Wrapped Up in Books

I am always reading a few books at once. It takes focus to fight the tendency to spread myself thin among too many, so the general rule of thumb is one work of fiction at any time. Books of philosophy on the side are acceptable.
For the last few months, my fiction of choice has been Atlas Shrugged. I chose it in part because my friend Nick cited it as one of his favorite books. It has been gathering dust on my shelves for years. His death seemed as fitting an occasion as any to pull it out, to become familiar with something that had touched him so greatly.
I knew going in that it was a book which provoked extremely mixed reactions, positive and negative. On two occasions now I've had friends who, after glimpsing the book in my hand, say "I'm sorry." As if it were an unfortunate twist of fate that found the book in my possession, a cruel sentence that I was forced to read it. I always blink when people say this. I know I am a very impressionable person: whatever I'm reading tends to affect me quite a bit; sometimes my mind succumbs to a more forceful one. Though those days are over, by and large, I'd be the first to admit that reading this book has, at times, put me in a very cold and inhuman way, much like the central characters. I've felt judgmental. I've felt robotic. Full of thoughts of motive power, etc. But I remain, still, quintessentially myself.
I can see Ms. Rand's ulterior motives in her writing (come on, subtlety is hardly the woman's strong suit. You can't really miss the subtext). But my fortitude is such that reading this book is not going to transform me into a Heartless Capitalist, who suddenly abandons all thoughts of compassion as gratuitous and irrelevant. And despite her obvious agenda and seriously heavy-handed writing style, there is a lot more to the story and the characters than the capitalist stance. And love her or hate her, her intelligence can hardly be disputed. And encountering an intelligent mind, even if you don't agree with it, is always worth doing. Perhaps especially if you don't agree with it. How dull would it be to go through life exposing ourselves only to those thinkers and artists who reinforced the ideas and philosophies we have already chosen for ourselves? It is precisely those who think differently from us that encourage us to grow. Anything else is just stagnating.
So what, then, is meant by their condolences?
I can interpret it as a statement of sympathy or pity, as I said above, but what is there to pity? The hours I spend reading this paperback tome which I'll never get back? Perhaps. If there is anything I consciously try to avoid, it is the wasting of time. And should I see others pursuing a course I felt was a waste of theirs, I might feel inclined to intervene. But is reading this book really an example of such a waste? Compare it, for instance, to the hours I spend nestled at my computer, idly letting my life slip away into the recesses of the internet. Or the hours I lose when I go out and get drunk and/or stoned, reducing my mind to a feeble, ineffectual state and probably consuming a good deal of fast food in the process. Is this not pitiable, from a different vantage point? Each person chooses their own standard by which to decide what is and what is not a waste of time. Is it not enough that I find it worthy of my time, to read this long and logorrheic book? Is it not enough that I learn from it?
So what can I say to them? The same answer I would give anyone questioning my motives: I entered into it, as I do all things, with a clear sense of purpose. I chose it because it will help me grow. And, to be sure, it will shape me in ways I can't foresee. If I am not strong enough to withstand a forceful mind, what other way for me to learn but to throw myself into it? How can I hope to grow if I don't experience the diversity of thoughts and opinions that exist outside of my head?
But ultimately, the real point is this: I've chosen it for myself. Every day I see people behaving in ways that seem absurd to me, and wonder why they live the way they do. Why they do things which, to me, are so foolish and wasteful. I both want to condemn them, and, at the same time, help to correct them. But who am I to do such a thing?
Everyone has to find their own way to live as they see fit.
I read on, and remember why I began it in the first place. I think of Nick reading it, and wish I could sit down with him and talk about it. I imagine our minds meeting on the page, and I realize how much of ourselves are left in the things we loved.
And that, if nothing else, is reason enough.

