Against better judgment, or in spite of it, I decided to take a short run today.
I found some old long johns in the bottom of my dresser. Put on an old fleece I keep behind the seat of my truck, and headed out.
It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining and the air was clear. One thing I don't like about Louisiana is the air seems graying and clingy. Not today. I stopped mid run to admire some egrets fishing by the water breaks between the small pond on the golf course and the larger university lake, itself a catch basin for all the residential houses nearby. One egret kept fluffy his feathers, trying to frighten off the others from his fishing spot. As I watched he speared a tiny little perch and swallowed it whole, looking around to see who noticed.
I continued my run with the sun to my right shoulder.
Heading up the lone "hill" on my run I was crossed by a young university student, her pony tail bopping back and forth. I tried in vain to keep her pace but it was impossible. This is the second time in the last few weeks I had tried to pace with faster runners.
I am a slow runner. I keep to myself and just try to keep on going. Sometimes I can lost in incredible thought, others my mind is blank, and I get to grasp true existence. Its not as easy as it sounds anymore. The television, my phone, the internet... Everything combusted directly into your mind to alleviate any thoughts you may have to enjoy a moment to yourself.
I finished suttree a few weeks ago and was floored. Its funny that I wrote on here that I thought it wasn't as good as some of cormac's later stuff: wrong. Just as good. The language was different, but it was there. The story was epic.
I got about 50 pages or so left of Franzen's latest page turner, then I plan on reading a tesla bio.
I may...MAY, mind you, try to read infinite jest after xmas. Who knows?
I want to get into a creative mindset hard. But I will chalk up the last few months to growing pains within a new job.
I still have my guitar,
and I still have my mind.
Its the soul I will try to uncover.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Sunday with my breakfast. Its cool enough outside now. I may go for a short walk after my coffee. I am reading Suttree by Cormac McCarthy. His language is just as poetic in the first twenty pages or so that I have read as in his Border Trilogy. Maybe a little too much. As if he has always had that gift, but in 1979 when Suttree was written, he has not yet figured out how to pare back. Not that its bad, just some ass hole writing an observation.
Obsessively listening to new Deerhunter. I really wish I still played music when I listen to this band. Makes me think about what I have done and all I have not. That is ok.
May run today.
Obsessively listening to new Deerhunter. I really wish I still played music when I listen to this band. Makes me think about what I have done and all I have not. That is ok.
May run today.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Watching LSU football with Lauren. I think I want to start writing on here some more. I have a few ideas as far as creativity goes. Me and L painted some pictures last weekend, that was fun. I haven't picked up a guitar just yet, but I have listened to music. I am back to thinking about investing in some music making software. it is too easy now to trade pieces of sound with your friends. Easy to say, yes. Not so to get off my ass and do.
My job is a challenge, one which I relinquish( I would like to add here that a day removed from this blog I decided to actually check out the definition for the word "relinquish." It is only now that my sad ass realizes it means "To let go." I meant...embrace). There has been anxiety, but I feel like that is my learning curve. Keeping everything together. I have ideas for my library. I have planned some programming, but I need to keep this up. Part of me feels like I started too early, like I need to hold some ideas back. I am still learning the ins and outs of running a library. Things that should eventually take second nature: Scheduling, staying on top of policy, etc...
Some days I feel I have in 100%, other days, there is an uncertainty. But again, the challenge. I enjoy it. I may possibly start book club, wondering if I want to invest the time to read.
Currently reading some easy non fiction. Finished a great book called Tinker by Paul Harding. An old man is dying, and his the last few days of his life, his mind races through thoughts of his past, and that of is father and his father. His memories weave with theirs and is in an organic way, going from first to third person.
I want to read Jonothan Franzen's new book, but so do several of my patrons! That makes me happy, I want to get more books that these patrons like, build up a literary culture. I should put together a small survey for those that read modern literature, build a collection. Luckily we have a good collection development librarian, and our collection is sound. I think I may someday want to work as a liaison with different departments in an academic library. But I do enjoy working with the public.
So many aspects of this job I can improve on!
Running some, whatever, couple times a week. Rode my bike around campus tonight, listening to drunks yell and scream. It was scary really, there around state street where the meth heads dress like the frat boys. The look the same, but the light shows darkness within their faces. In like to get there 1000th beer. Spaces between their teeth. "Hey rider!" they yell. "Want a beer?" But are they talking to me, or each other? The invitation is false. Its for your lunch money in your pocket, you bike, you teeth and blood.
There were rumors of a group of meth heads down here who would think nothing of sticking a knife in your arm, and sucking its blood like vampires. My first year here they found two girls from Theta Alpha dead behind the Tiger Den Apartments. Their bodies looked like they were drained and stuffed with formaldehyde. They said there were no restraint marks on the girls, no abrasions. Just two small holes. This rumor came and was thrust into darkness two months later when LSU won the national championship game.
My job is a challenge, one which I relinquish( I would like to add here that a day removed from this blog I decided to actually check out the definition for the word "relinquish." It is only now that my sad ass realizes it means "To let go." I meant...embrace). There has been anxiety, but I feel like that is my learning curve. Keeping everything together. I have ideas for my library. I have planned some programming, but I need to keep this up. Part of me feels like I started too early, like I need to hold some ideas back. I am still learning the ins and outs of running a library. Things that should eventually take second nature: Scheduling, staying on top of policy, etc...
Some days I feel I have in 100%, other days, there is an uncertainty. But again, the challenge. I enjoy it. I may possibly start book club, wondering if I want to invest the time to read.
Currently reading some easy non fiction. Finished a great book called Tinker by Paul Harding. An old man is dying, and his the last few days of his life, his mind races through thoughts of his past, and that of is father and his father. His memories weave with theirs and is in an organic way, going from first to third person.
I want to read Jonothan Franzen's new book, but so do several of my patrons! That makes me happy, I want to get more books that these patrons like, build up a literary culture. I should put together a small survey for those that read modern literature, build a collection. Luckily we have a good collection development librarian, and our collection is sound. I think I may someday want to work as a liaison with different departments in an academic library. But I do enjoy working with the public.
So many aspects of this job I can improve on!
Running some, whatever, couple times a week. Rode my bike around campus tonight, listening to drunks yell and scream. It was scary really, there around state street where the meth heads dress like the frat boys. The look the same, but the light shows darkness within their faces. In like to get there 1000th beer. Spaces between their teeth. "Hey rider!" they yell. "Want a beer?" But are they talking to me, or each other? The invitation is false. Its for your lunch money in your pocket, you bike, you teeth and blood.
There were rumors of a group of meth heads down here who would think nothing of sticking a knife in your arm, and sucking its blood like vampires. My first year here they found two girls from Theta Alpha dead behind the Tiger Den Apartments. Their bodies looked like they were drained and stuffed with formaldehyde. They said there were no restraint marks on the girls, no abrasions. Just two small holes. This rumor came and was thrust into darkness two months later when LSU won the national championship game.
WE stood for about 15 minutes staring out at the sea. It was February, and the air had a clean feeling. Though only about 60 degrees, the wind kept a nice chill to the air. Some surfers braved the much colder water in wetsuits, trying to catch something of the winter waves.
I used an old camera of my dad's to try to make the afternoon more memorable; it wasn't needed. My amateur photography was shakey, but it was fun getting you to pose with the ocean behind you. It was fun playing with the aperture, and the focus. It was fun walking around holding hands.
We ordered a can of beer from a concession stand and paid the two dollars to walk along the boardwalk. The obvious feeling of infinity, staring out among the sea. I had a small notebook and scrabbled out this nonesence, more proof of my lack of growth as a writer of any kind:
Can this be exactly what I had planned all along
Had I somehow known exactly what I was doing,
Amidst all that turmoil in my mind? Fake catastrophes, moments holding on to dear life, the bottom of the floor, staring at the cheap tan carpet.
I moved alone after all. I took some risk, for myself anyway...
and it looks like its panning out.
This final embark,
from nothing to the end of the earth
I used an old camera of my dad's to try to make the afternoon more memorable; it wasn't needed. My amateur photography was shakey, but it was fun getting you to pose with the ocean behind you. It was fun playing with the aperture, and the focus. It was fun walking around holding hands.
We ordered a can of beer from a concession stand and paid the two dollars to walk along the boardwalk. The obvious feeling of infinity, staring out among the sea. I had a small notebook and scrabbled out this nonesence, more proof of my lack of growth as a writer of any kind:
Can this be exactly what I had planned all along
Had I somehow known exactly what I was doing,
Amidst all that turmoil in my mind? Fake catastrophes, moments holding on to dear life, the bottom of the floor, staring at the cheap tan carpet.
I moved alone after all. I took some risk, for myself anyway...
and it looks like its panning out.
This final embark,
from nothing to the end of the earth
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Forever ago in this very same heat,
I packed up everything I had and headed south.
I stuffed envelopes full of my dreams and buried them in my yard.
I cut off my beard, and put it with my buried envelopes.
I arrived at my destination just fine,
only two days later did I cry so much it hurt.
Those envelopes under the ground at my parents house,
Deep below my father's garden.
