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