - Hallucinations/Troubadour (live)
Shearwater - The Kind
Yo La Tengo - I Feel Like Going Home
Low - In the Drugs

And Bob's your uncle.

In Which Monkeys Are a Hit

Bookclub. Every other Thursday night, my friends and I gather to discuss a book over food and drinks. I didn't get around to reading it this week, due to my life being more hectic than usual. But I attended at their request, and sat with them listening and doing sketches and eating Pillsbury croissant rolls and drinking Papio. Everyone liked the Papio. We all got right drunk and there was even some inebriated dancing to Christopher Cross. Ye gods.
I drew a picture of my friend Tom, though really I think it looks more like Craig Thompson.




















This morning, I am in my purple robe. Coffee.

Go say happy birthday.

Sunny With a Chance of Ditty Bops

This is late.
The past few days have been full and overwhelming. An emotional ride to say the least. My friends and I drove up I-84 through the Gorge - stunning - up into the Husum highlands for a wedding, camping out in the shadow of vineyards and mountains. Sleep was drunken and uncomfortable, but the ceremony was perfect. Beautiful. My need for ritual was satisfied.
The winds of change sweep in, shaking the trees. The birds all fly away. A new job, and everything has a sort of bittersweet air these days. Tainted. The last gasp of summer.
I was delighted to witness the charming stage show of the Ditty Bops last night at the Aladdin Theater. This morning, as I rode out towards Hawthorne to meet a friend for coffee and writing, I looked across and saw two very tired and disheveled looking women walking towards me. It was none other than Amanda and Abby themselves. I rode up to them and shook their hands, giddy; I thanked them for playing and made small talk, trying not to gush. They looked exhausted, so I let them be on their way... yet they were completely gracious. I'm always wary to stop a musician on the street, afraid to come off like some creepy fanboy. But they seemed pleased.
I rode on with a big grin on my face.
Our writing session was really more of a peoplewatching affair, as inevitably happens. I get out of the house to focus on my work; I go back home because I can't focus when there's so much to look at. One panini, iced coffee, and severe case of the jitters later, I was back at my desk. I wonder how I could have expected to get anything done out there.
Once home, I set about taking my procrastination to appropriately extreme levels; it's my prerogative as a writer to put off doing work for as long as possible, naturally. I alternate between episodes of The Mighty Boosh and glasses of Papio, and scurrying around my room listening to the beats of Simon Posford and tidying up obsessively. Anything to keep me from facing the blank word document. Let me check Neil's blog again. Let me inspect my new Moleskine cahiers. Again. More wine? Yes please. Nothing like drinking and electronica to fuel a cleaning session. Mood lighting and incense. I am on fire.
Cleaning becomes more frantic as it wears on. Less to do. I fancy my new calendar and listen to songs about the sea. I lay on my floor and drift away. Endless checkings of Adium and Ye Olde Gmail account.
The entire day has been mine. No work, no evening obligations. These are the days I dream about, not a care in the world, every moment offering itself to me like a sacrifice, begging. Live. Live.
I do love those Ditty Bops.



Here's some mood music:

The Essex Green - (Don't Know Why) You Stay
Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds - Nobody's Baby Now
Summer at Shatter Creek - Something to Calm Me
A Silver Mt. Zion - Horses in the Sky
Christian Kiefer - Original

and lastly,

The Ditty Bops - Short Stacks

Good Morning, Fire Island

Tabatha Cottis, who are you?
Are you in need of wheels? Can I help you somehow?
I rode to Freddie's yesterday to deposit a paycheck, and discovered that the balance was somewhat lower than it should have been. Home to check the history. Sure enough, over the past five days, there were three checks which had been cashed out of my account, in amounts of $220, $300, and most recently, $600.
My memory is faulty, to be fair, but surely I would remember something like this.
I called it in. I had no idea that the bank had visual records of every check that they processed... but they pulled up the errant checks and, lo and behold, found that the signatures didn't match the ones on any of my other checks. Not by a long shot.
It seems I have been irresponsible in my disposing of old checks... perhaps I trashed some, and they were recovered. I'll never be sure. But there it was, in front of me:








How surreal to see your name written in someone else's handwriting! Who is this person?
After taking care of the necessary forms, signing affidavits and freezing the account and securing it all tightly, I headed off to the southeast precinct of the PDX police department and sat in one of the cushy leather couches of the waiting room. Finally a burly, gum-chewing officer came out and took my report, smacking away. I rode home in something of a daze. The money will be reimbursed, Tabatha will be investigated. And I will go on with my life, as before. Except I'll take a bit more care of keeping records of my checks from now on.
Which reminds me, I have a date with the fireplace to destroy all my current checks right now. Then off to Powell's.

Big big love, friends.

Hmmm

Maybe I'd get more done if my desk weren't so messy.

Claire and I in the Dark

12:01.
The first minute of the first of four, count 'em four days off.
Can I get a hallelujah?
Candles? Check. Pinot Noir? Check. Housemate out of town for a week, leaving me alone in the house? Check.
The shadows dance, candelight making my speakers look like monoliths on the wall. The wine is poured. The music will be played at a volume sure to disturb the neighbors.
Can I get an amen?
The next few days, I tell you, they will be grand. They will be well used.
But for now it is time to dance in the dark.

DJ, at your leisure.


North American Hallowe'en Prevention Initiative - Do They Know It's Hallowe'en?
Devics - Heart and Hands
DeVotchKa - The Enemy Guns
Ladytron - Soft Power
Gomez - Love is Better Than a Warm Trombone

Notes and Errata

Busy little me. I've been drawing in my journal a lot, doing sketches, taking notes, having fun. Working a new job which I don't particularly like, but from which I'm learning a lot nonetheless. It's laid back and I get to draw at work. I recently got a nifty new printer/scanner, so I'll scan some pictures as soon as they're ready.

But in the meantime, here's some music for your listening pleasure. As promised. Enjoy...