They sit idle.
I packed up everything I had and headed south.
I stuffed envelopes full of my dreams and buried them in my yard.
I cut off my beard, and put it with my buried envelopes.
I arrived at my destination just fine,
only two days later did I cry so much it hurt.
Those envelopes under the ground at my parents house,
Deep below my father's garden.
They sit idle.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Monday, May 31, 2010
Lulled to sleep,
the warm breeze allowed inside,
so I can hear the rain on the front of the house.
My legs starting to stick to the sheets,
I keep my eyes shut against the light.
I can remember being able to sleep better during the day.
I focus everything on the black behind my lids,
Turning the absence of color into dark reds, blues, and purples.
Tiny stars form just outside of my view,
I try following them,
reaching outward towards the one closest to my hand.
My focus is weak.
Drifting back to my room, i sit up.
Angered that my nap is over.
the warm breeze allowed inside,
so I can hear the rain on the front of the house.
My legs starting to stick to the sheets,
I keep my eyes shut against the light.
I can remember being able to sleep better during the day.
I focus everything on the black behind my lids,
Turning the absence of color into dark reds, blues, and purples.
Tiny stars form just outside of my view,
I try following them,
reaching outward towards the one closest to my hand.
My focus is weak.
Drifting back to my room, i sit up.
Angered that my nap is over.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
In last june I arrived at the library ten minutes early. There was no reason for me being there early. I had misjudged the amount of time it would take me to pull of I12 and get a cup of coffee from the McDonalds in Gonzales, and pulled up just as my coffee was getting cool enough to take my first sip without causing white flashes of pain that stayed on my tongue like your shadows on the wall under artificial lighting.
Arriving before Salina, I opened up the doors and flipped on all the lights. I turned on our computers, secretly praying that the one fault one had been ripped and cleaned since I had taken my vacation. Sometimes things move slow down here, from the local government, to the tech guy at the local library.
It was after I turned on the lights in the computer room that I first heard the silent squealing sound coming from the Non Fiction row: the 741's...graphic novels. The hair on my arms stretched towards my sweater, creating tiny pathways for electric current.
"Who," I half shouted out, just as the lights went off with a loud CRACK!
It was summer, so the sun was out well before the 7:15 that I found myself in. But it was the dark gray June clouds that held back the light from the windows lining the upper part of the wall, just behind the shelves of paper backs and romance novels. The only trace of light now came from the lightening storm, miles away, but close enough to spare traces of white hot purple glows surrounding the walls.
CRACK!
Again! The lights were already off! What was causing the sound! Walking quickly towards the door, I felt a heavy grasp onto my leg, stumbling!
"Ayye," but before the sound could come out of my mouth the lights came on brightly!
Arriving before Salina, I opened up the doors and flipped on all the lights. I turned on our computers, secretly praying that the one fault one had been ripped and cleaned since I had taken my vacation. Sometimes things move slow down here, from the local government, to the tech guy at the local library.
It was after I turned on the lights in the computer room that I first heard the silent squealing sound coming from the Non Fiction row: the 741's...graphic novels. The hair on my arms stretched towards my sweater, creating tiny pathways for electric current.
"Who," I half shouted out, just as the lights went off with a loud CRACK!
It was summer, so the sun was out well before the 7:15 that I found myself in. But it was the dark gray June clouds that held back the light from the windows lining the upper part of the wall, just behind the shelves of paper backs and romance novels. The only trace of light now came from the lightening storm, miles away, but close enough to spare traces of white hot purple glows surrounding the walls.
CRACK!
Again! The lights were already off! What was causing the sound! Walking quickly towards the door, I felt a heavy grasp onto my leg, stumbling!
"Ayye," but before the sound could come out of my mouth the lights came on brightly!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Harold woke with a start exactly 15 minutes before is alarm had to go off.
"Well, I am still here," he said to himself. Just three years ago, Harold would sleep until 9:14 a.m. every morning, no matter how late he stayed up. This was the perfect time. It allowed him to stay up to at least 1 a.m., or even later, while still waking up for what he considered morning. Morning now consisted of 6:30 a.m. at the latest.
Harold wasn't sure how he felt about this, but its what he did.
"Ok, lets get up," he though, reaching over to make sure Susan was still there, happily asleep. Harold rolled over onto her and started kissing her cheeks and forehead, lovingly, but looking for a reaction.
Susan stirred, kicked a leg, and rolled over with an astute "hmpph," followed by a long sigh.
"Are you sleeping?" Harold asked.
Susan said nothing.
Harold rose from his bed and walked to his bathroom. Though still theoretically in the run for director at his library, Harold had stopped dressing the part. Until the board decided that they in fact were going make him director, and not keep him forever in the interim, Harold decided that he could still keep with his adolescent notions of both hygiene and dress. Though his outfit was decidedly business casual: khakis, a rumbled polo shirt. Harold pulled his shirt on and squinted in under his bright fluorescent light bulb in his bathroom. There were small white stains near the bottom of his shirt, one the size of a french pea, the other resembled a tiny silhouette of Massachusetts.
Harold turned on the faucet and grabbed a piece of toilet paper. Running the paper under the water, Harold then attempted to gingerly dab at the little stains. His fingers instantly went through the thin paper, spreading tiny fragments of the wet paper onto his black shirt.
"Shit," Harold harked.
Removing his shirt, Harold backed out of the bathroom and into the bed with Susan.
"Move it dear," he said, sliding into the bed next to her.
Susan grunted again and reached out with her warm leg, searching for any spare appendage Harold may have brought with him into the cool bed.
Their legs intertwined, Harold reached over to his telephone.
"Southland Library"
"Dot? Its Harold, hey, tell Penny I am sick, im not going to be in today."
"Ok," Dorothy said, and hung up.
Harold rolled over, and was enveloped in light. He was in school, running hard towards the back of the old playground where he used to play T.V. Freeze Tag. As his arm was almost caught from behind, Harold leaped up, hooking his feet into the frozen air of his youth, climbing higher and higher into the clouds. Explosions bloomed into the cool air, and he was finally free.
"Well, I am still here," he said to himself. Just three years ago, Harold would sleep until 9:14 a.m. every morning, no matter how late he stayed up. This was the perfect time. It allowed him to stay up to at least 1 a.m., or even later, while still waking up for what he considered morning. Morning now consisted of 6:30 a.m. at the latest.
Harold wasn't sure how he felt about this, but its what he did.
"Ok, lets get up," he though, reaching over to make sure Susan was still there, happily asleep. Harold rolled over onto her and started kissing her cheeks and forehead, lovingly, but looking for a reaction.
Susan stirred, kicked a leg, and rolled over with an astute "hmpph," followed by a long sigh.
"Are you sleeping?" Harold asked.
Susan said nothing.
Harold rose from his bed and walked to his bathroom. Though still theoretically in the run for director at his library, Harold had stopped dressing the part. Until the board decided that they in fact were going make him director, and not keep him forever in the interim, Harold decided that he could still keep with his adolescent notions of both hygiene and dress. Though his outfit was decidedly business casual: khakis, a rumbled polo shirt. Harold pulled his shirt on and squinted in under his bright fluorescent light bulb in his bathroom. There were small white stains near the bottom of his shirt, one the size of a french pea, the other resembled a tiny silhouette of Massachusetts.
Harold turned on the faucet and grabbed a piece of toilet paper. Running the paper under the water, Harold then attempted to gingerly dab at the little stains. His fingers instantly went through the thin paper, spreading tiny fragments of the wet paper onto his black shirt.
"Shit," Harold harked.
Removing his shirt, Harold backed out of the bathroom and into the bed with Susan.
"Move it dear," he said, sliding into the bed next to her.
Susan grunted again and reached out with her warm leg, searching for any spare appendage Harold may have brought with him into the cool bed.
Their legs intertwined, Harold reached over to his telephone.
"Southland Library"
"Dot? Its Harold, hey, tell Penny I am sick, im not going to be in today."
"Ok," Dorothy said, and hung up.
Harold rolled over, and was enveloped in light. He was in school, running hard towards the back of the old playground where he used to play T.V. Freeze Tag. As his arm was almost caught from behind, Harold leaped up, hooking his feet into the frozen air of his youth, climbing higher and higher into the clouds. Explosions bloomed into the cool air, and he was finally free.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Nervously awaiting Vibram Fivefingers i ordered from China or somewhere else weird. They are all sold out in Baton Rouge. Memphis is even sold out of them. Their website is out of stock of most of them. Obviously this little company was not ready for the onslaught of ridiculous collective consciousness... I had an amazing five mile run 11 days ago. I hurt my foot some trying to dick around with foot strike. Like I am more than a fucking weekend warrior 10 minute miler. But whatever. I honestly felt I was approaching something new to running: enjoyment. And I don't really wanna let that go just yet.
When these ridiculous looking shoes come in, I hope they, if nothing else, add a little excitement to my runs. That is my aim anyway. I want to mix up normal runs with these silly little rubber shoe runs.
I am keeping open minded in the sense that I don't expect to suddenly be prefontaine out there.