On Books, Ethics, and Giant Crabs

I recently made a friend who hails from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. She's new to the City of Roses, so I've taken it upon myself to get her acquainted with some of my favorite spots. She is a fellow library geek and bookstore enthusiast, and when I learned that she'd never set foot in the Central Multnomah County Library nor Powell's City of Books, my soul cried sacrilege and it became my moral imperative to rectify the situation at once.
We met up mid-afternoon and hopped the #14 downtown. After she filled out the form and was issued a library card, we set out into the heart of the library, climbing the marble stairs up up up. I walked a step behind, as in escort. It felt right that she should lead the journey. The second floor opened before us, and on each side of us an archway. Periodicals or Science?
Science. We went.
The Central Library is a big place. I lingered around the computer section while she explored, trying to keep track of her as best I could. I browsed through one of those yellow cartoon reference books, Unix for Dummies. It was Greek to me, even for one of those books. My mind kept looking for Mac or Windows, anything to latch onto. But no. Unix is outside of the dichotomy of my understanding of the technological world. I put the book back on the shelf and decided to postpone my dreams of designing a website using Linux until I could enlist a fellow computer geek to teach me in person.
We went up further, and now the choice was between History/Literature and Art/Music. I again deferred to her, thinking: Art/Music! Art/Music! I was, after all, there in part to see what free cds I could find to add a little more weight to my already obscenely bloated iTunes library.
She chose History.
We went.
As she made her rounds, I found myself standing by the columns of books on the west wall. I looked down, and beautiful little maroon book caught my eye. The spine read: On Doing the Right Thing. Above that: Nock. I pulled it off the shelf.
It was a collection of essays by a fellow named Albert Jay Nock, who I'd never heard of. The book itself was a first edition, stamped 1928. Beautiful. I flipped to the title essay and began to read. He wrote of the differences between Americans and Englishmen, specifically their particular inclinations towards doing said Right Thing. He put forth that there were three primary factors that influence our conduct. First, the laws of the land (whichever you happened to live in). He put it quite well:
"A man, for instance, may not murder or steal, because an organized power outside himself will withstand him before the fact, if possible, and make trouble for him after the fact."
Quite so, old chap.
The second realm of personal conduct, according to Nock, falls to things that really don't matter all that much one way or the other, such as what toothpaste or detergent you use (though some nowadays would claim that these are matters of the utmost importance). Last was the field of personal moral/ethical judgment, which the English, bless 'em, had a name for: Doing the Right Thing.
The essay continued by examining the degree to which this third category is affected by the growth or decline of the first category, and how in the States the lawmakers hold that it is the laws that keep most of humankind from transgressing into a sort of primitive and debaucherous state of abandon. The essay seemed to evolve then into a sort of treatise on the anarchist (what might be called libertarian, nowadays) reaction to this stance: that when laws were relaxed and personal freedom and moral judgment were given room to breathe, man would be able, through reason, experience and observation, to develop a strong inner sense of moral certainty and the faculty by which to exercise that certainty. To Do the Right Thing.
I realize that, out of context, these ideas are very simplistic and straightforward, but I marveled at the odds of ever happening upon this little book, among so many. The author being unknown to me, yet very intelligent, articulate, and agreeable to my mind. And here I had wanted to head straight for the music room. I tucked the book under my arm, and when we were ready to go, checked it out.
The walk to the bookstore took us past Jake's Grill, which brings out a special decoration once a year, around the time of the Rose Festival. I'd forgotten all about it until we were passing directly underneath and my eyes wandered to the rooftop. I almost stumbled, stopping us both and reaching for my camera. I directed her eyes upwards. And then we walked on.
At Powell's we did more exploring, me following her lead. I circled around the philosophy section, looking for a decent copy of Epictetus's Discourses and not finding one. I'm very particular about translations. I did, however, find a used copy of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, beautifully hardbound. And I was presented with another moral imperative: to buy it for her, much as I have felt anytime I encounter anyone who has not yet read it.
We left the bookstore and made our way toward the bus mall. I cradled the little red book in my hand, admiring it. I had half a mind to call the library in a few weeks and apologetically tell them that it had been lost; I would, of course, pay whatever replacement fees they asked. But would they really be able to replace this ancient copy? I wanted the book, but was it ethically correct to "buy" the book from the library in such a backhand manner? I looked at my companion, and then remembered the title of the book in my hand.
We both laughed.
The sun was setting over Southwest Portland, and I looked up at Jake's Grill, to bid my new friend a good day.