The Ditty Bops - Aluminum Can
Wolfmother - Mind's Eye
Joanna Newsom - Sadie
Calexico - Smash
The Long Winters - Seven

Note to Self

In Which There Are Decisions, Farewells, and Doughnuts

And so it is: there will be no fall mix this year. Nor, perhaps, a winter mix. Why? Because, as I've written before, my relationship with the mixes is not altogether healthy and lately has been causing me more undue stress than it has any right to. My obsession for collecting new, obscure music has pushed my iTunes library past the 15K mark. Its rapid weight gain has stretched its belt almost to bursting and it can scarcely get out of its chair most days.
And where am I in all this? Surely, I have lost my way. What good new music when none of it will be heard?
The eighteen-wheeler that is my downloading addiction comes screeching noisily to a grinding halt; the forces of inertia are strong and not easily overcome. The exhaust sputters and complains.
Understand that the sinister aspect of the mix lies in the pressure to perform, as it were. What once was fun and creative has become performance art, an act of frustration instead of joy. Bollocks.
So begins the era of processing the massive amounts of 'new' music.
However.
Do you really think I'd just disappear without keeping you informed of what I learn and discover? Perish the thought.
The mixes may be on a hiatus of indeterminate length, but in its place I will continue to post, perhaps weekly, songs that I have fallen in love with, as they come. It is my hope that they might turn you on to new and interesting artists, as I always wanted my mixes to do. But where they put emphasis on construction and design, this venture is unburdened by such formalities. I will listen to my music. And I will pass along what I find to you, good people.

Tonight I and hundreds of others said goodbye to one of my favorite bands, Sleater-Kinney, in their final show at the Crystal Ballroom. I've seen them twice before, but never have they played so ferociously as tonight. Imagine it, knowing that this will be the last time you play this song, hit this note, sing this line. They gave everything they had, and none of us were left standing by the end. It was emotional, to say the least. As their special guest-opener said, I feel truly grateful that, though I may not have been alive to see the Beatles play, or the Who with Keith Moon, I have lived to see Sleater-Kinney live on stage. And so I honor them.
And I say farewell.
And thanks.

The night ends with a ride down Burnside, dodging taxis and potholes, to Voodoo Doughnut, where I finally achieve my longtime goal of having a doughnut with bacon on it.
Wow. Now I can die happy.

No Name #1

Okay. Time to get back on the wagon.
Last night I was particularly drunk, visiting with old friends, and this morning I found myself in the kitchen forcing a couple glasses of Britta water down my throat. Hours later, I'm glad I did. I had closed the blinds and gave myself permission to sleep in till noon if I so desired. But something about being hungover just made me want to get up.
More than that, it made me want to stop fucking around. Don't ask me why. I woke up half an hour ago and realized that in a few hours I'm going to head off to work again, and that on a normal day this would serve as justification enough for me not to get anything done in the interim. And I just felt sick at the notion. After all (and like Valentine so succinctly pointed out) I've repeated myself quite a lot in this blog, and one of my well-worn-out statements has been that when I'm left to my own devices I won't get much done at all, especially when I have all the time in the world.
I've been on this well-intentioned but perhaps ultimately simplistic drive to organize my room, my projects, all my 'open loops' as the author calls them. Anything and everything that's on my mind, weighing me down. In my typical half-hearted way I've established a little file system divided into projects, calendar tasks, etc. The point is that for all my naïveté, I have learned something from this system: you can't ever 'do' a project. You can only do specific steps in a focused order that will, in time, result in the aforementioned project being 'done.'
Case in point: my shitty first draft of a novel. It looms and only grows more ominous and untouchable as time passes. I need to rewrite it. I need to 'do' it. Naturally, I don't know where to start, and so don't start at all.
So this system is helping me to break it down, at least.
And something about waking up this morning with a decent hangover, finding myself to be in possession of a few valium and a little capsule of MDMA (I do remember acquiring these, but nonetheless it seemed somewhat poignant), and a strong craving for french toast, has just left me ready to start to tackle it piece by piece. On a work day. That's key.
Now Elf Power's Back to the Web plays, and my dual externals sit happily and quietly next to the glow of my screen. I would do well to clean my room. But I have had lots of time to think about what Valentine said, and that's just another distraction in disguise. I know it. So let the rumpled clothes and strewn Oregonians stay where they are.
But I'll need energy. I'm gonna go make that french toast.






Hey kids.
Just wanted to let you know that Dave checks this constantly and always laments that no one comments on it. Every time he looks we all hold our breath and have to endure the subsequent whining. So for my sake, you should leave comments. If not to respond to the blog, at least to say hi. Do it for me.
~Valentine

Don't Dream It's Over

I'm back. Thanks to Valentine for filling in during my absence.
I feel a bit overwhelmed of course. The past few weeks have been pretty devoid of writing, first because of my arm, and after a few talks with Valentine and the rest, due to the realization that writing had become a form of self-sabotage unto itself. A sneaky and seductive one to be sure, but one all the same. I was writing myself into holes, not out of them. Writing missives and pretentious resolutions, rather than just putting my nose to the grindstone and getting on with the fucking story, as they say.
I've been keeping busy with lots of reading, in the meantime. I was sad to see Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell come to an end. How often does a nearly 800-page book seem too short?
But there are many, many more books to read.
In other news... in a weeks' time I shall be done with my cell phone once and for all, returning to the land of home phones and an ever-changing answering machine message. You'll want to call me constantly just to hear it. I swear. I'm excited to be without the phone... my text messaging addiction is out of control, and besides cutting that out of my life, I'll be paying considerably less per month. All around it seems wise.
My music collection is reaching absurd proportions. I always feel I need just a little more, when I am already overflowing with music I will never be able to find time to listen to. During the last few weeks, I've been orbiting around the planet that is Bob Dylan. Beyond his Greatest Hits playing in my household when I was growing up, I never knew him too well; it never really touched me. I went back and listened to his old albums individually, and something just clicked.
I'm a bit obsessed.
I feel like I have a lot more to say, but I'm too tired to go on.
I'm going to go lay down to read One Hundred Years of Solitude and let the donuts I just ate settle.
Mmm, donuts.