Reading the literature really does make sense in that when yo land hard on your heel, it should be awkward on your knees and legs. And that when you run barefoot, your foot just does what its supposed to. I took a bike ride last week and parked it and ran around in my toms some, and it felt kinda cool. You are forced to stay slow, but there is a sense of connection or some bullshit, like being a little kid and running around.
mid life crisis
When these ridiculous looking shoes come in, I hope they, if nothing else, add a little excitement to my runs. That is my aim anyway. I want to mix up normal runs with these silly little rubber shoe runs.
I am keeping open minded in the sense that I don't expect to suddenly be prefontaine out there.
Reading the literature really does make sense in that when yo land hard on your heel, it should be awkward on your knees and legs. And that when you run barefoot, your foot just does what its supposed to. I took a bike ride last week and parked it and ran around in my toms some, and it felt kinda cool. You are forced to stay slow, but there is a sense of connection or some bullshit, like being a little kid and running around.
mid life crisis
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
I am not reading correctly of late. I mean, I read a book about running in two days. But 2666, a novel I found by Fred Norris, magazines, computer/online newspapers, anything at all: not getting read. I can't really seem to concentrate on anything. Right now, as I type this, I have Metropolis qued up on netflix. I watched 25 seconds and decided to blog about it. Maybe its not the right book? I read half of 2666. The first three stories are good, not the easiest fucking read in the world, but good. The 4th section is almost 300 pages of death. One after another. Its tiresome, saying little of how fucking depressing it is. I skipped ahead to the last section, the part about the writer, but, by then, its almost too late.
I ordered some sonic youth bio, read about 50 pages of that: care.
I did order a Thor graphic novel. I am not familiar with thor, I do not know if i even like thor. I say "order," because i "bought," one the other day at a book store conglomerate only to get home and realize it was volume 2. That is what I get for shopping with the man. I need to stop that. Yes, only small, local book/comicbook stores for now on. Not that I care.
Not that I do all the right shit. That is far, far from real.
I did run yesterday, and the day before that. Today I rode my bike by giant houses and near a lake, which I may add is slowly draining, or at the least turning into mud: draining.
Not sure what thats about, but when you get near its edges you find yourself inhaling smells very similar to toxic waste.
(I would have hoped that by reading half of 2666 that my writing would have gotten better, yet it still seems steeped in grade school rhetoric.
To be fair, i had been playing with my brain chemistry. A "play," that certainly produced zero results. I am not in the awkward position of slowly setting everything back into place. Finding the circle peg, taking it out of the square hole, and moving on.
I ordered some sonic youth bio, read about 50 pages of that: care.
I did order a Thor graphic novel. I am not familiar with thor, I do not know if i even like thor. I say "order," because i "bought," one the other day at a book store conglomerate only to get home and realize it was volume 2. That is what I get for shopping with the man. I need to stop that. Yes, only small, local book/comicbook stores for now on. Not that I care.
Not that I do all the right shit. That is far, far from real.
I did run yesterday, and the day before that. Today I rode my bike by giant houses and near a lake, which I may add is slowly draining, or at the least turning into mud: draining.
Not sure what thats about, but when you get near its edges you find yourself inhaling smells very similar to toxic waste.
(I would have hoped that by reading half of 2666 that my writing would have gotten better, yet it still seems steeped in grade school rhetoric.
To be fair, i had been playing with my brain chemistry. A "play," that certainly produced zero results. I am not in the awkward position of slowly setting everything back into place. Finding the circle peg, taking it out of the square hole, and moving on.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
I keep buying more shit like its going to save me, like its going to make everything better. I have ticked off countless lists with little penciled in check marks.
And yet, truly, I want nothing more than a complete simplification of my life. I want a wooden room with a small bed in the corner, a simple desk....But right there: "want." What is that? Why is there always a want? What inside my head forces me to keep wanting anything. Why is there no satisfaction?
I would like a mountain, with a cabin, with a... but why not? Why not strive for something that I feel can make me happy? Maybe there is a connection to simple things, a beautiful stream filled with fish. Dark night full of stars. Maybe I don't need to live by factories, and power lines.
Or maybe I should just keep on. Trying to form more lines, connect more dots.
I need to read more. I want my brain bigger, but I don't know how. My focus is so all over the place. I am trying to get really into running. In the past I tried to get into music.
Music has taken one stop back, again and again. I know its there. I know it can return.
Listen:
I want to run next to lake, and thankfully here I can do that. That is something I have, that is a goal accomplished. I also want to see a mountain out of my window, or at the least on my drive. That is something I am working for.
Another goal of mine is to be within biking distance from work....Goals friends.
I wish I could type something on here that was readable.
I think i falling.
And yet, truly, I want nothing more than a complete simplification of my life. I want a wooden room with a small bed in the corner, a simple desk....But right there: "want." What is that? Why is there always a want? What inside my head forces me to keep wanting anything. Why is there no satisfaction?
I would like a mountain, with a cabin, with a... but why not? Why not strive for something that I feel can make me happy? Maybe there is a connection to simple things, a beautiful stream filled with fish. Dark night full of stars. Maybe I don't need to live by factories, and power lines.
Or maybe I should just keep on. Trying to form more lines, connect more dots.
I need to read more. I want my brain bigger, but I don't know how. My focus is so all over the place. I am trying to get really into running. In the past I tried to get into music.
Music has taken one stop back, again and again. I know its there. I know it can return.
Listen:
I want to run next to lake, and thankfully here I can do that. That is something I have, that is a goal accomplished. I also want to see a mountain out of my window, or at the least on my drive. That is something I am working for.
Another goal of mine is to be within biking distance from work....Goals friends.
I wish I could type something on here that was readable.
I think i falling.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
carbon rich
oh, all is lost tonight. All is gone. Minutes and hours of searching this website for pictures, only to be brought, thought after thought, from one site to another. OFten time on these quests for more information you find yourself going down one lost corridor to another. Each though represented by a vast collection of books. A library collection, with each stack, or bookshelf of books signifying just one aspect of that pre mentioned train of thought. Say the 900s for example. Lets say that that number specifies a thought on last night's dream? So therefore, of every book inside the, "900s" deal with dreams, but is also indexed according to as many subject headings can be placed on it. So, for example, last night's dream:
Placed sideways on a large iron pillar, my legs are shackled and held firm by a large chain fastened between two iron rings. My arms are tired down by a plastic sheet, and my head is free to move up and down. I am able to immediately begin to free myself from these restraints with unknown power. I feel strong, extremely strong. Yet, with this new sense of power, and it is extreme power, I also fill fear. The sky is black with extremely fast winds, there is lighting my its long, thick lighting. A giant sheet of blue...prolonged in the sky for periods of time that seem to grow larger with each flash. Larger...bigger. I am able to run with great speed due to my new powers, I am leaping over hills, mountains. Yet the speed at which the sky moves around itself, at some point churning up great dark green and black hurricanes, each in an ocean each in outer space.
So you can see with this dream there can be a number of subject headings: Dreams about powers, dreams about storms, dreams about fear, dream about hurricanes, etc...
Only to wake up within the dream. The test is real, the indexing and classifying of dreams within large shelves of cards and numbers, each representing a dream, and eaThat itself wrapped inside of mountains.
Ok...Off to bed. Good night.
Placed sideways on a large iron pillar, my legs are shackled and held firm by a large chain fastened between two iron rings. My arms are tired down by a plastic sheet, and my head is free to move up and down. I am able to immediately begin to free myself from these restraints with unknown power. I feel strong, extremely strong. Yet, with this new sense of power, and it is extreme power, I also fill fear. The sky is black with extremely fast winds, there is lighting my its long, thick lighting. A giant sheet of blue...prolonged in the sky for periods of time that seem to grow larger with each flash. Larger...bigger. I am able to run with great speed due to my new powers, I am leaping over hills, mountains. Yet the speed at which the sky moves around itself, at some point churning up great dark green and black hurricanes, each in an ocean each in outer space.
So you can see with this dream there can be a number of subject headings: Dreams about powers, dreams about storms, dreams about fear, dream about hurricanes, etc...
Only to wake up within the dream. The test is real, the indexing and classifying of dreams within large shelves of cards and numbers, each representing a dream, and eaThat itself wrapped inside of mountains.
Ok...Off to bed. Good night.
August St. Vincent awoke to his blinds slowly parting, allowing golden sunlight to pour into his small efficiency.
August, time to wake up.
"Yea yea. Close blinds."
The blinds reversed their motion and began their journey back across the window. August kicked the sheet off his skinny legs and reached for the floor. The cool stones felt good against his feet. Reaching for his cigarettes, August waited until the blinds were completely shut and his room was dark before lighting up.
"Lights, red."
August stood up and made his way to the bathroom. A small framed photograph of Fidel Castro shaking hands with Ernest Hemmingway hung on his wall next to the doorway to his bathroom. The grin on Fidel's face gave way his love for "Papa." August had read that while in the Sierra Mastra mountains, the young revolutionary had read "For Whom the Bell Tolls," for inspiration.
Music slowly began to build in August's room, slow drones that had no beginning or end. The red lights would slowly turn pink, and then become duller; maroon. August stood in the bathroom for a while with the door shut. His face inches from the mirror.