In Which I Fail to Come Up with a Title

And the Spring Mix is finished.
The weather this past month has made it a frustrating venture. Everything I listen to has the air of summer in it; all the Elephant 6 bands, !!!, and the rest. None of them wanted to work on the current project. It's only 3 more weeks til summer officially hits; soon all will be well in my mix-making reality again.
As her recent post illustrates, Lindsey and I are of different minds about the whole blogging thing. I've been letting more and more time pass between them, and am feeling quite All Right about slipping out of blogger brain. In fact, I'm relieved to be living more in the real world. Perhaps we are not actually disagreeing: I am still working a lot on paper, if not in this blog. Perhaps I need to keep my writing private for awhile until I've stretched out a bit in my new habits. Am I afraid? Or just lazy? The question looms.
Either way, I am keeping busy.
My little online comic The Mighty Bu should be seeing a bit of new life soon. And there are a few other things happening behind the scenes. Plus, if you haven't noticed, it's freakin' beautiful out and I am getting better about taking my body, thoughts, and pen and paper outside once in awhile, even if blog-thoughts linger.
That's all I have to say at the moment. I suppose I felt compelled to put a word in here before I turn my Ditty Bops calendar to June.

Big love right back to you, friends.

Yes.

New Skin for the Old Ceremony

I am told it takes 21 days to form a habit. Something about training your body, tests confirm, etc. After a little bit of Googling, I will take the word of the friend who told me about this over any of those sites I found. The theory is intriguing either way.
My past attempts at discipline were generally short-lived, perhaps why none of them took. I flare up with the initial burst of determination, and then a few days later it's all gone to shit again. I really have nothing to lose. As the saying goes, how old are you going to be if you don't give this little theory a trial run? Yeah yeah. I know.
Inertia is still alive and well. Many moments of the past weeks have been lingering in my mind, calling out "Blog me! Blog me!" S sent me a wonderful cartoon a few weeks back that illustrated this perfectly. I'll link to it when I can find it. Something about Living to Blog. Ah yes, here it is:


















It's frightening. It seems near impossible to avoid the urge, near impossible to counter. I could revolt and swear off my computer entirely, as the characters do. Throw myself into the world, and L-I-V-E, as Maude would say. But how long would it take to shake the urge to simply record my life for later documentation? How long before I stopped thinking, this would make a fantastic blog? 21 days?
I do try, more and more, to remove myself from the technological world. Playing LPs rather than plugging in the iPod. Putting the computer away when I'm not using it. Lighting candles. And so on. But it does nothing to loosen the grip the technological world has over me. What can I do when even my best effort becomes impure in its heart? But I digress.
It is a beautiful spring day. It is also Free Comic Book Day, for those of you who don't have to be off to work in a few hours. Maybe you'll find the newest episode of Fables, a clever and imaginative update of all the old stories. Who knew Goldilocks was such a bitch?
The chives on my windowsill are a good inch or so out of the soil. Being the first things I've really ever grown in my home, I'm quite fond of them. Their presence makes a huge difference to the feel of the place, and is one more strike against that black hole of amorphous electronic oblivion I feel myself ever falling into.
And now, armed only with my trusty Field Notes memo book and a copy of The Elements of Style, I dive back into the trenches. Godspeed!

How Am I Not Myself?