A View From the Gallery

Greetings.
Guest blogger Valentine here. Dave’s going to be out of service for a while, as he fractured the head of his radial bone recently and is sitting around in a sling. Which, naturally, leaves him unable to type or write or any of those other things he likes to do, so it falls to me to keep this old thing going. Apparently he was on his way to the Night Ride, some critical mass type thing, except he was wearing a skirt and wig. And there were donuts in there somewhere. He should be out of commission for a few weeks at least, and in the interim I'll be here keeping you posted on his recovery and talking shop. When I'm not fetching him numerous cups of tea or helping him change in and out of his pants. He's quite needy.
Sooooo… I’ve been reading over these pages and again and again I’m struck by how much repetition goes on around here. Me and the rest of the boys in the office don’t interfere too much. But if you ask me, he should have a sounding board or an editor to work them over before these blogs go to press. The kinds of things people do when no one's looking, I tell you. They get away with the worst sorts of whining and self-indulgence, no one there to give them a good smack in the eye. Unchecked, rampant whining always ensues. Poor poor me, and so on. We see it all the time.
Last week I was trying to talk some sense into him. Listen, I said, you’ve got to try to look at things positively. See, he’s been griping that with his dominant arm out, he’s stuck in doors all day, can’t ride, can’t work, can’t do this or that. But you and I know as well as anything that when you can do anything you want, nothing standing between you and your slightest whim, well, then it just doesn’t seem so interesting. Loan that book or movie out, and bam, that’s the one you wanted for this evening. It never fails.
I tried to explain this to him. But if there’s anything I can say about that boy, it’s that he’s got a resistance to anything that might actually help him like nothing I’ve ever seen. Anything that can feed the inactivity or keep him from getting on with his life, he’s on it like flies on shit.
Take this past blog here, the one about ‘inquisitors.’
Okay, okay, I can appreciate the sentiment. But.
First of all, we’re all human. We’re not perfect. Can’t expect to be saints. But it’s pretty convenient to set these impossible goals and standards for yourself if you’re really determined to keep on sitting around getting a whole lot of nothing done.
It’s one thing to want to change, I don’t begrudge anyone the desire to be a better person or improve things about themselves they’re unhappy with. But, and I feel like I’ve said this a million times, you’ve got to look out for the point where your good intentions twist around into these nefarious agents of distraction and deception. You might think you’re doing the right thing, but really you’re just killing more time, baby. See it for what it is.
It’s a bitch though. The worst is always the kind of thing that disguises itself as a virtue or a useful activity. So I told him: all your ‘inquiry,’ all your ‘need for understanding’: what is the fucking point? I mean really.
He stammered something about getting to the roots and changing the principles, and whimpering about his arm.
I just sat there and listened. It’s a beautiful and true thing that when people are full of shit eventually they’ll just run out of words, or steam, or whatever it may be, and find themselves running into the proverbial wall. Their argument just doesn’t hold up. It looks good on a piece of paper, and maybe flashed across this here internet. But really, when you get down to practical application, it just falls apart.
He got real quiet at that point. God, I live for those moments.
Anyway, like I was saying earlier: here you are in this predicament, right? You’ve got nothing but time. Stop kidding yourself. See your tendencies for what they are. And bottom line:
Something only matters inasmuch as it helps you along. Otherwise, fuck it. You don’t need to scour the meaning out of every little thing, and you don’t need to pace around endlessly to make sure your every deed and thought is pure and genuine. That’s a lot of wanking, if you ask me.
Maybe with him unable to go anywhere he’ll finally get around to facing that.
So, like I said, I’ll be maintaining the blog while his arm heals. It’s good to watch him, having to do everything one-handed, hopping around, generally disheveled and unshaven. I keep telling him to make the best of what could be called a shitty set of circumstances. To keep on looking for the silver lining.
It’s there, you know. It’s always there. We just need a reminder from time to time. And he wouldn’t like to hear it, but you can’t deny: sometimes life gives you just what you need, whether you like it or not.
Boy it’s hot out today. Time for some bubble tea.

Comes the Inquisitor

Another day. And another. I want to understand what I'm so afraid of. I've many large goals, large projects I'm trying to undertake. However, all that happens is the occasional burst, the occasional day of creativity. Those are good days; but I always fear that they will be isolated events, and rightly so. Without practice, without set habits, these days are random and disconnected. The big things never get started.
I have to face the fact that these isolated 'bright' days are, basically, worthless and wasted. One day alone means nothing. It becomes clear that my heart is not in the right place. My desires and sense of purpose are not clear to me. If they were, I could not help but do all the things I so desire: read, write, practice the piano, meditate, and so on. In reality, I have to push myself to make even the smallest effort to emerge from my daily routine of Babylon 5 re-runs, computer games, and general lethargy. It is not my heart that drives me to create, but the feeling that I should, because that's the sort of person I want to be. Why? And if I truly want to be this sort of person, truly want to do these things, why am I so unmotivated to pursue them?
I live with so many distractions and deceptions. That once my life 'settles down,' then I'll be able to get on with things. That I'm stretched too thin with taking care of those around me. That I am tired and need to rest. But there will always be someone who is falling apart, stricken with grief, or losing their sanity. Or I will be. And there will never come a time when everything simply settles into place and I am suddenly transformed, without effort, into a creative machine.
It has to do with fear.
I'm afraid of many things. Chief among them is the fear of questioning myself, my heart, my motives; also fear of leaving the comfort of complacency. I've gotten by all my life without inquiring much into my nature, without truly looking at the whys and hows. Instead, I set up an ideal self, projected to the outside world: admirable, kind and good, but primarily on the surface. I wished people to love me and want to keep me around. It's led to a rather strong feeling of disconnection from myself, and a willingness to carry on in quiet misery and acceptable apathy until that self that's within me, wherever it is, gets so nauseous and disgusted that its scream is all I can hear. Then I am again reminded: this is not the way. Why do you do it this way?
And again I have no answer, and am silent.
For what might seem to be a right action, if done for the wrong reasons, is really the wrong action. If the heart behind it is not pure, the deed is corrupt. It's become painfully clear recently how little I truly resemble the man I present myself as and wish to believe I am. I present myself as open-minded, tolerant, and kind; but almost daily I find myself full of anger and judgment. I feel I am cultured and intelligent and refined, but in my heart I know I am driven by a desire to feel superior to others, and to condemn them. That my desire to give gifts to those close to me is motivated as much by the need for manipulation and control as by generosity and love.
It's a problem.
A friend recently told me a very true thing: that the kindness and compassion we extend to others when they err (as humans do), we must also extend to ourselves. It is much harder to do this than it is to forgive others. But we must do so.
I do not think I'm an evil man. I know that in my heart I am selfish, childish, and manipulative; but they are what they are and there is more to me than that. However, I'm unable to deceive myself any longer about my 'noble nature.' The heart is empty, the show has been everything. I know it; now I must deal with it.
I will assume the role of the inquisitor. Demands the whys of myself. The real reasons must be grasped. Part of me worries that such extreme self-analysis as I have in mind will be detrimental... but it's necessary. Without examining myself, I'll continue to drift along, never sure if the things I am, and do, and desire, are pure. Are true. It must be extreme: without demanding that I account for myself, I would too easily slip back into my old bad habits. It wouldn't really be living anyway.
Which brings me back to the disciplines. The big projects. I feel, or hope, that when I've come to understand my drives a little better, the rest of it might fall into place a little more easily, for better or for worse. I know there's no simple cure. Understanding is just a foundation; hard work will also be required. I'm not afraid to work for it. I've never been lazy, but if there was no meaning in the things I did, I could scarcely lift a finger.
Perhaps this is an attempt to redefine the meaning in my life. Perhaps once it is done all that has seemed so overwhelming might be brought into a manageable perspective. I've already taken a few steps. The nonelectronic day of rest (for lack of a better name) ritual has begun, and already I am healed slightly. There are many things I can do to help myself. Remember the lesson of NaNoWriMo: that the largest, craziest projects can be accomplished if we take them one piece at a time.
Remember to dance:


And remember to laugh at yourself. From laughter, there is wisdom.

The inquisitor comes.

The Time at Hand

Okay folks, it's confession time.
It's a confession in the way of a question. Is anyone here like me, in that they are compelled, obsessed, and drawn beyond their will to spend inordinate amounts of time on Wikipedia every day of their lives? I'm not the only one? Thank God!
It is one of those things that, the further I delve into it, the further I’m compelled to dig. One thing always leads to another. With a fancy new high-speed connection in one hand, and those twin sisters Wikipedia and Wikibooks in the other, I find that there is nothing I cannot learn if I simply set about looking into it.
I delight in following random links, and then subsequent links, and so on and so forth. It never ends. I grin wondering how many of the kids today who walk around donning black eyeliner and Nine Inch Nails patches on their backpacks are familiar with the origins and meanings of the word Gothic. It’s remarkable. A 4th century language and a (beautiful) style of architecture, among other things… most interesting to me is the fact that ‘gothic’ was a derogatory term thrown at those cathedrals back in the day, meant to imply how ugly and barbaric they were.
"Darling, what do you think of these new buildings?"
"I think they're positively gothic."
This kind of thing just makes me smile.
Not that I dislike modern-day gothic culture, mind you. I've had my share of nights where I pulled on the fishnets and Docs, downed a few shots of Jäger, and pounded the dance floor to the pulsing beats of VNV Nation; I also dream of having a pair of elegant gothic sconces fixed to the wall of my bedroom someday.
But I wonder how many Hot Topic kids know the history of something so integral to their identity.
I’ve found, as anyone who spends any amount of time on Wikipedia finds, that there is far more out there than anyone could digest in a lifetime. The sheer scope and comprehensiveness of it is awe-inspiring. Say you are sitting there, listening to Gomez do a glorious cover of Tom Waits’ “Goin' Out West” and sipping your earth-colored Tuocha. You may suddenly tangent over to the life story of Sima Qian and learn how he shaped Chinese historiography for centuries to come. Or over to the fantastic fictional world of Babylon 5, where the conflicting ideologies of Vorlons and Shadows threaten to engulf the universe in fire. Then you're looking at types of clouds. Then the discography of Marty Robbins. And so on, into the sunset.
All of this is at our fingertips, all of it is free, and it knows few, if any, bounds.
It can be overwhelming. I have to take breaks often, be it with hilariously entertaining Star Wars vids from Robot Chicken, or seeing Henry Rollins tear Ann Coulter a new one. These things help me escape from the constant barrage of new information, and give my brain a rest.
I must take some time away from the computer. I'm very aware of its power to make me feel I've been productive when really I've simply reorganized my iTunes library for the fifth time that day. With a force like Wikipedia, it's hard to feel that there could be any wrong in it. But nonetheless, I know when I'm addicted.
So in the imminent future, I will be initiating a new ritual: for one day a week, I shall forego all computer use, cell phone use, and use of any other contraption that might make me reachable or distracted or otherwise disengaged from my own life. Instead, I'll spend more time with Jonathan Strange, the wise words of Barry Lopez, or just plain take a walk.
I've yet to think of a suitable name for this ritual, or to choose a specific day. But the day is nigh.
The time, as always, is at hand.