August, time to wake up.
"Yea yea. Close blinds."
The blinds reversed their motion and began their journey back across the window. August kicked the sheet off his skinny legs and reached for the floor. The cool stones felt good against his feet. Reaching for his cigarettes, August waited until the blinds were completely shut and his room was dark before lighting up.
"Lights, red."
August stood up and made his way to the bathroom. A small framed photograph of Fidel Castro shaking hands with Ernest Hemmingway hung on his wall next to the doorway to his bathroom. The grin on Fidel's face gave way his love for "Papa." August had read that while in the Sierra Mastra mountains, the young revolutionary had read "For Whom the Bell Tolls," for inspiration.
Music slowly began to build in August's room, slow drones that had no beginning or end. The red lights would slowly turn pink, and then become duller; maroon. August stood in the bathroom for a while with the door shut. His face inches from the mirror.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
The frustration from the image that is underneath this post stems from the fact that when I took the picture i could tell it was going to be perfect. It was an angle maybe, the way Lauren held her head, the lighting, etc... It just seemed perfect when the little fake shutter on the little fake camera closed. We waited between paintings, as a man we hardly knew told us that under no circumstances could we take photographs (of the really horrible paintings of dogs and cats in day glo yellow that hung from the walls like sad faces left adrift in any of a countless number of outlet malls through out the country. Exhibit A, Belz Factory Outlet Mall: Between the dim lights lighting the dark tiled walkway, there are kiosks, mostly empty peddling the likes of cell phone cases, house shoes shaped like enormous cartoon sneakers, and lizards made of foam attached to a stick (the idea being that you are walking a giant green lizard). The actual stores are far more depressing. Dress shoes made of cheap leather, hard as lead; to try one of these on is to know what Loman felt every day that he crept ever so slowly, step by bitter step, out of his great American sedan and into the streets of pennies and project freedom.
But I digress. Perhaps purposefully, but i realize now that sitting here at the front desk, with people walking around madly, and those asking important questions, that I don't have the isolation and time needed to work and re work all of that thought together.
Maybe I should instead try to write when I have a quiet moment AWAY from everything. How nice to sit near open water and just write.
That is a goal. A major goal is to be within biking distance to work.
To live by mountains,
and to breed beautiful healthy children.
But I digress. Perhaps purposefully, but i realize now that sitting here at the front desk, with people walking around madly, and those asking important questions, that I don't have the isolation and time needed to work and re work all of that thought together.
Maybe I should instead try to write when I have a quiet moment AWAY from everything. How nice to sit near open water and just write.
That is a goal. A major goal is to be within biking distance to work.
To live by mountains,
and to breed beautiful healthy children.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
They are trying it out one more time. Too old to care, they finally got good enough jobs to afford good instruments, though never put in the time to play them. Johnny got a good job working at the post office, he was making money before any of them. He had a nice guitar, nice amp, a girlfriend, two kids, and a full time job. Steve, went to school, grad school, and finally got a job putting computers together making more money than he would have had he stayed in his given field. He was dating a freelance photographer who lived with her parents and ate only vegetables and tea.
Chris played piano at his grandmother's house. She would ask him to to play Bach chorals and anything in the old Cokesbury hymnal. She had outlined which pieces were Bach, which were traditional, etc. She could play most of them, he could play them all with some work.
A great red spot of a dream awoke Johnny from the deeper parts of sleep. The parts where your not working, tending to your yard, or fixing your car. The part where a black blanket folds over folds into your deep inner consciousness, allowing final rest from the day. But this red spot brought him right back into full lucid dreams. Dreams of a future city, with cars that burn invisible fuels, and criss cross back and forth through the day glow red sky. Standing on a platform over looking a city, miles and miles in the sky. He was some kind of mayor, or senator of this future world. Dressed in ropes and a hat much like that of the pope. In his right hand was a green scepter. He brought it down hard onto the head of someone sitting next to him. Not sitting, kneeling.
Blood ran thick unto the platform, covering his robe, making it heavy. He tried to run, but his robes were dragging him down. He got down on his knees, dragging his knuckles hopelessly across the ground, trying in vain to move away from the fallen. Cars whirled ahead making their believable "lululu," noises that you have heard from thousands of movies about the future. John believed this was real. He also knew it was a dream. Wanted it to be a dream. I can do this, i can make it out of here, he thought. Better than growing old, better than shoveling letters into slots, paying bills, raising a family. This is better than driving to Disney world every other year. I would rather do this than play guitar for my wine bottle, growing old, listening to the records of my youth, and fitting, still, with work, into my old shirts. The ones I should throw away. The shirts that not longer hold the same meaning as the photographs that display them. Shirts held by strings, shopped in vintage stores, placed on mantles, sold like paintings. Sold like paintings that no one wants.
He woke to the birds singing outside his window. It was time to get up. but it was Sunday, and he could read his paper, drink his coffee, and play his guitar.
Chris played piano at his grandmother's house. She would ask him to to play Bach chorals and anything in the old Cokesbury hymnal. She had outlined which pieces were Bach, which were traditional, etc. She could play most of them, he could play them all with some work.
A great red spot of a dream awoke Johnny from the deeper parts of sleep. The parts where your not working, tending to your yard, or fixing your car. The part where a black blanket folds over folds into your deep inner consciousness, allowing final rest from the day. But this red spot brought him right back into full lucid dreams. Dreams of a future city, with cars that burn invisible fuels, and criss cross back and forth through the day glow red sky. Standing on a platform over looking a city, miles and miles in the sky. He was some kind of mayor, or senator of this future world. Dressed in ropes and a hat much like that of the pope. In his right hand was a green scepter. He brought it down hard onto the head of someone sitting next to him. Not sitting, kneeling.
Blood ran thick unto the platform, covering his robe, making it heavy. He tried to run, but his robes were dragging him down. He got down on his knees, dragging his knuckles hopelessly across the ground, trying in vain to move away from the fallen. Cars whirled ahead making their believable "lululu," noises that you have heard from thousands of movies about the future. John believed this was real. He also knew it was a dream. Wanted it to be a dream. I can do this, i can make it out of here, he thought. Better than growing old, better than shoveling letters into slots, paying bills, raising a family. This is better than driving to Disney world every other year. I would rather do this than play guitar for my wine bottle, growing old, listening to the records of my youth, and fitting, still, with work, into my old shirts. The ones I should throw away. The shirts that not longer hold the same meaning as the photographs that display them. Shirts held by strings, shopped in vintage stores, placed on mantles, sold like paintings. Sold like paintings that no one wants.
He woke to the birds singing outside his window. It was time to get up. but it was Sunday, and he could read his paper, drink his coffee, and play his guitar.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
at least from home
in the spirits you roam
from childhood at 9
wooden inside.
Printed on the desk Pablo's brother used to more often than not jam U2 casettes out of his jambox. A christmas present. Originally gray, his brother had used an old army knife to scratch off the gray paint, making it look a worn, cool. There was a cast iron lamp next to the desk. His brother would put in another tape. "This is called Judas Priest," and hand the tape to Pablo. Pablo would hold the casette and open its plastic case, revealing the inside cover. Shiny pictures of funny looking brightly colored animals. A bird sailing through the air, talons out. Looking around at the magic on the walls and in the ceiling. The same ceiling where years or days earlier, the card, HIS card had mysteriously appeared.
Slowly dragging backwards, Pablo's hills dragging the carpet, his white socks bunching up in rows around his ankles. The first dream of flying. Jumping further and further, over a house, or a river. The size of the jump exactly connected the the amount put into it, the floating, the falling, un falling. These important aspects of life. The same as a bike ride, the same as a trip on a canoe, the same as day dreaming about 8mm film running silent footage of a 1970s mother cradling her newborn child.
wooden walls.
in the spirits you roam
from childhood at 9
wooden inside.
Printed on the desk Pablo's brother used to more often than not jam U2 casettes out of his jambox. A christmas present. Originally gray, his brother had used an old army knife to scratch off the gray paint, making it look a worn, cool. There was a cast iron lamp next to the desk. His brother would put in another tape. "This is called Judas Priest," and hand the tape to Pablo. Pablo would hold the casette and open its plastic case, revealing the inside cover. Shiny pictures of funny looking brightly colored animals. A bird sailing through the air, talons out. Looking around at the magic on the walls and in the ceiling. The same ceiling where years or days earlier, the card, HIS card had mysteriously appeared.
Slowly dragging backwards, Pablo's hills dragging the carpet, his white socks bunching up in rows around his ankles. The first dream of flying. Jumping further and further, over a house, or a river. The size of the jump exactly connected the the amount put into it, the floating, the falling, un falling. These important aspects of life. The same as a bike ride, the same as a trip on a canoe, the same as day dreaming about 8mm film running silent footage of a 1970s mother cradling her newborn child.
wooden walls.