I subscribe to the notion that we do not have one self, but myriad selves. Ignoring for the moment the simple truth that we are always changing, moment to moment (whether we grow or regress is yet another discussion), it is clear that we become different people constantly, dependent on our surroundings. You go in to work, and you are one person. You go out for drinks with friends, and you are another. Home for the holidays, another. The associations, antecedents and consequences of our experiences change us in ways so subtle and effortless we can hardly imagine them, and it happens in a heartbeat.
As a former theater geek and (aspiring) writer, it appeals to me to experiment with acting out different characters/versions of myself. I give in to my eccentricities and switch in and out of roles constantly, observing what I am capable of when I let go of my predominant ideas of myself.
Beyond the whimsical play-acting, I've noticed a few recurring characters that have become the primary players in the past months. It's gotten to the point where I can feel myself slipping into them almost at once. Sometimes I am military Dave, all business. Sometimes I am the devil's advocate. Sometimes I am a kind man. Sometimes I am not. I almost feel inclined to explain this to people lest they get the wrong impression: no, no, don't take offense; I am simply cold Dave at the moment. Warm, friendly Dave is elsewhere.
The more aware I am of each character, the better I can play to each one's strength. Each one has a particular skill or use; a particular set of circumstances that they thrive in, where other parts of myself would crumble. I'm at the point where I can occasionally summon them up; more often the change is brought on by external factors. But imagine being able to command them precisely, effortlessly! To deploy them as you would a team of specialists. But this begs the question: if each is a facet of the whole, is there some presiding 'higher mind' that serves to guide the overall process and/or keep the whole damn thing in check? To keep the characters from fighting amongst each other? I feel there is. What is it? I have no good answer.
I have read that contradictions cannot exist by the nature and essence of existence. That when contradictions appear, it is because one of our underlying assumptions about the nature of things is wrong. I agree with this in a sense; certainly you can pin a man to his character, and the better you know him the more easily you can tell when he goes against it (in books more than real life, perhaps). But is it really a contradiction? Man seems to be the exception to the rule in the natural world: we are machines, but our humanity is displayed when we deviate from reason and consistency. We are animals, but it is our acting against nature that sets us apart from the rest. The fact that is within us to set our own parameters and realities is a marvelous realization. As if we were each a robot constantly redesigning itself; refining its OS to better serve its ever-changing motives and needs. We discard what was once useful, and learn new methods for new situations. I find this a most liberating thought.
Walt Whitman wrote: "Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes."
Yes. Multitudes. So where is the contradiction?



Sophe Lux - Marie Antoinette Robot 2073 (A Rock Opera)
Thom Yorke - Analyse

Fuck This...I'm Leaving

I try not to speak unless I have something to say. Lately, this has been more and more infrequent. As each day dies, I feel myself getting more sick at heart, more tired.