4th Time Around

It was a good day to work on the summer mix. Work ended early, and the heat of the afternoon fit the music like a glove. Like it or not, the corresponding weather sometimes gives me the clarity I need to make structural decisions that nothing else could have. It has been difficult to work on this mix on rainy days.
But now, at last, it's done. The dragon is slain for another few months. I'm really beginning to consider retiring, at least temporarily, from the seasonal mix process. It's become more stressful than it's worth, and I'm running out of songs. Feeling a bit like Bilbo, stretched and thin, like butter spread over too much bread. I won't go into the root of this as I've covered it in past blogs, but I definitely think a break might do me some good.
Though I hate to stop when fall is next. I love fall. We'll just see how things go, shall we?
I appreciate the comments... I really do read them and take them to heart. Sometimes you can feel infinitely strong, never questioning the meaning of what you're doing; other times you're doubting your every step, and a kind word of encouragement makes a huge difference. Really. Thank you.
And so the days roll on. Summer approaches, and I escape into books and music. There are so many great books out there, and so little time. At the moment, I'm spending a good part of each day in the rainy, romantic streets of London in the early 1800s, where faeries hold masquerade-balls nightly and bewitch the high society. Where Napoleon Buonaparte is sent nightmares by magicians in the employ of his enemy, the English. Where the days of English Magic being a thing of antiquity are coming quickly to an end.
I love this book.
I realize that both of those links encourage you to buy things, but before you accuse me, at least consider that both of them are good businesses. Powell's needs no defense, and Gorey Details is based right here in Portland as well. They're nice people. And I like their stuff.
I am feeling happier these days than I have in some time. It's a strange feeling, not one I'm terribly at home in. I certainly resist it. But there is so much to smile about. I walk to Fred Meyer everyday, crossing over the I-84 freeway, watching the trucks gliding and listening to music and enjoying the feel of the sun against my skin. I read. I look at the people, and keep walking. The trip to Freddie's has become almost ritualistic. Sometimes I have it in mind to buy some cereal, or orange juice, but more often than not I'll simply wander until I find something I want, or grow weary of the search and head home again. It's a nice walk. What more justification could I need?
And now... well, now I have time. There's no way around it. And if I'm tired of anything, it's of making statements about what I have to do now. I know what I have to do. Making grandiose declamations of purpose is counterproductive.
So there. No moral, no resolution.
Keep on keepin' on.

Cracks in the Roof

It's been a while.
Like before, I found that the longer I waited, the harder it was to summon the will to write again. The pressure built up in my head, and I shied away from it more and more. This is a nasty cycle.
Funny how things work that way. Lately I've been extremely depressed and non-productive. Perhaps it was because I didn't have a job. Perhaps it was the messy end of a friendship that'd got me so mired in self-sabotage. Whatever the core reasons for my being so, I've excelled at keeping myself down. One thing feeds another; I perpetuate the darkness.
And so, there has been little to no writing.
When you are looking up at the things you'd like to fix or improve about yourself or your life (let me rephrase: when I look at these things) I am faced with so many issues and desires that I become overwhelmed and subsequently do nothing at all.
First things that come to mind: I'd like to loosen up in my awfully perfectionist habits, my tendency to think there's a right way to do everything. In doing so I would have a far easier time cutting loose creatively and feeling free to make any number of glorious mistakes, which would both do me good and no doubt lead to some good art as well.
I'd like to develop a better sense of discipline. The time I've spent without a job or any other externally imposed structure has been largely wasted; I sit in front of the computer and do nothing. I've had the experience many times of being far more focused and creative when forced to work under limits and schedules. But left to my own devices, I flounder. I'd like to change this.
And I'd like to spend more time understanding why I have the tendecies I do. Why I seem to seek out drama, situations that will keep me from being happy and creative and so on. If I have any skill, it is at finding these situations, or making them up in the absence of real ones. I am a master of keeping myself unhappy and never really looking at the fact that I'm engineering it. Instead I ascribe it to other people, the world, fate, what have you.
I look at all these things and feel overwhelmed. Where do I begin?
I know where to begin, of course: Anywhere I like. Just pick something!
It's simple enough to laugh at, and maybe that's why I never do it.
I can only change myself in small ways, and each of these changes will affect me as a whole.
But it's still hard to get started.
I did get a job, finally. So with that I feel a change in the air, and it will be the current that starts other little changes moving. The return of structure. The return of a semblance of meaning. And then I might just start writing more. And drawing more. And maybe just finding a little bit of joy in my day-to-day existence.
So what all this amounts to is that I am going to start writing more. I won't wait two weeks between entries. I don't care if it's too much for you to read. I need the practice.
I've made many mistakes in the recent past. I'm going to try to understand them, to know why I make them over and over, in hopes that I can break the patterns. Writing is not a panacea, but it is one of my tools.
It's high time I gave it the respect it deserves.

Nobody Broke Your Heart...

this is for Amy.


Where has all the poetry gone?
I think back on my past and can barely recognize the person who used to be so full of wonder and romance and life. Who would write down lines of obsession and love without hesitation. I remember a time when there was some meaning in the world. When I could look at art or listen to music, or even read something beautiful, and be moved by it. A time when I felt more deeply.
But did I really feel more deeply? Am I just romanticizing the past, creating some rose-colored “good ol’ days” to reminisce about?
I feel like a shadow of myself. Who am I really? Every day I wake up and am filled with fear of doing the things that would enrich my life. The things that will actually be worth remarking upon after I die. I fill my time with false productivity and self-sabotage, staring the clock in the face, and running away in terror.
I stopped looking at the details. I stopped believing in myself, and I lost the ability to risk mistakes, lost the courage to put my heart on the page, to fearlessly express whatever modicum of truth I possessed.
There is a strange paradox here. I know one thing is true: I am more able to feel and express emotion these days than I ever have before: I cry more easily, laugh harder, and breathe deeper. This I know.
But I have also become almost entirely cut off from the parts of me that are willing to give that emotion any shape or form. I don’t write that much anymore. I never write poetry; I wouldn’t even know where to start. It’s all bogged down in thoughts. Why not just say what I am thinking? And who cares what I am thinking? Then there are thoughts of structure, of the “rules.”
I must have died. How did it happen? Whatever my original intentions, I have become truly lost.
I can still see the world of beauty. I know it exists. I know what it looks and smells like. But I feel like an observer, unable to really participate in it.
The world of poetry and life and love is all around me, and when I read the lines all I can think of is how much more it would have meant to me in years past. How I used to feel able to inspire beauty in others. Now I cannot even inspire it in myself, nor muster the courage to try to make it.
That Elliott Smith song keeps running through my mind. Everything means nothing to me…everything means nothing to me...
Sometimes I cry, and yet never do I turn these moments of true emotion into any sort of art. They are lost. It’s such a selfish way to lose, the way I lose these wasted blues…
Sick to death of this. Sick of feeling afraid to get out of bed each day, of preferring to turn over and hide in dreams until the screaming of the schoolchildren across the street force me to get up.
My life becomes nothing more than a collection of lyrics, and I look around for someone to take me out for drinks or to call and just help me shut off my mind.
I fear creating petty, mediocre art. Afraid enough that I never do anything anymore. When did I become so tired and jaded? All the time in the world is at my fingertips, and I waste it.
I’m writing this to give the sickness a name. To bring it into the light.
So I can start to come back to life.
It is said that if you bring forth what is inside you, it will save you. Alternately, if you don’t bring forth what’s inside you, the same things will destroy you.