The nub above his middle joint itching like crazy. It is all he can do to keep from living that moment when as a child he got it caught in the big machine his father and grand father used to turn hay into perfect rectangular cubes. He always wondered how the nub was actually larger than his finger. Good thing he didn't keep a ring on there before hand. It would be stuck forever, as his hand grew, the ring would slowly be enveloped by his finger. He imagined the tender feeling of red skin around a splinter, this is how his finger would feel around the ring.
He slept under his bed for a full year. It was an old bed frame, high off the ground. His mattress wasn't much more than a flat pillow stuffed with cotton anyway, metal ribs, cutting straight into his back.
He would drape sheets down from the top, creating a perfect cave to dream in. Black waterfalls engulfed his senses. He was swimming, he was flying. In the winter cold air blew in from the electric socket. Six tiny holes of air, constantly blowing on him. It turned his dreams into painted windmills.
*****
***********
**** &&** %#
He slept under his bed for a full year. It was an old bed frame, high off the ground. His mattress wasn't much more than a flat pillow stuffed with cotton anyway, metal ribs, cutting straight into his back.
He would drape sheets down from the top, creating a perfect cave to dream in. Black waterfalls engulfed his senses. He was swimming, he was flying. In the winter cold air blew in from the electric socket. Six tiny holes of air, constantly blowing on him. It turned his dreams into painted windmills.
*****
***********
**** &&** %#
Monday, April 5, 2010
I climbed the latter a few steps to make sure that it was sturdy. Not that I knew anything about latters or how well one should be secured before climbing. He was already busy tying a weight to the end of a rock, which we would throw up over the limb so that we could thread a larger rope up there. The idea being that when he cut the limb, I would pull on the rope and keep it from collapsing onto the neighbor's fence.
I sat my beer down, "I got this."
I threw a perfect strike up between the limps over the one we needed down. After hoisting up the rope, my dad, the knot expert, but some kind of knot on there and we had a makeshift support rope in place.
"Now I am going to climb up there and cut the limb, you keep pressure on it so it will come off this away," he said, pointing towards our yard.
"Got it."
I remember as a kid, walking our dog through the highschool football kid, around the soccer fields and playgrounds. Always fall in my memory, steam rising from our breath, him insisting I wear a hat. We would often let our dog get a little away from us, and then hide; maybe in a dip in the earth, or behind a bleacher. Lucy would be so damn excitd running around smelling the smells of highschool trashcans that she would be lost in her own thoughts. She assumed we were there. She would lok back, and we were gone. An athletic dog, she would start jumping around to get a better look at her environment. The best was when she would be 50 yards or so away before she noticed we were missing. Because once she did spot us, the speed that she reached in getting to us was amazing.
I sat my beer down, "I got this."
I threw a perfect strike up between the limps over the one we needed down. After hoisting up the rope, my dad, the knot expert, but some kind of knot on there and we had a makeshift support rope in place.
"Now I am going to climb up there and cut the limb, you keep pressure on it so it will come off this away," he said, pointing towards our yard.
"Got it."
I remember as a kid, walking our dog through the highschool football kid, around the soccer fields and playgrounds. Always fall in my memory, steam rising from our breath, him insisting I wear a hat. We would often let our dog get a little away from us, and then hide; maybe in a dip in the earth, or behind a bleacher. Lucy would be so damn excitd running around smelling the smells of highschool trashcans that she would be lost in her own thoughts. She assumed we were there. She would lok back, and we were gone. An athletic dog, she would start jumping around to get a better look at her environment. The best was when she would be 50 yards or so away before she noticed we were missing. Because once she did spot us, the speed that she reached in getting to us was amazing.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
sports
I want to try to start writing about sports. It will probably be a lot of failures, but I have to try. and i need to start somewhere. I plan on doing some research tomorrow about good sports writers. I know of a couple, but do not have extensive knowledge. There is an author of a Michael Jordan biography that I highly recommend, and may read again. To be researched more tomorrow.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
4-1-2010
I can only count so high and so far back. Lately I have been sleepy in the morning, its probably something fatal. I feel rather fatal sometimes. Maybe its something I am doing to myself. Maybe my mind is not working right, there are certainly kinks. I suppose that is normal.
Things are missing.
In a dream I had the other night I was walking across a lake of ice. It was crystal clear and I could see deep into the ice. Inside the ice, about 15 feet down or so was what looked like the floor plan of a house. Where I looked down I could see a refrigerator, and a little bar with a few plates and drinks lined up or left out. In the sink was a pile of dirty pots and a colander; perhaps used for pasta. As I continued to walk I was over a living room, with a couch, an old Easy Boy recliner. I saw reflections of my youth, curled up in the tan colored recliner; in a ball. With a wool blanket over me. The ends of the blanket were I had braided the little pieces of wool rope that hung out the side for decoration. If I squatted in the right angle I could just make out what I was watching on television. As I glanced back down at myself, I had greatly aged, or I was not there at all anymore. The blanket and fallen off to reveal decrepit gray legs.
"Its not you." I looked up to notice a giant hawk standing on the frozen lake staring at me.
Things are missing.
In a dream I had the other night I was walking across a lake of ice. It was crystal clear and I could see deep into the ice. Inside the ice, about 15 feet down or so was what looked like the floor plan of a house. Where I looked down I could see a refrigerator, and a little bar with a few plates and drinks lined up or left out. In the sink was a pile of dirty pots and a colander; perhaps used for pasta. As I continued to walk I was over a living room, with a couch, an old Easy Boy recliner. I saw reflections of my youth, curled up in the tan colored recliner; in a ball. With a wool blanket over me. The ends of the blanket were I had braided the little pieces of wool rope that hung out the side for decoration. If I squatted in the right angle I could just make out what I was watching on television. As I glanced back down at myself, I had greatly aged, or I was not there at all anymore. The blanket and fallen off to reveal decrepit gray legs.
"Its not you." I looked up to notice a giant hawk standing on the frozen lake staring at me.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
I have been having a difficult time winning a chess game against my friend brad lately. Used to be, he would mention that he has played some, break out his simpson chess set, and I would have little problems in defeating him. But time appears to have changed. I played my best chess 4-5 years ago when I would often play after work with a guy I worked with. He was so much better than me that a close game was all I was after usually. We played with a clock, and sometimes I was able to beat him on time, but usually we would finish those games as well and we was just a few moves from getting me. I do remember maybe three times actually beating him. Such a profound joy to experience, after working so hard for it. That is probably what you are supposed to do in life: work towards something. I freely admit to copping out on that in many instances of my life. The joys are never as sweet.
Maybe I need a running goal? It would be nice if I could view running like chess. I was going to try to run a half marathon in april with my brother and his family. Really looking forward to that I had the rug pulled out from under me when i realized I could take zero vacation days for a year: welcome to real life.
Which reminds me: real life sucks.
I miss sitting around chris's dingy little apartment doing nothing. Complaining about fake issues and generally just enjoying the slothlyness of existence. Those were fun.
Miss chris.
THis blog sucks. I think thats why I haven't posted in a bit. Have not felt creative.
Maybe I need a running goal? It would be nice if I could view running like chess. I was going to try to run a half marathon in april with my brother and his family. Really looking forward to that I had the rug pulled out from under me when i realized I could take zero vacation days for a year: welcome to real life.
Which reminds me: real life sucks.
I miss sitting around chris's dingy little apartment doing nothing. Complaining about fake issues and generally just enjoying the slothlyness of existence. Those were fun.
Miss chris.
THis blog sucks. I think thats why I haven't posted in a bit. Have not felt creative.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
1972
Bill Withers wakes in a sweat. His record "Just As I Am," has been released for a year now. Its not selling that well. At 33, he knows that he needs a big break. Installing toilet seats on airplanes can only bring him so much fulfillment. It does offer him the time to write though, which makes him feel good. In 6 hours he will perform for British T.V. He has been thinking about wearing his orange turtle neck that he bought from a catalog last month. He feels that it looks good with his hair and his pants. He wonders if he is too old worry about style. "I am not David Bowie," he says to the ceiling. He remembers his dream:
Walking down a corridor built of polished metal. His reflection one both sides trailing off forever in an arc, as if the metal is not exactly level, so that he can see the bend of his reflection. Ignoring the frightening view of himself forever, and the feeling of infinity that has kept him awake such childhood (Mother, if we die, and go to heaven, and its infinite, what do we do? Do we get bored?) And that mind numbing feeling of infinitely sitting on a white cloud laughing, which is fun, but for ever? Ever Ever? God, it hurts to think about it.
So he walks forward, eventually the corridor opens into a lush green field, with a small pond in the middle. Next to the pond is a live oak. Its heavy branches dragging the ground, some of the thicker branches held in place by metal "Y" shaped pieces of metal.
Bill approaches the tree and notices his mother and father, together for the first time since their divorce when he was three. "M-M-Mother?" he stutters. A small group of children approach and start making fun of his stutter. He had cured that..."I had fixed that stutter," he thought. Suddenly his breathing slowed, his throat constricted. His childhood asthma choking back his breath. Running, turning, Bill looks frantically for the door out of.
He awakes.
Hours later, dressed in his orange sweater, the cameras rolling, Bill says,
"Men have problems admitting to losing things, I think women are much better at that. . . . So, once in my life, I wanted to forgo my own male ego and admit to losing something, so I came up with—"
and launches into "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone," the B side to "Harlem." He goes on to win a grammy, the record goes gold.