I've been realizing that the only time I feel satisfied these days is when I'm at work, because it's the only place I'm actually focusing my mind and body productively and getting things accomplished. Once the day is done and I slump through the door of my apartment, the string goes out of my back and I succumb to the unholy triumvirate of Gmail, Myspace, and OiNK. Business as usual.
While I'm at work, my mind can run circles around whatever it wishes; my body is going through the motions. Preparing mirepoix. Peeling and dicing beets. Pulling the stems off spinach. The motions are mechanical and meditative. And over the past few months, they have taught me something.
They have taught me that it really doesn't matter what you have to say. The real work and creation is done on the prep table, day in day out, and the only task is to get it done. Some days the brownies will look better than others. Some days the bechamel might taste a bit funny, but you make it anyway. Talking is secondary. When I'm facing the dishpit and watching the steam rise and the machine purr, I feel as if I'm watching myself go through the motions with almost no interference; I don't think at all. It's a pure, beautiful act. And people still look at me funny when I tell them no, I really enjoy doing dishes...
I realize that this blog is, by and large, very repetitive and very whiny. It is, by its nature, talk. And the sickness that has been rising in me lately grows from the unavoidable question: what the hell do I have to say, really? With all my good intentions, plans, and daily pseudo-revelations, I manage to stave off the reality that I get fuck-all done each day. Between work, feeding and bathing myself with semi-regularity, and eeking out the occasional blog, I go to sleep each day with all the Big Projects left untouched. You know the ones.
One of my favorite blogs, and from whose mind comes the title of my own, is that of Amanda Palmer. I always aspire, unconsciously or otherwise, to create in my own blog the kind of satisfaction and insight that she displays in hers. But here I am faced with the crucial difference: who the fuck am I? Amanda has things to talk about. She's got her hands in it. She is (despite her recent protestations to the contrary) living first, blogging second. And either way, her touring and miscellaneous adventures give her actual substance to report back on. What do I have to report? Same shit, different day.
I'm tired of listening to myself talk, even in the form of pixels on a screen. I'm sure some of you are sick of it too. I know Valentine is.
So in the way of resolutions, this is a small one. It's about time I started shutting the hell up and going through the motions already. My hands know what to do, and everything I have to say leading up to the starting point has already been said. Beaten into a stain on the pavement where, once, long ago, there may have lain a dead horse, if I might borrow a page from the venerable Mr. Gaiman.
This is the point where I feel the brief joy of making a new start, which is followed by a false sense of accomplishment and then immediate relapse into inactivity. Oh no. Don't let me get away with it. I'm out to earn myself something worth saying. I'm out to get dirty, and hopefully get things done. Thoughts of quality and perfection are just two pretty distractions on the way to a deathbed full of regret. Let's just go.