I bought a book of poetry tonight. Maybe it will wake me up again. Maybe it will be the pebble that starts an avalanche.

Maybe everything’s not lost.

-----------------------------------

You gave me stormy weather
with just the shadow of your hand
across my face.
You gave me the cold, the distance,
the bitter midnight coffee
among empty tables

It always started raining
in the middle of the movie,
and waiting amid the petals
af the flower I brought you: a spider.

I think you knew it was there
and enjoyed the awkward moment.
I always forgot the umbrella
when I went to pick you up,
the restaurant was always crowded
and on the corners they were hawking war.

I was a tango lyric
to your indifferent tune.

~ julio cortázar

Catching Signals That Sound in the Dark

There is a contradiction here somewhere, see if you can spot it.
What started out as a simple journey to Target to use up the last of a gift card a friend had given me turned into much, much more.
I rode along the bike path overlooking I-205, all the cars and trucks gliding along down the hill from me. Nick Drake sang softly to me. Dandelions dotted the path on both sides, and above me, the most incredibly blue sky. A perfect day for riding.
I got to Target and looked for Cadbury eggs. No luck. People seem to swarm upon stores before Easter is even past to claim them all... ah well. I finished my other business in the store and returned outside. It is curious how stores like Target, Circuit City and the like never have bike racks in front of them. I guess they assume no one rides to such places. On one occasion this gave me reason to actually take Lyra inside a Circuit City with me, which was fun. She usually gets left outside; I could feel her excitement.
I rode away from Target and back along the I-205 path. The album was progressing, and I rode back towards home. When I reached the exit, I decided to try exploring a bit rather than head straight home. I knew there was supposed to be a cemetary somewhere around there, the Willamette National if I remember right. Probably a military graveyard like the one seen in Harold and Maude, or the one where my grandfather was buried. Rows upon rows of identical white markers, stretching out forever. I wanted somewhere to sit in the shade and read. A friend had recently bought me a copy of Hesse's Narcissus and Goldmund, and I had become quite taken with it.
The road opened up to the right, and all I knew was that this was the general direction... I rode a ways and the path began to wind uphill... always off to my right were trails leading into what looked like paths through woods. I asked a man waiting for the bus which way the cemetary was. His English was poor but he repeated 'cemetary' back to me and gestured up the hill a ways. I thanked him and kept on.
The hill grew steeper and I shifted gears and kept pedaling, starting to sweat. There were trees everywhere, I felt as if I were nearing a forest. On my left I saw a large church. I kept riding, the road winding around and around, and then I found it. Or at least, I found something.
Lincoln Memorial Park was not what I had been searching for. But there it was, a cemetary built into the hillside itself, cement paths winding themselves among the tombstones and trees, going up up up. I rode and rode, climbing. It went on for what seemed like an eternity, but I know it felt that way simply because it was so steep.
Halfway up the hill I passed their mausoleum, a giant white building. I stopped inside for a moment, and left almost immediately; the air smelled dead and dank. Stale. I wanted to feel life today.
I kept riding up, and finally got near the point where I saw no more hill rising above me. I was almost to the top.
When I finally got there, I found a gazebo-like structure, a perfect resting place. There were plots and graves even up here, and countless trees and squirrels and insects. I parked Lyra by one column and sat down at the opposing one, taking off my pack and pulling out the book.
I read, and wrote, and breathed. It felt so peaceful be up so high, with a clear view of most of the city stretching out before me. There was no one around for miles in each direction. I read and looked around and reflected. I am grateful that more people don't choose to take comfort in the serenity of graveyards. There was nowhere else I could have been so completely, wonderfully alone.
Life came at me and overwhelmed me. Maybe it was reading Narcissus and Goldmund, maybe it was the sound of the wind in the trees. But I felt life filling me up, and I felt joyous and calm and utterly present. I wrote a few pages, and sat leaning against the column, receiving everything and marveling that life was so impossibly infinite and wondrous.
You see, for the last several weeks I've been feeling extremely disconnected from real life, giving in to excess time on the MacBook Pro and texting on my cell phone. I've felt more and more cut off from myself and my ability to breathe and speak truth.
When I sat there today, it came flooding back upon me like a great wave. Life! I am here. I'm reading a book. I like the trees and the quiet. How fucking wondrous it is to be alive.
Before I left I wrote a note to myself, asking how I might be able to retain this sense of calm and clarity when in my day-to-day life, how to remember to just be, and be amazed. I didn't have an answer.
But having felt it so strongly, I know that I will not forget it.
I put my things away and suited up for the ride home. Clicked on Neutral Milk Hotel's In the Aeroplane Over the Sea and set out. The way up had been an excruciating uphill climb.
The way home felt like flying.

