Ye Olde Archive Archived Posts: 2004-2009


The freckles in our eyes

There was a lot of music at last night’s
poetry reading / open mike; local talent,
guitar-slinging vigilantes with stories to tell.
Most of it was good, but then, I’m a sucker for
a live venue and an acoustic guitar. I need
to start playing more; yet another one of my
hobbies that gets shelved too often.

Tutoring french, briefly, last night, made me
recall years past of Tuesday and Thursday evenings
spent trying to help Americans speak a language
that would never be natural to them. I don’t
speak french very well, but it does feel natural to me;
like dancing, singing: things I’ve done for a long time now.
Last night I read my translation of Rimbaud’s Le Bateau Ivre;
a one-hundred line poem that was a precursor to surrealism;
and nearly managed to put everyone to sleep.
I was disappointed, though I understand that even though
I put months and months of work into that translation,
that doesn’t mean that anyone’s going to appreciate it.
This is why in every instance I try to do things
for myself as opposed to others; I’m my only critic whose
reaction is fairly guaranteed. I’ll stick to shorter,
more beat-driven prose for future readings; play it safe.

I’m beginning to get tired of meeting new people but
not really getting to know anyone. The world is filling
up with familiar strangers, people I can say “Hi” to in
the street but with whom I’ve never really conversed with.
Perhaps this is a symptom of a general disdain for small-talk
(though I do it fairly well these days), or a subconscious
desire to remain mysterious (oooh, the allure), or just a
basic lack of time and resources to spend all day hanging out
in the cafe (much as I’d like to). I’m in the familiar
situation of working with people that I like but with whom
I never speak outside of work; even after Tami and Mike broke
that trend for me in Ohio, though fairly late in the game.

It’s things like this that make me miss college: the
constant accessibility of a semi-interesting group of
peers that probably at least share a few interests with you
in the name of your common generation. Of course, I’m
surrounded by college students now too, and still don’t feel
like I have a whole lot in common with them; but then,
there are vast differences between my college experience
(Evergreen) and what the kids are like here. The two colleges
act like competitors, simply because they’re geographically
close, but in reality they couldn’t be any different from
each other. I’m still waiting for them to figure out that
I’m an agnostic existentialist and lynch me.

And as I’d sit upon my pyre, waiting to burn for my heathen
ways, I’d look down and see that it’s the sorority girls
standing before me with their packs of matches, turning my
cremation into a pledge ritual for their trendy, blonde rushes.
And as the lit match fell they’d turn to each other and say,
“Math is hard, let’s go shopping!”

Nothing scares me more than sorority girls.


When monkeys dance

Waffling over swing; I let myself get stressed
out about it, but for no particular reason.
I was up front in saying I don’t know if I’ll
have enough time to really devote myself to it,
but I gave in and said I would do my best.
And in this, I no longer feel stressed;
dancing last night I had fun and felt alive,
and not over any school boy crush
(or any crush at all, for that matter),
but simply because I was dancing and it was good.

Mondays I get to help Christine teach her
beginning swing class, and in turn I get to
take her Balboa class for free. That’s a sweet deal.

Since I get off at noon today, I’m gonna work on my
apps to the Oly Public Lib, then I think I’ll go
visit Judy in her french class before the poetry
reading tonight. You never know who might be there.

Woefully short on news of interest, or thoughts of
interest, really - I’ll retire my ramblings for the day.

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… like no-one’s watching.

Sometimes, I dance like nobody’s watching;
but only when nobody’s watching.

On the big speakers: Paris Combo

Thursday night I went up to a little restaurant
in Seattle called the New Orleans. There was a fun,
live band there playing jazz and swing, mostly
older stuff. The bass player actually used to
play with Count Basie! Anyhow, I met some of the
really good swing dancers of Seattle, and was completely
in awe of their hep skills. However, I’ve decided not
to pursue swing dancing as such a … career option.
For me, it’s a fun hobby, and having about a thousand
fun hobbies, I don’t particularly want to devote more
time to this one than any of the others. I like
all my hobbies. Having decided that takes a big weight
off my shoulders; swing shouldn’t be work. Even so,
I’ll surely be dancing every Tuesday, and I want to learn
how to Balboa, and I might even go up to Seattle
every so often, so by no means is swing out of my life.

The La Casa Comics site is
looking a tiny bit better, which is to say that now it
has a very cool banner up top thanks to Tim, and as
my temporary position entering data has ended, I should
have more time to get it swinging before another job lands
in my lap. That may not be too far off, however.
I’ve been applying for jobs like it’s going out of style.

In other news, I found my swing shoes! Yeay!
Also, Daniel has finally started updating his blog, which is
worth checking out, if only ’cause he’s a complete loon,
and in China.

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Much More Than A Soup

So, I’m sitting here waiting for my “Cup Noodles”
to cool off, waiting for a call so I can be whisked
away to Seattle, where I will frolic with a swing
crowd so intense they make dervishes look like
they’re standing still. Hey man, no joke.
And I’m more intimidated than I’ve ever been.
And that’s exactly why I’m going.

Energy’s been low this week.
Like Tim might say:
A thousand monkeys at a thousand typewriters;
but where did the monkeys go?

Like Spike Spiegel would say: As if.

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Like string cheese with rhythm

Most mornings I feel fine, even like I
might actually be a “morning person”.
Today I feel like I was dreaming of Prometheus;
tied to a rock all night as birds ate my
precious internal organs. Okay, so my innards
feel fine; I’m just dead tired.

The girl I’d been hoping to see last night
never showed. Strike number three of the week,
and affirmation of my lesson for the week:
I’ve no control over aught but myself;
let the world do as it will and enjoy it.
And in that vein, something interesting that
did happen: I was invited to join a swing team.
Now, I’m not a bad dancer, but the people on this
team make me look like Charlie Brown trying to
kick a football; so I’m a little intimidated.
Still, this is my chance to become really, really,
really ridiculously good at dancing, and to really
devote myself to something; and with my lesson of the
week, I don’t know if I could possibly pass it up.
Alternately, it’s a good excuse to quit smoking and
start getting in shape: two things I NEED to do.

As with all things in my life right now,
I will try to keep my expectations low;
or actually, I’ll try not to have any.
But, I think this could go all the way.
You know, whatever that means.

Tonight is pay-what-you-can night at the State Theater
to see Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Theo and
I are gonna hop down and see what it’s all about.

Guil: (understanding) Game. (Flips a coin) The law of averages, if I have got this right, means that if six monkeys were thrown up in the air for long enough they would land on their tails about as often as they would land on their–

Ros: Heads. (He picks up the coin)

Guil: Which even at first glance does not strike one as a particularly rewarding speculation, in either sense, even without the monkeys.

Hell, in my opinion, if it involves monkeys,
it’s pure genius.
Okay, so that’s just a dumb flash game …
but this is cool.

Filed under: love, music, personal No Comments