The American Analog Set - Fuck This...I'm Leaving

Ceremonies of Light and Dark

O February, you coldest of months.
In the dead of winter, synchronicity took a dark form. Death was everywhere. I used to write about how winter, if I could whittle it down, was the season of death. It looked good on paper. But that reality has touched all of our lives in many ways this past month. The tangible death of bodies, the amorphous deaths of the day-to-day lives we have known. The changing of the sights and scenery.
I moved from my old house into an apartment. So much of my recent past was tied to that place and that neighborhood, and I have taken it and put it in the ground. I don't look back much anymore. When Nick died, the grieving ritual began, and I tried to see to it that it was completed properly. The function of ritual and ceremony, as I understand it, has always been to satisfy our human need to give shape and form to a feeling. It focuses and sharpens our messy lives into crystalline meaning. From my purely secular perspective, ritual has a place even in our callous, modern hearts. It transforms everything, from our smallest actions to the doorways of birth, growth and death into something pure, even sacred.
I fell without question into the position of supporting my friends through the tragedy. It was simple necessity. I played my part, offering comfort and love as it was needed. Yet all the while I felt more like an observer than a participant. I observed my grieving friends, and I observed myself among them. To say I felt nothing would be inaccurate; but I was aware again and again that I felt less than I might expect of myself, in the middle of all this turmoil. I became adept at disconnecting myself from my emotions. I did it because I had no choice but to do so; to submerge my own little sorrows and private fears for the greater good. What else could I do?
The month felt like a long, arduous trek uphill in the middle of a storm. You couldn't think of how far you had left to go; you'd collapse under the knowledge, the sheer hopelessness of it. You could only think of how you'd make it through the next few feet. Then the next few hours. Then the next few days. There was too much that demanded our attention that we had neither the time nor energy to give to. So we did what we had to: we pushed everything else aside except that which was absolutely necessary to get through the moments. The rest of our burdens could wait, caught in our filters. We would attend to them in their time. Near the end we just felt like we were holding our breath, waiting for the calendar to pin itself up one more page and for the sun to begin to creep back into the world.
I learned that my ability to drive a stake between myself and my heart is far greater than I had thought. That I am capable of a detachedness I never imagined possible. I felt nearly inhuman; the cold, calculating mind that sees everything from a tactical perspective. Step by step. This is what we must do to get by. It's a strange thing to feel, especially in such a concentrated dose of time. I can't imagine that I'll ever be called upon to do it again in such intensity. Though I take some small comfort in knowing that I can.
But everything has a price.
In this case, the price is a tiredness that has crept inside of me and is refusing to leave. Even though the worst is past (it's March, hallelujah), I still finish each day desiring to disappear off the face of the planet, if only to sleep, uninterrupted and unreachable, for at least a week. To see no one. To have no obligations. I lay down in bed and can't turn away from the fact that though I manage to complete my necessary duties each day, I still leave the truly important things undone. I was surviving before. Now I'm getting by. It'd be nice to step up one further into actually living.
But I know that I'm getting better. I've got that much at least. S and I go for coffee from time to time, and I cherish the time spent. Something we recently discussed comes to mind when I think about this feeling of shortcoming. We can be the best things for others in our lives: wells of wisdom, encouragement, strength and love. But we struggle to be these things for ourselves. Even propping myself up with a clean new apartment of my own, putting up the Neutral Milk Hotel poster and lighting candles is not enough: I still, when left alone, cannot cheer myself out of a hole. Why is it so difficult to do for ourselves what we so easily do for others?
But it's a start. Living alone fills me with a small joy every morning when I awake to the blinding sun streaming in through my windows. Knowing that I have only my lonesome to answer to as I go through the rituals of preparing coffee and putting the stereo on. Sitting on the windowsill looking over Hawthorne as the busses roll by.
March has come, finally. The new Arcade Fire record has dropped, in all its holy, blistering splendor. I joke with a co-worker about how this record (centered around religion) is darker than the first (which is merely about death). The arms of the record grab me roughly and pull me back to life, practically slapping me in the face in an attempt to revive me. To remind me that, though February is the coldest month, it is also something else: the harbinger of spring.
Winter is the dead season.
Spring, as I have written elsewhere, is the season when we come back to life.
The Minbari (I know, I know, I'm obsessed with Babylon 5) have a ritual known as the rebirth ceremony. It involves reflection and meditation on what has past, what is now, and what is still to come. You must tell someone a secret that you've never told anyone else before, and you must give up something of great value to you. After all the pain we have endured, it seems only appropriate that we come together, now, to try and rebuild what has been torn apart. If you wish to participate in this ceremony, know that you will not be alone in doing so.
Ritual is for the living. We attend the funeral to say goodbye. We drink a toast at the wake to honor him. We shake hands to affirm: we are friends. And so on. Will we not now be reborn?





