Categories
love personal poetic

In which I wax tangential

Sometimes I’m scared of how not scared of committment I am. Perhaps this is because I know that despite how we would normally feel bound to something, the truth is that we choose every moment to be who we are, do what we’re doing, and to be with who we’re with. There is no moment when you can’t just choose “no” and walk out the door. There’s no crisal point from which you can’t turn back. Our love of a good plot and the human dilemma would like to say differently, but at any point you can run away to a different state or a different country, leave every aspect of your old life behind and become a new person (as new as you’d like to be, anyway).

This has always been something of a lure to me. Growing up, as we become the people we are, we are raised and nurtured and taught and shown how to be and what to be. We are, in short, pushed along certain paths that we’ve little control over. Unless we jump the rails at some point, these early pushes can continue to guide our lives throughout, so that each moment is just a reaction to a previous moment, which is also just a reaction, which leads all the way back to an action taken that wasn’t even of your choosing, but was made for you. Moving to a foreign country signifies to me a rebirth; a jumping of the tracks and a making it on your own. Learn the language, the culture, how to interact with people, but do it all on your own, with no one making choices for you. The image of the loner is so fucking romantic, after all, that it’s hard to get away from. I imagine myself, reborn in Paris, and I know no one. I go to the same cafe every day, and I write and I read, and I study or do whatever it is I am in Paris to do aside from be reborn; and it rains a lot and I’m fucking lonely because I don’t know anybody and everyone is speaking French anyway.

I do speak French, contrary to personal belief. I.E. I do know how to speak French, but I never do. Go figure. The loner is a powerful figure, but it’s easy to forget his flaw: he gets lonely. Even so, sometimes it feels like all the choices I make are based around the idea of comfort, because I’m not willing to completely divest myself of … myself, and become me anew. On the other hand, I know that doing so would not necessarily be anything more than a somewhat masochistic social experiment, or a way to prove something to myself. It’s enticing, even so.

The world’s full enough of strangers,
perhaps there’s no need that I become
a stranger to myself.

Categories
love personal

I require your fancy hat.

Today: mushy brain, needs sleep;
but it’s been sacrificed for a good cause:
fingers interwoven, pressed against the skin,
feeling breath in stereo,
those soft and inexplicable murmers;
who can sleep and miss such things?

My praxis lately: good, gracious;
without hesitation but without surrender,
requires knowing boundaries. Mine are lax.
Sometimes I’d just like to:
take a bullet for a stranger
and be done with it.

We all deserve to be saved.

Categories
montreal

Expatriating true patriots

Brendan linked to this story from Harper’s
on his blog, which I thought was amusing and interesting.
I particularly like France’s approach, and the idea of:
heckling the United States with authentic Gallic zeal.

There is certainly a moral quandary here;
something about quitting when the fight gets tough,
or when things aren’t going the way you want them to.
But if you respect America’s freedoms, you have to
also respect the freedom to leave.
Remember, the USA itself was founded by quitters;
they thought British rule was oppressive and didn’t
fit their ideals, and so they made a new start elsewhere.

Maybe I won’t go, and perhaps one day I’ll
start my own nation. But really, I’ve always wanted
to move to Montreal anyway (for pure and non-poli reasons)
and now just seems like the perfect opportunity.
I suppose I could even start to like hockey.

Categories
montreal personal

Comment dit-on “perdu” en japonais?

A man I don’t know named David sent an email out
in response to one that my friend Daniel sent.
(God, I feel like that needs a comma somewhere.)
Daniel, like many of us, pines for the lost hope
of a new president. David replied with some
good points, but item number four is my fave:

“Look on the bright side:

1. Even if this is the worst case scenario, you still have it better, on many levels, including politically, than many peoples at many times in history. A lot better.