What a beautiful face
I have found in this place
That is circling all round the sun
And when we meet on a cloud
I'll be laughing out loud
I'll be laughing with everyone I see
Can't believe how strange it is to be anything at all

Turn on the Bright Lights

I stand at a point in my life where the next step I take can be in any direction. I can do whatever I please. Contemplate a career change, a new house to live in. I can take the time to ask myself: What do you want to do now? Of course, I could fall back on everything I’ve done before. I’ve become quite proficient at mindlessly steaming milk and smiling at people I hate. I can sleepwalk through coffee jobs. It’s become automatic. I can do it.
But I could also do something new.
I stood in the shower this morning and felt overwhelmed. Flooded with thoughts. Am I not terrified? Not full of glossy resolutions and slick, streamlined blogs? I realize I spend a lot of time attempting to present myself as being very cohesive and together. Yet now more than ever it feels foolish to even try. It keeps me from trying anything new. There’s no room for falls and experimentation. I whittle each movement down to a presentation that has a message, a question, a bit of wisdom. Fuck that! I have no idea what to do now.
It frustrates me how there will be times when you are filled with ideas for things to do and write and try and be, and then, almost as quickly as they came, they are gone. Moreover, they always come at times when you’re not able to capture them. Like in the shower this morning. I sat down at my computer again and whoosh, almost entirely gone. I struggled to get down what I remembered. Things always come to me at inopportune times, like when I’m riding my bicycle and listening to my iPod, or when I’m gazing happily at the stage watching a show. Can they be analyzed, these varying moments that bring such possibility?
The other day I lay on my back in Ladd Circle looking at the sky, brilliantly blue and speckled with clouds (what kind of clouds are they? It occurs to me that I cannot name almost anything in nature. Yet I am semi-encyclopedic in my knowledge of music. This is wrong), and I felt really small. Not in a bad way, just small. As if looking up at the overwhelming hugeness of the sky was simply giving me proper perspective again. Things seemed to not matter so much.
Could I not take this moment in my life, where I am bound by nothing, and really invest the time to take a fresh, intelligent step? To re-think everything I’ve valued and done so far? Isn’t every moment good for that, and aren’t I just being lazy and simplistic by needing such a moment to ask myself what the hell I’m doing?
Well, yes.
Nonetheless, that’s where I find myself. Asking a lot of questions and feeling afraid to try and answer them. Maybe it’s simply the overwhelming silence, the space afforded by having no job and no obligations, that has filled me with such terror. I have all the time in the world to do….what?
I could snap into action tomorrow and find some job that I love. Shannon put forth that I’d do well as a music supervisor. It sounds like a dream job, but for the fact that I have no contacts in this town or any other, only an obsessive love of listening to and collecting music coupled with a high-speed internet connection.
But I could find something if I set myself to it. I could find some job that didn’t fill me with disgust and drain my energy and make me feel more and more isolated from my fellow man. Some job that would cause me to look back on the past year of my life and think did that really happen? Did I really put up with that for so long?
I could do it. And I could take the time to learn the names of things. Of clouds and trees and that amazing dark blue bird I saw arching its wings majestically as I rode along the Eastbank Esplanade last week.
I could do all these things.
But resolutions are bunk. The future is unknown and undetermined, or so I believe. But that’s just one more question I can ask myself. It’s a fucking mess, and that’s just how things are most of the time.
Don’t get the impression that I’m pessimistic or overly worried. Really, I’m just musing aloud. I just watered my little basil and garlic plants that Shannon gave me, and put the kettle on. The garlic has grown visibly just in the last few days. It makes me smile.
Spring is here. The robins are returning to the world. I am in love.
It’s up to me now.

Dying Like a Day

Taped onto one of the shelves on my desk is a strip of paper which has the following words typed on it: Writing makes you feel better. It was given to me by my friends Staci and Solon, who had made several copies of it to keep as general reminders, free to whomever needed one. I took one home after my last visit with them.
How true it is. Miraculously, the simple setting down of words, as with the speaking of one's feelings, has such a therapeutic effect. Nothing is changed or fixed, but just getting it out does so much.
Today I have been struggling against time, willing the clocks to stop, and growing more and more sad as I futilely watch the day slip through my fingers. I feel this every day, and yet I find that it's more intense when I'm actually using my time well. I have been so productive today! I argue. Why cannot time slow down for these moments? When I waste my time, I hardly notice the end of the day approaching. But when I have lived, when I have done all I could do, it always makes me sad. I start to slow down. The coffee has long since worn off, the light starts to fade. The energy, the will drains out of me. Perhaps it's simply the passing of my peak hours that brings me down. I feel most creative and alive between nine a.m. and noon. Once it's past, I cannot help but feel diminished.
But that's no reason to let it stop me entirely. I would do well to learn to work with these feelings, not futilely rail against them. I just refuse to accept the inevitable passing of that part of the day, and that part of me that lives in it. I can create and function for the afternoon and night if I just readjust my expectations and intentions. Mornings are good for writing and listening to pop music (especially Elephant 6 stuff). Afternoons are good for reading and drinking tea and relaxing. Evenings make me want to listen to Low, drink Papio, and perhaps do a bit more writing. These are all good things.
But I still have the desire to retain that morning feeling, that fresh, zealous attitude, and so I despair everytime I am unable to keep it.
So the good days seem to fly by, the mornings of infinite possibility and joy, and the down times seem to last forever. I still get sad, and each passing morning feels like a tiny death. I can't stop it.
So I write it down. The clock still counts off the seconds, the day wanes.
But writing does make you feel better. It's true.