The Arcade Fire - Keep the Car Running
Will Sheff - Girl I Knew, Guy I Met
Pulp - Dishes
Laura Gibson - The Longest Day

A Fond Farewell

My co-worker Nick Bucher (chef extraordinaire, Kool Keith enthusiast, and kind soul) was biking away from Noble Rot this past Friday night when he was struck by a car. They tell me he was thrown a great distance, and that he passed away the following morning at OHSU hospital.
This was a man I worked with three days a week, including my week-ending Saturday night downstairs shifts in the restaurant. I would slave over my dish pit while he worked his stuff in the microscopic kitchen to my right, and we would move in and out of one another's orbit, trading off bits of Thom Yorke songs or cheesy 80's pop fare (though I was not down with Mr. Big. Sorry Nick). He would pose random philosophical queries to me and I would return to my dirty water to think about them, returning with (hopefully) decent replies when I went to polish silverware. Is the expression 'god-awful' inherently blasphemous?
Well, that's a good question, chef...
Now there is this space where his body once moved, these things that we picked up and put down, and hovering over it all like a (screaming) banshee, the memories of my brief time knowing him. When I started at Noble Rot I felt shy, nervous, and quite certain that I didn't belong there, having no real culinary experience to speak of. I was thrown, for the first time, into the world of a professional kitchen, and the head chefs intimidated me. Between my fear of screwing up and general lack of common sense, I often had questions of protocol that went unvoiced when in their presence.
I would ask Nick instead.
He was the one who very graciously told me that it was best to hydrate butter lettuce in cold water, generally speaking. He was the one who I approached most often when I needed to know where some wayward pot, pan or straining implement lived.
It was some time later that I learned that Nick was 24, a good two years younger than myself. It shocked me at first to realize this; he was cool-headed, a remarkably professional chef, and a good bit taller than me as well. He exuded calm, discipline, and patience whenever I saw him. I always took him for, say, 27? At least? I always deferred to his presence as both an elder and generally wiser man.
Knowing now that he did indeed bear some of those traits that belong to the younger, less-mature types in our species (I've heard a humorous tale about his incredulously stubborn unwillingness to do dishes outside of the workplace), I can see that Nick was indeed flawed, was indeed young in many ways. I always felt that he presented a cool front, but that was fine by me - who among us doesn't do so, and with good reason? - but in the four months that I knew him I came to see him more as a real human being, rather than just the chef with the good hair and lots of obscure hip-hop on his iPod. In the last few weeks especially, I felt him opening up to me, and thought that it might, over time, become a more solid friendship. He'd even loaned me the final season of Home Movies so that I could verse myself in it in preparation for one of our Saturday-night banters.
I realize, as I have before when death has come to call, the importance of communicating our love to one another, valuing our time together, et cetera. The lessons you'd expect to learn from death. I've come to a point in my life where cynicism has a strong stake in my heart, and I wonder if we will, this time, remember these lessons. That we must be kind to one another. That we must live in a way that honors the memory of the one lost. And so on.
But what I take from it now, at least for myself, is this: our brother is dead. We must grieve for him and honor him. I know of few better ways to do this than to live in gratitude for having known him, and to remember the multitude of ways he touched (and in so doing, changed) my life.
I will watch the Home Movies dvd, and continue to quote them at the kitchen on Saturday nights. I'll strive for the same level of egolessness, of compassion, of calm that I witnessed in him. I'll sing his name with my instruments, as long as there is strength left in me to do so.
The Minbari believe that souls pass together from lifetime to lifetime. As such, they don't believe in saying goodbye, for no parting is final. Instead, they have a word: Nee'zhalen. It means good night. Literally it translates as be not alone in your travels.
So you will pardon me if I do not say goodbye.

Let me end this with a passage from The Sandman, in which the Lord of Dreams advises his son on the passing of his wife:

"You are mortal: it is the mortal way. You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell.
You grieve. Then you continue with your life.
And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on.
She is dead.
You are alive.
So live."

Nee'zhalen, Nick.















1982-2007

Boy Is It Ever Monday!