Walking down a corridor built of polished metal. His reflection one both sides trailing off forever in an arc, as if the metal is not exactly level, so that he can see the bend of his reflection. Ignoring the frightening view of himself forever, and the feeling of infinity that has kept him awake such childhood (Mother, if we die, and go to heaven, and its infinite, what do we do? Do we get bored?) And that mind numbing feeling of infinitely sitting on a white cloud laughing, which is fun, but for ever? Ever Ever? God, it hurts to think about it.
So he walks forward, eventually the corridor opens into a lush green field, with a small pond in the middle. Next to the pond is a live oak. Its heavy branches dragging the ground, some of the thicker branches held in place by metal "Y" shaped pieces of metal.
Bill approaches the tree and notices his mother and father, together for the first time since their divorce when he was three. "M-M-Mother?" he stutters. A small group of children approach and start making fun of his stutter. He had cured that..."I had fixed that stutter," he thought. Suddenly his breathing slowed, his throat constricted. His childhood asthma choking back his breath. Running, turning, Bill looks frantically for the door out of.
He awakes.
Hours later, dressed in his orange sweater, the cameras rolling, Bill says,
"Men have problems admitting to losing things, I think women are much better at that. . . . So, once in my life, I wanted to forgo my own male ego and admit to losing something, so I came up with—"
and launches into "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone," the B side to "Harlem." He goes on to win a grammy, the record goes gold.
Friday, March 19, 2010
I notice they sprinkle the fields here with green chemicals. This helps them grow sugarcane, which helps some I suppose grow wealthy. There are also some pretty major plants lining the river as far as the eye can see when you cross of the veterans memorial bridge, watching the Mississippi curve southward going east, and north going west. Plants. While traveling west down 3127, after crossing the bridge, four miles south of the river, you can still see the tops of smoke stacks and grain elevators. While on the bridge itself, if you look northwest, you see giant mountains of rock, bi products of some kind of chemical, god knows what.
You can also see the sickness in the people who walk in and out of these buildings. You hear tales of bone cancer, skin cancer. You are sold cancer insurance, a first for me to be sure. "I'm not getting cancer, why would I get cancer insurance?" Just wait. Just wait and be the one person without it, hawking your clothes for a shot of more chemicals to fight a disease brought on by chemicals used to make some people rich. People who only come through once a year or so, to stroll around in suits and white hard hats. Laughing, driving up to watch LSU in luxury suites.
Even driving down I-10 sometimes. You start to wonder, "are these clouds, or something else?" It sure seems like it when you drive by and entire regions are engulfed, seemingly, in thick black "clouds." Clouds? And when you pass you want to roll up your window and put a sock over your mouth and nose. the smell sometimes lingers.
So,
Just Lick the Black Wall,
Focus,
Bring out your dead.
You can also see the sickness in the people who walk in and out of these buildings. You hear tales of bone cancer, skin cancer. You are sold cancer insurance, a first for me to be sure. "I'm not getting cancer, why would I get cancer insurance?" Just wait. Just wait and be the one person without it, hawking your clothes for a shot of more chemicals to fight a disease brought on by chemicals used to make some people rich. People who only come through once a year or so, to stroll around in suits and white hard hats. Laughing, driving up to watch LSU in luxury suites.
Even driving down I-10 sometimes. You start to wonder, "are these clouds, or something else?" It sure seems like it when you drive by and entire regions are engulfed, seemingly, in thick black "clouds." Clouds? And when you pass you want to roll up your window and put a sock over your mouth and nose. the smell sometimes lingers.
So,
Just Lick the Black Wall,
Focus,
Bring out your dead.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Nation of Corruption
I keep my gmail tidy. It is a cream color. When people pop in to chat a burnt orange color comes out. I believe the theme setting is "dusk." So there you go. That is a Friday.
I was explaining to my girlfriend Lauren that I have written three songs: Toxic Waste, Leonard Nimoy, and a new one called "Toby Lauren." The first two songs were written for a short lived project called Nation of Corruption. This band started when my cousin luke and I would go over to our friend Mark's house after high school and fuck around on his brother's guitar and drum set. Jump a year in the future and we had somehow procured a gig at this place called the alternative restaurant in midtown memphis. I do not really know how this gig was booked, but the band didn't really exist so we had to put together some song and a band. Luckily he had friends. We called up aaron and Leh, or they called us, or maybe they called me! I don't even know, maybe it was their band and i wasn't even there. I don't remember. But I do remember ending up at Aaron's parents house in cordova and putting together a set. One song had this weird little jazzy part in the middle of a noisy deal. We thought that was funny. I think we called it "funny" part, or used derogatory slang meant for homosexuals. we were 18. I apologize for that now.
So each song would be like "1,2,1,2, "funny part," etc...
I don't remember the days between that one practice and the show, i think it was actually the next night. So, after practice I more than likely went home to my parents house, snooped around in the liquor cabinet, made a stiff drink and dicked around on the internet. Or watched david letterman or mtv.
The next night we arrived at the place to play. I was pretty hammered, and so was at least Leh. I remember this only because while setting up i looked over at leh and he dropped a cymbol and had this shit eating grin on his face. The grin that leh reserves for moments of brilliant stupidity. kinda a "fuck, did i just drop my cymbal? What the hell is going on? this is crazy, are we about to play? whats this band?" The show seemed to go off without a hitch. I remember aaron being lifted to the ceiling, and leonard nimoy and toxic waste sounded like you would imagine a song with those titles sounding.
The band dissolved after that. We changed drummers and eventually i was even replaced. I was a loser at 18. I preferred nothing.
Now i just reminisce.
I was explaining to my girlfriend Lauren that I have written three songs: Toxic Waste, Leonard Nimoy, and a new one called "Toby Lauren." The first two songs were written for a short lived project called Nation of Corruption. This band started when my cousin luke and I would go over to our friend Mark's house after high school and fuck around on his brother's guitar and drum set. Jump a year in the future and we had somehow procured a gig at this place called the alternative restaurant in midtown memphis. I do not really know how this gig was booked, but the band didn't really exist so we had to put together some song and a band. Luckily he had friends. We called up aaron and Leh, or they called us, or maybe they called me! I don't even know, maybe it was their band and i wasn't even there. I don't remember. But I do remember ending up at Aaron's parents house in cordova and putting together a set. One song had this weird little jazzy part in the middle of a noisy deal. We thought that was funny. I think we called it "funny" part, or used derogatory slang meant for homosexuals. we were 18. I apologize for that now.
So each song would be like "1,2,1,2, "funny part," etc...
I don't remember the days between that one practice and the show, i think it was actually the next night. So, after practice I more than likely went home to my parents house, snooped around in the liquor cabinet, made a stiff drink and dicked around on the internet. Or watched david letterman or mtv.
The next night we arrived at the place to play. I was pretty hammered, and so was at least Leh. I remember this only because while setting up i looked over at leh and he dropped a cymbol and had this shit eating grin on his face. The grin that leh reserves for moments of brilliant stupidity. kinda a "fuck, did i just drop my cymbal? What the hell is going on? this is crazy, are we about to play? whats this band?" The show seemed to go off without a hitch. I remember aaron being lifted to the ceiling, and leonard nimoy and toxic waste sounded like you would imagine a song with those titles sounding.
The band dissolved after that. We changed drummers and eventually i was even replaced. I was a loser at 18. I preferred nothing.
Now i just reminisce.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Yesterday I starting to write about this great run I was going to have, and I was attempting to salt my language with all of these positive metaphors. Work found me sidetracked, and now, 24 hours later I am full of none of that positive energy.
For some reason I am not drinking coffee, maybe its that. Maybe my body is filled with this sick toxins that is making me inept to reason right now, or sanity. Maybe its more.
I am shaking and upset, unhappy and unkind. Unsettling restlessness. I am back to waking up at 6, like an invisible hammer has been laid to my psyche. Six, BAM! like fucking clock work. cue fucking annoying bird outside my window making his "Tsk Tsk" noises over and over. Its better than monday, were I woke up at 2, then 3, then 4, then 5. I remember 2 because that is a time I almost never wake up at. Three sure, 4? Who doesnt wake up in the middle of the night for some reason or another. But never two. I actually just stared at the clock for a spell. "Two?, fucking two?" It was enough to make me stare at the ceiling a little bit more.
Hi ceiling, dark shadow of a ceiling, though I had made the unfortunate mistake of removing all the material that I had been using to cover the windows, trusting that the blinds themselves would hold make the artificial light that somehow finds itself flooding out of god knows were at two oclock in the morning.
Probably fucking Wick, my weird ass coke head neighbor. Yea, he is out there digging a hole, "making a pond man, yea, making a pond." Or perhaps he is furthering along the disassembling of his gf's house that he is "turning around. Yea man, I can make 150,000 like that. I have sold several houses." Really? How come before you came along she had a big screen tv, and less weird shit in the back yard, and perhaps appeared a little less depressed, (cue to her, in sweats, stained, alone with her dogs, sitting on the back stoop smoking, again, weight gain noticeable, hair unkempt.)