Fuck Safeway

Safeway truly is one of the outposts of hell. You can tell just by looking at it, even from the outside. There is, after all, a giant red 'S' guarding the front gates...
You enter and immediately feel your soul being bombarded by the tacky cardboard displays and condescending banal sales pitches blaring out through the speakers, sandwiched between some of the worst songs you never hoped to hear again. They seem to specialize in mid-90s soft rock, usually Phil Collins or Rick Astley or some other sucker of Satan's cock, as Bill Hicks would say. Really. Can anyone actually stand it? Are Safeway regulars so fucking inundated with noise and ads and shitty music that they don't notice it anymore?
I went in with the simple intention of buying some burn ointment. I was sealing a letter with wax not long before and burnt my finger on the lighter, in my determination not to touch the wax itself. I didn't have anything in my bathroom, of course, so I reluctantly headed out the door and drove off.
I scanned the Pain Relief and First Aid aisles. Row after row of Ibuprofen and Alleve and fuck-all knows what else. Itch relief. Cracked skin relief. Relief for nearly every possible ailment imaginable... except burns. I blinked. I looked again, sure I was missing it. Nothing. I asked for help and the guy started looking feebly through the rows, just as I had, while meekly asking me about the nature of the burn. Was it serious? Did I really need some ointment for it? No, I told him, it's not dire, but it hurts and I would certainly like to put something on it. Oh and did I mention that I don't have to justify to you why I want to put burn cream on, you fucking moron? Do I need to have a third-degree burn before you'll magically produce something from your back pocket? Christ. What are you trying to gauge with these inane questions about the state of my finger? I guess he felt the need to make conversation to stall the inevitable.
He suggested Benadryl in the end, it being useful for burns among other things. I wanted to murder the guy. But I thanked him and turned away any further assistance so he would leave, and then picked up the Benadryl and walked away from the First Aid section.
Goddamnit. I had been in such a good mood earlier.
The soulless, vapid energy of the place was getting to me, so I moved to the aisle with all the cookies and such and looked for something sweet to buy. Nutter Butters perhaps. I scanned the different cookies, their plastic sheen glistening in the fluorescence like tiny idols. Nothing appealed to me enough to actually pick up. But I began fiddling with the Benadryl box. My finger was still red and hurting. I opened it and unscrewed it and put a bit on the burn, which felt nice. I was careful not to crease the tube. I capped it and closed up the box again. I am thankful I didn't have to break any seals to open it. My finger felt a little better, and I walked the Benadryl back to its shelf and put it back with all the other forms of relief. That cheered me up a little.
But I still wanted something for my sweet tooth.
Thankfully, it's the right time of year for this sort of thing. I walked to the end of the store and found some Cadbury eggs, paid for them, and headed out into the night air.
Fuck that place. I'll take Winco anyday. The people who shop there may be terrifying, but at least there's no Michael Bolton playing.

Beware the Ides of March

I’ve thrown out all my old attempts at updating and written them off to being too old, left to sit too long. I don’t really care anymore to make this all that spectacular. I have to write something, or I’ll suffocate. I have been such an emotional mess the past month, and gotten almost nothing done. I’ve been caught up in an extremely intense relationship, which now finds itself finally being laid to rest. I can feel it below the ground. The earth is still soft. I felt the end coming and coming and it kept going up and down and threatening to break into something beautiful, but I knew it wouldn’t. I feel like I’ve tried really hard to grow and listen (and hear) things that were said to me, and yet I always fell short of doing so. I always shouldered the blame; I always took it all on myself. Sometimes I think that I’m doing so well, and then I just lose it entirely. I feel that in many ways I have been wrong, been unfair or unkind or simply not listened. But I am trying. I am trying so hard to hear.
Yet time and time again, I fail.
I am so very tired of this.
I have so many things to do. I’ve made a list of them all, which just stretches before me like a life sentence. I feel overwhelmed and stretched thin enough to break and I am just so, so tired. I need to take better care of myself. I am emotionally and physically exhausted.

I will try to update more, for those of you who read this. I’m sorry it’s been so long.

But enough of “the fight,” enough “you and I,” enough of “prevail” or “walk in the light.” While the angels stand by I get high as a kite. I'm too tired to smile or know that I'm right. Am I right? And all our best-laid plans, they crumbled in our hands. ~Okkervil River

The Bird Gerhl

The old stories talk about gods and goddesses appearing to mortals in animal form, to observe their characters, or test them, or make sport of them.
One day I looked outside my window and saw a robin. Beautiful and delicate and red as a cinnamon candle. I expected her to fly away immediately, but she remained, looking at me, fearless… and I looked at her, and was silent.
The robin kept returning, day after day, and we began to speak to each other. Never with words, only by holding one another’s gaze, for minutes on end. We understood each other perfectly. The little bird would simply look at me and I at her, and she would bathe, and sing, and then fly away. And I let it be what it was, in its simple beauty.
Not long after, the bird stopped coming to my window. Yet that same day I found myself face to face with a beautiful woman with dirty red hair and eyes that contained oceans and violet mittens on her hands. I only had to look at her once to know it was the robin I had befriended. Was she Venus? Minerva? Athena, the gray-eyed goddess of battle? Or some amalgam of the three? I didn’t know. I only knew, in that moment, that I’d love her for the rest of my life, no matter what happened.
We walk together among the trees and along the river, and talk of all things. Of the sickness in the world and the rules of the universe. We lay together and she curls her fingers in mine and I feel like a little boy again. She is a burning thing that threatens to suck me into oblivion when I look into her eyes. She is a siren, singing sweetly as she leads me to the edge of a towering cliff. She is a frightened girl, ever with one foot out the door, one hollow promise floating from her trembling lips.
I stay with her and am terrified. To be so completely taken and certain of my own destruction, certain that she will poison me in my sleep and feel no remorse… yet I feel safer in her arms than a newborn being held by its mother. There is such darkness in her soul, such a desire to torture and twist my fragile body and mind around… it fills me with fear and nausea and yet I cannot but be drawn to her… as if we were opposites, loathing one another and yet needing the other so badly…
I feel as though we are standing on opposite sides of a great plain of battle, I on the side of the angels, she with the demons; the air rank, smelling of sweat and semen, laughter and pain swirling together. We look at each other over this great distance and our eyes ask: can we not come together through all this? Could not our love destroy all these boundaries? Overcome these damning and sacred distinctions? If light and dark were to merge, would it be the end of everything? When the angel and the demon made love in the Preacher Series, they defied all the laws of heaven and earth, and made something wholly new… and they were destroyed for their boldness…
But we live to break down boundaries. We live to defy, and to seek out that love so intense and pure that it threatens to burn our skin away, to leave us bleeding in alleyways, to laugh as we beg for death, for it knows it is sacred beyond all things. We reach for it, and never find it. It is ours, and as soon as we have tasted the blood in our mouths it is gone, leaving us desperate and insane.
I am her slave, and she is mine. I am Severin to her Wanda. She holds me cruelly and loves me like I’ve never known. The world spins; time ceases to exist. And I ask: where is the real madness here? That I once found things like time and boundaries important, or that I am now free from them? Clocks dissolve, and I see clearly.
She is blinding, and beautiful, and I know she will soon be gone. Off to seduce another with her song. I can only let her go.
I love her. I am ten times stronger than I knew I was.
And she is flying, flying, flying away.