Amanda, you ruin me.
I read your blog and marvel at the detail with which you recall your thought processes, your detailed memories. Your monkey mind all splayed out in glorious million-pixel clarity for me to enjoy. And then I am rendered silent.
Now I sit with slight sniffles, stirring coffee with a pen. New music flows in (maybe that's what clogs up my nose) and I am thinking about going to down to look at a new place. Lingering traces of a dream in which I was dying. I cried and bid farewell to people, and it was not at all pleasant. The runner mug sits with me and I think it is absolutely time for some Wolf Parade.
I've been trying to decode the signs and portents of the new year. Keywords are splattered on the whiteboard and my men are working around the clock to make heads or tails of them. (Slow down on that coffee, mate; once it's gone, it's gone).
I'll soon have to say goodbye to Ditty Bops springing up from cabbage patches, and welcome February, and with it, FAWM. That's right. Here we go again. I have a concept album in mind, but you'll have to wait and hear for yourself. I think it will be good.
What is this year? Left and right I hear about people flaking on their friends (guilty) and wanting to shave away all excess. All utility, all necessity. I am for this. We move together and right now we are moving towards simplicity and self-improvement, however masturbatory it may seem to Brad Pitt.
Speaking of masturbation, it seems to be another facet of life's synchronicity that everyone has split up or is splitting up or will, as of reading this, shortly be splitting up with their Other. Now let's assume that you're like me: Alone, looking out the steamed-up window of a Stumptown coffee shop as the display letters fall and break from too much moisture and manipulation, and you watch the people walking by on the street. You watch them walk by and we both agree that they resemble one another more than a little bit. They all seem too perfect, too obviously coupled, to be real. You inevitably begin to muse, for the umpteenth time, on just how many people in this heartbroken town are paired off, and really, where do these people find each other? I feel inclined to run out into the cold air with a notepad and pen, à la Annie Hall, and ask each passing pair for their secret, for the history of their origins. To study this strange beast.
I asked a friend: where are the good, non-attached women? She asked me: where are the good, non-attached, men (read: not boys)? The ones who have something to say, who like to read books and lounge about in their underwear with red wine in hand and trade off Homestar Runner quotes or geek out with Babylon 5 marathons? Where are these people?
Alas, they're probably doing just what we do most of the time: staying at home. Or working. Who wants to make an effort to meet people? It feels forced, rarely pays off, and costs a lot of money. At least the popular haunts seem to. Bars are out of the question. Work is too small a family. And, as Tom Waits said, you don't meet nice girls in coffee shops. What hope do shy romantics like us have to ever meet someone worth our time?
So it is in the face of this irrefutable dilemma that we segue back to our original discussion: what do to in the meantime. Nay, what to do instead of bothering with such trifles as companionship, friendship, and other ships. We have time. We are unencumbered. This presents us with an opportunity. To illustrate:
I will very rarely clean my room unless someone is coming over. when the public comes crashing into my life, I put on the presentation of relatively cleanliness and functionality, and this seems absurd. We put the comforts of others above our own, when we have to live with ourselves every second. S put it well: how can we expect to love and support anyone else in any sort of relationship when we don't attend to and care for ourselves in an equally loving manner?
How indeed?
This applies across the board. Whether you don't feed yourself properly, maintain room-cleanliness, or just get yourself off to internet porn when you could be cultivating your sensitivity and practicing separating orgasm from ejaculation (that's just for you, boys), it's all the same thing. Rather than using our solitude to learn to better care for ourselves, we continue to take the easy out and the quick fix. To borrow a phrase from another excellent blog: instead of taking the time to prepare a fine meal for ourselves, most of the time we just reach for a cheeseburger.
So we have taken this and run with it, grabbing the new year by its diapers and declared it the year of Masturbatory Solitude. Of becoming stronger. Of self-acceptance. No longer will we sit amidst a room of acquaintances and ask: what am I doing here? I like my own company just fine, thank you.
Guard your time. Use it. Don't fritter it away just because you're lonely or horny. You're not the only one, and this is the year of taking matters into your own hands. Put on the Flaming Lips, or DeVotchKa, or Greg Dulli. Stand up and say yes, chef! There'll be no break in your obligations, your trials. They keep coming. The only way is up. The only word left is onwards.

They Don't Write 'Em Like That Anymore

I'm sipping some Papio and grinning as Jay Brannan sings through my speakers. I've been orbiting around a few records this past week, and the Shortbus soundtrack is the favorite of the moment. Scott Matthew's songs take my breath away. I can't wait until he releases a proper record.
The other disc is called The Ideal Home Music Library, Vol. 1: Show Songs, which, if the liner notes are to be believed, is made up of old show tunes unearthed from the Rare Book Room at the American Institute of Musicology, reinterpreted by Portland's own Michael Johnson and a few other locals. I don't know if I believe the bit about these songs really being written between the '30s and '50s (one dating all the way back to 1901) but either way the sound is unmistakably that of the classic show tunes, and the modern day Portland artists do a marvelous job of paying homage to these songs, wherever they come from.
Maybe I'm a bit old fashioned, but for my money there's nothing like the simple pleasure of a good tune (and old tunes - I'm talkin' Cole Porter here - are the best of the lot for this) to put a skip in your step and make you glad to be alive.
Here is one such song, with guest vocals by none other than Colin Meloy. And some Shortbus tracks thrown in for good measure. Enjoy!

Reclinerland - The Lady from Riems
Jay Brannan - Soda Shop
Scott Matthew - Language

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.