Her dogs are taking over. You can watch as they piss and shit were they like: our yard, neighbors yard, a house ten houses a way, wherever they damn well please. Oreo: the leader. Black and white, short body, big head. Sometimes a blackened with dirt sweater. Bars when he damn well please. Abby: the dumb follower. Brown dirty hair matted. over fed, second to oreo, but still master of the house. and then another dog. One i never see, but i feel its presence.
These dogs are called at all hours, all times. Seven A.M. is late for these dogs to be out and about. More like three, four, when the fuck ever. And there our neighbor is, yelling at them, "abby, oreo!!" in a cadence so recognizable by my girlfriend and I that we say it in our sleep, "abby...grump...oreo hmph" and roll back over. When i can, but right now, oh now.
PHONES RINGING!!!!!
For some reason I am not drinking coffee, maybe its that. Maybe my body is filled with this sick toxins that is making me inept to reason right now, or sanity. Maybe its more.
I am shaking and upset, unhappy and unkind. Unsettling restlessness. I am back to waking up at 6, like an invisible hammer has been laid to my psyche. Six, BAM! like fucking clock work. cue fucking annoying bird outside my window making his "Tsk Tsk" noises over and over. Its better than monday, were I woke up at 2, then 3, then 4, then 5. I remember 2 because that is a time I almost never wake up at. Three sure, 4? Who doesnt wake up in the middle of the night for some reason or another. But never two. I actually just stared at the clock for a spell. "Two?, fucking two?" It was enough to make me stare at the ceiling a little bit more.
Hi ceiling, dark shadow of a ceiling, though I had made the unfortunate mistake of removing all the material that I had been using to cover the windows, trusting that the blinds themselves would hold make the artificial light that somehow finds itself flooding out of god knows were at two oclock in the morning.
Probably fucking Wick, my weird ass coke head neighbor. Yea, he is out there digging a hole, "making a pond man, yea, making a pond." Or perhaps he is furthering along the disassembling of his gf's house that he is "turning around. Yea man, I can make 150,000 like that. I have sold several houses." Really? How come before you came along she had a big screen tv, and less weird shit in the back yard, and perhaps appeared a little less depressed, (cue to her, in sweats, stained, alone with her dogs, sitting on the back stoop smoking, again, weight gain noticeable, hair unkempt.)
Her dogs are taking over. You can watch as they piss and shit were they like: our yard, neighbors yard, a house ten houses a way, wherever they damn well please. Oreo: the leader. Black and white, short body, big head. Sometimes a blackened with dirt sweater. Bars when he damn well please. Abby: the dumb follower. Brown dirty hair matted. over fed, second to oreo, but still master of the house. and then another dog. One i never see, but i feel its presence.
These dogs are called at all hours, all times. Seven A.M. is late for these dogs to be out and about. More like three, four, when the fuck ever. And there our neighbor is, yelling at them, "abby, oreo!!" in a cadence so recognizable by my girlfriend and I that we say it in our sleep, "abby...grump...oreo hmph" and roll back over. When i can, but right now, oh now.
PHONES RINGING!!!!!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Winter certainly is not
Drinking cheap mexican beer with a lime, grilling. It can not be wearing a bathing suite, showing off my pasty body in the sun on a beach. And there is NO FUCKING WAY winter is me playing guitar with all the windows open and Lauren napping.
The reverb on my amp is noisy. So I can not use it. I have been playing my guitar some, almost once a day. Though sometimes its nothing more than strumming the same chord over and over. I guess that makes me happy though. I don't know if I could ever record something. I don't know if i care. I could maybe record music that was simple, and possibly pretty. I just don't know. I can't find a band down here. I don't know if I would want to if I could.
I still would like to own a real expensive acoustic guitar though. Not sure why. It has something to capitalism to be sure.
a small, brief, off the cuff poem, ahem:
I learned yesterday that the red leaved trees that line my drive,
from interstate 10 all the way down to St. James Parish,
are called Red Swamp Maple trees:
Acer Rubrum.
Dotted every 40 yards are so, between dark green cypress
The reverb on my amp is noisy. So I can not use it. I have been playing my guitar some, almost once a day. Though sometimes its nothing more than strumming the same chord over and over. I guess that makes me happy though. I don't know if I could ever record something. I don't know if i care. I could maybe record music that was simple, and possibly pretty. I just don't know. I can't find a band down here. I don't know if I would want to if I could.
I still would like to own a real expensive acoustic guitar though. Not sure why. It has something to capitalism to be sure.
a small, brief, off the cuff poem, ahem:
I learned yesterday that the red leaved trees that line my drive,
from interstate 10 all the way down to St. James Parish,
are called Red Swamp Maple trees:
Acer Rubrum.
Dotted every 40 yards are so, between dark green cypress
Monday, March 1, 2010
It was rough last night brother. Fell from one cold hardened steel black drop to another: Ice. Flailing my arms frantically, finding nothing to grip to. In other news I grilled two nice big ny strip steaks yesterday and a Habanero Red chilli pepper sausage: christ all mighty, amazing. Each bite more delicious than the last.
Every year I start thinking about vegetarianism. I think for the most part this is a diet remedy, something to keep my weight at a certain point. I don't eat a ton of meat to be sure, but when it hits, that hunger, it hits. And nothing really tempers that craving like sausage.
I bought a knife randomly. A utility knife that I can put in my pocket. with a clip.
This blog is uninspired.
I miss reading gary snyder on University Lakes. It was probably a year ago, or actually, fuck, two years ago. (I have been here over two years? I simply can not believe that. Part of me misses memphis so hard while another part of me wonders if I could ever live there again). Gary was talking some crazy shit about nature and the hills of northern california. I was able to set the book down and just watch as egrets poured out of their favorite tree, wings skipping along the water, casually landing, walking around like little white dinosaurs.
These birds are everywhere down here. Their little funny steps, awkwardly, esp. when they are hunting for a tiny fish. The unsurpassed attention to detailing the quite...tiny....steps.
I sometimes think "winter star" would have been a cooler title, or "winters are" anyway. It was warmer this last weekend, and thought I did not take a run for some reason, I did get outside.
Every year I start thinking about vegetarianism. I think for the most part this is a diet remedy, something to keep my weight at a certain point. I don't eat a ton of meat to be sure, but when it hits, that hunger, it hits. And nothing really tempers that craving like sausage.
I bought a knife randomly. A utility knife that I can put in my pocket. with a clip.
This blog is uninspired.
I miss reading gary snyder on University Lakes. It was probably a year ago, or actually, fuck, two years ago. (I have been here over two years? I simply can not believe that. Part of me misses memphis so hard while another part of me wonders if I could ever live there again). Gary was talking some crazy shit about nature and the hills of northern california. I was able to set the book down and just watch as egrets poured out of their favorite tree, wings skipping along the water, casually landing, walking around like little white dinosaurs.
These birds are everywhere down here. Their little funny steps, awkwardly, esp. when they are hunting for a tiny fish. The unsurpassed attention to detailing the quite...tiny....steps.
I sometimes think "winter star" would have been a cooler title, or "winters are" anyway. It was warmer this last weekend, and thought I did not take a run for some reason, I did get outside.
Friday, February 26, 2010
This one makes more
I just can not shake something. I hope its seasonal. The last week has found me lower and lower, not mobile. I don't really know what to do. Its the bleak sky, or it is the cool weather, that has a way to get inside your marrow. I know I bring it about, or keep it there longer just by the way my forhead scrunches onto itself. I can feel imaginary wires pulling my brown downword. If only I could just face it the right way, I think I could crawl out of it. I need a sunny day. I night a bright light on my face for two hours straight.
It has to be seasonal right? It has to be the combined months of rain and cold, weird snow, catapulted full speed into a cold that made me sporadically cough on cue with stress.
a fucking brain cloud. THAT is exactly what I have. I need to settle down.
I need a bath maybe, a long hot bath.
Or I need a room of puppy noses.
Once in a while, we would take a short walk up Ovid street, across the sideway of Perkins, into the small neighborhood that borders the golf course and the smaller of the two university lakes. That street would take us directly to these lakes. Where ducks walk in their funny squat ways around looking for pieces of bread, so used to people that you can practically walk up to them (a fact I hopelessly try to violate while running. Swooping my arms out and making weird noises, diving right towards them: the patiently wait to the last second and move two steps out of the way and just stare at me like a weirdo). (I pause here, the doors open, and then they close, a light breeze playing upon the flyers and leaflets we keep stacked inside of the their respective towers)
I feel a lot more comfortable with this "blog" than the last few. It seems more natural and in my voice so to speak.
I want to write a sci fi story, while I am able to type in a voice that I consider my own. It is set in the future (of course), lung cancer has been cured so every one is smoking their asses off. There are still the other complications with smoking, such as heart disease, emphezeema, etc... but canver being a huge one, everyone decided "fuck it" and starts smoking. At least enough people that the tobacoo industry, already a monster, soars to new levels, ultimately controlling the world. Thats all I have. No plot, just that.
I want to create a character very much like me (neurotic, part time runner, non smoker, fearful, etc.) and just go from there. We will see.
Lost it...the voice. its gone.
It has to be seasonal right? It has to be the combined months of rain and cold, weird snow, catapulted full speed into a cold that made me sporadically cough on cue with stress.
a fucking brain cloud. THAT is exactly what I have. I need to settle down.
I need a bath maybe, a long hot bath.
Or I need a room of puppy noses.
Once in a while, we would take a short walk up Ovid street, across the sideway of Perkins, into the small neighborhood that borders the golf course and the smaller of the two university lakes. That street would take us directly to these lakes. Where ducks walk in their funny squat ways around looking for pieces of bread, so used to people that you can practically walk up to them (a fact I hopelessly try to violate while running. Swooping my arms out and making weird noises, diving right towards them: the patiently wait to the last second and move two steps out of the way and just stare at me like a weirdo). (I pause here, the doors open, and then they close, a light breeze playing upon the flyers and leaflets we keep stacked inside of the their respective towers)
I feel a lot more comfortable with this "blog" than the last few. It seems more natural and in my voice so to speak.
I want to write a sci fi story, while I am able to type in a voice that I consider my own. It is set in the future (of course), lung cancer has been cured so every one is smoking their asses off. There are still the other complications with smoking, such as heart disease, emphezeema, etc... but canver being a huge one, everyone decided "fuck it" and starts smoking. At least enough people that the tobacoo industry, already a monster, soars to new levels, ultimately controlling the world. Thats all I have. No plot, just that.
I want to create a character very much like me (neurotic, part time runner, non smoker, fearful, etc.) and just go from there. We will see.
Lost it...the voice. its gone.
3.5 etc.
I ran three and a half miles yesterday. Walking some to be sure. I don't really think that matter anymore. I think the real key is just being outside. It was cool and sunny yesterday; perfect weather. I was kicking around the idea of running a half marathon, but I just don't believe I will be able to get off work for it. I plan on still training the same though, and I would like to find a 10k to run in the future. I got a package of Cd's from aaron a few days ago. I must admit here to being partially obsessed with everything I have listened to that Jay reatard recorded, at least that I can get my hands on. I bought a lost sounds cd on itunes of all places. Would have preferred vinyl, but this album was on amazon for 99.00 dollars. Crazy. There is an incredible youtube video of them playing this one song that breaks into a bass jam, then synth is added, and then guitar, its such a huge song. That was the song I was looking for. I find the recording of this particular album I got not the greatest, and the song I was looking for is not on it, but its still interesting to listen to. It brings me back to memphis 6 or seven years ago, or whenever it was. Wish I would have gone out and saw this band more. I saw them once or twice when garland was in the band. Then maybe once more at the hitone at which point they were clearly the best band around. Wish I listened to more punk rock. Wish I went out more: again.
But no, that wasn't me. The afraid of everything bug must have caught up with me at that point. Whatever.
Rheling sent me terror visions which is just insane. Scary almost. Walked around the neighborhood with that on an old pair of big headphones the other day. A) I have not worn them in a while.
Anyhoo, I have decided to at some point get blood visions (if they are findable).
Continuing with 2666 by bolano. He actually mentions Borges in the book which I found funny. The dreams Bolano describes ARE borges in so many ways.
Thirsty.
sidetracked by work.
But no, that wasn't me. The afraid of everything bug must have caught up with me at that point. Whatever.
Rheling sent me terror visions which is just insane. Scary almost. Walked around the neighborhood with that on an old pair of big headphones the other day. A) I have not worn them in a while.
Anyhoo, I have decided to at some point get blood visions (if they are findable).
Continuing with 2666 by bolano. He actually mentions Borges in the book which I found funny. The dreams Bolano describes ARE borges in so many ways.
Thirsty.
sidetracked by work.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Blogging is hard
I have tried twice now to successfully put down on, er, paper, how for the last ten days or so I have been coughing and wheezing. And how this has kept me from running, and thus proved to be a shitty cold, if only because of lack or exercise seems to be ruining my brain. Maybe it turns out I lean on running as a form of therapy more than I had even realized. But now that I have gone without it now for a little over ten days (not counting this weekend's pathetic attempt of two miles, which found me walking, slightly out of breath, and coughing). What I can not figure out is how could one week make such a difference? It could only be psychological. Or, perhaps this little chest cold, which even now when I take long deep breaths does not sound too different from the old springs that snapped shut the screened in porch door of my Dad's parents,opening, stretching... Whatever the reason, im down. Its an existential hell bent meandering through my brain that is lasting days and stretching my girlfriend's patience...
Listened to Dan Fante on fresh air with terry gross this morning. How this hack of a writer got on there is beyond me, terry must be reaching some sort of conclusion to her long list of interesting iraq war strategists and left wing conspiracy theorists. Dan is the son of John Fante, a writer who's biggest claim to fame is probably that Charles Bukowski claimed an affinity for him and helped get some of his works repressed and even added his on introduction.
His son however, is a watered down clone of his dad, who Bukowski himself was mirroring in style, thus making him seem like a bukowksi and john fante hack, if this makes any sense.
This blog is a writing exercise for me, and I give todays a d minus.
Listened to Dan Fante on fresh air with terry gross this morning. How this hack of a writer got on there is beyond me, terry must be reaching some sort of conclusion to her long list of interesting iraq war strategists and left wing conspiracy theorists. Dan is the son of John Fante, a writer who's biggest claim to fame is probably that Charles Bukowski claimed an affinity for him and helped get some of his works repressed and even added his on introduction.
His son however, is a watered down clone of his dad, who Bukowski himself was mirroring in style, thus making him seem like a bukowksi and john fante hack, if this makes any sense.
This blog is a writing exercise for me, and I give todays a d minus.
Friday, February 19, 2010
It has been cold in Baton Rouge as well
I thought when I moved down here, the point was, besides getting a graduate degree, to get a bunch of warmth. A whole tonnage of warmth and relaxation. I can honestly say the first year was just that: Relaxing in the grass, reading over my textbooks...really just reading anything else. Building up my books read list. By the second year I had more official library "work," and now, well, I am officially a Librarian. So, in that affect, it all worked out.
To the extent of the weather, I have been cold most of this year's winter as well as last. This year it snowed a few times down here. I went to memphis, it snowed what seemed like forever there, and then I came home, bringing the chill inside of my bones I think.
I can not honestly believe or tell you that there will be a winter theme to this blog. I have started probably five or ten blogs in the last year all with ridiculously laughable names. I am not going to kid myself that "winterstare" or whatever is a good name at all. I just decided to stop being so neurotic about finding a name worth a shit and just go with it. I want to type, and I want you to read.
My sinus pressure is weakening, and I want to run today. I was training for a half marathon, but due to the fact that I can not take off any work time for a year (ok, I have two vacation days I can use. I used one already), I have decided to just continue training and running and see what happens. before my cold kicked in, I was on a good clip and running more than usual. So to that I say, I will continue to run.
Books I am reading:
Butcher's Crossing: John Williams (really enjoyed his book "Stoner," a "Academic" novel. I want to say this guy only wrote three or four novels. His book on one of the Ceasars earned him a pulitzer)
2666- Roberto Bolano (this book is seriously hyped right now, which made me not want to read it, but whatever, I missed out on the Sopranos and waited three years to see arrested development just because i was being contrary (though really I am proud of saying i have never seen sopranos, and also used this logic to never read harry pottter so there you go)).
Jorge Borges- Collections (I am enjoying this tons. Only reading here and there. The stores are short enough where you can pick up one and read it, then be done with it. Plan on reading all of this at some point.
To the extent of the weather, I have been cold most of this year's winter as well as last. This year it snowed a few times down here. I went to memphis, it snowed what seemed like forever there, and then I came home, bringing the chill inside of my bones I think.
I can not honestly believe or tell you that there will be a winter theme to this blog. I have started probably five or ten blogs in the last year all with ridiculously laughable names. I am not going to kid myself that "winterstare" or whatever is a good name at all. I just decided to stop being so neurotic about finding a name worth a shit and just go with it. I want to type, and I want you to read.
My sinus pressure is weakening, and I want to run today. I was training for a half marathon, but due to the fact that I can not take off any work time for a year (ok, I have two vacation days I can use. I used one already), I have decided to just continue training and running and see what happens. before my cold kicked in, I was on a good clip and running more than usual. So to that I say, I will continue to run.
Books I am reading:
Butcher's Crossing: John Williams (really enjoyed his book "Stoner," a "Academic" novel. I want to say this guy only wrote three or four novels. His book on one of the Ceasars earned him a pulitzer)
2666- Roberto Bolano (this book is seriously hyped right now, which made me not want to read it, but whatever, I missed out on the Sopranos and waited three years to see arrested development just because i was being contrary (though really I am proud of saying i have never seen sopranos, and also used this logic to never read harry pottter so there you go)).
Jorge Borges- Collections (I am enjoying this tons. Only reading here and there. The stores are short enough where you can pick up one and read it, then be done with it. Plan on reading all of this at some point.
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