2. At least it was a clean win this time, no recounts or litigation.

3. At least Bush won the popular vote too, so we don’t have to worry about the electoral college system.

4. If Bush hadn’t been re-elected then we might have to invest ourselves in serious political analysis. I much prefer sitting around and periodically saying that Bush is the biggest goddamn moron in history and he is going to destroy the whole world. It’s so easy, I don’t even have to get up, I could probably do it in the shower if I wanted…”

People are trying to make excuses: the election was fixed,
or the Illuminati controls the process anyway,
or Republicans used scare tactics and lies.
But the fact is, we live in a conservative country.
Social progress is a fluke; for every step forward we take
two back, and then act like we’re hot shit. Part
of the reason we liberals are what we are is from an
affinity with the idea of the “outsider”.
At least for me.
And we are: the outsiders, the radicals, the new wave.
We’re the minority, for now, with no question of miscounted
ballots or people being turned away at the polls.
Just remember, minority we may be …
but George W. will always be a damned monkey.

–

So, short of buying my tickets, I’ve got my escape
route all planned. If things go right, Montreal by
September of 2005. No joke. Here it is.
It’s even ALA-accredited, so won’t hurt my job search
should I return to the States. The only part that
worries me is how financial aid will work as an
international student. The tuition isn’t that much,
even internationally, but still far more than I can swing
without aid, grants, or scholarships. Time to start
researching that, I suppose.

I may even get to drag Theo along with me,
and possibly Alexis as well, and who knows who else.
Seriously though, it seems like the right move
at the right time. We’ll see how things feel next year,
but right now I’m verily psyched about it.

I started my day off with Chai Nog,
which makes the world a happier place.

Categories
book montreal personal

A great disturbance in the force…

… as though some fifty million voices shouted out
in terror, and suddenly, were silenced.

Disappointment’s branded into my skin,
seeps into my bones and would make me sick,
if I weren’t already. It may have been naive
(I’m known to be so), but I had a lot of hope
that this country knew better, that fear didn’t
rule us and that as a whole we were becoming a
more open and accepting society.
Sure, I set myself up for disappointment;
nothing was pointing to these things being true,
after all.

Even so, now I feel as though the country is
a stranger to me. I’m about as liberal as we come,
so how do I fit in now?

–

On a less grave note, events have seemingly
conspired against my participation in NaNoWriMo.
It was going to be tight on time in the first place,
but then I got sick, had job applications I needed
to fill out and books I needed to send off,
and my dad came to visit and is staying at my house.

So, unless I somehow decide to write a novel in the last
two weeks of November, I think I too might have
to concede, painful though it is. However, I’m going
to leave the “City of Familiar Light” blog up, and
hopefully will be able to chip away at it over time.
If not, well, I’ll write a novel when I’m good and ready.

–

Well, I’m off to explore the web, and see if I can find
any viable ways to move to Montreal.

Categories
music

Like children cavort under chairs

Don’t fret the whimsicality of strangers;
songs hummed below the breath
are songs waiting to be sung.

It’s irresponsible to be scared to fall in love.

That’s my random italicization of the day, for what it’s worth. A lot of undercurrent in my brainwaves lately, thoughts below the thoughts I know I’m thinking and I’ve got to dig …. A cough has welled up in my throat, and today my stomach and chest are tired from exertion. If I hold the cough in, my lungs start to spasm, as though there might really be a frog in there, hopping against the inside of my neck. Now that my workweek has begun, I’ve little patience for being sick. Curse our fragile shells. Sometimes the saddest I get is when I think of human frailty. The image that springs to mind is Marianne, with her birdlike arms that will not straighten, bones light as feathers; but who has a spiritual and mental framework equivalent to a mountain of steel girders: immovable. Much as a seer loses eyes and gains a whole new sight, she lost her body (which she had cherished, being a dancer) and gained a new structure to live in.

–

Ain’t no feather like a feather feather feather ’cause the feather feather feather don’t stop.

Ahhh, Webley. As far as musicians go, he’s the perfect madman for our age, strung out on music and stories and intrinsically imbued with some sort of positive glow so you can’t help but feel like you know him, and might somehow be related to him. Saturday was his last concert of the year, in which he goes through a death process (which changes every year). This time around, we strolled from the Town Hall (where the concert was held) to the park a block down. In a four-stage process (Balloon, Feather, Boat, Tomato), he was divested of his hat, his accordian, his clothes, and finally his hair. The whole ceremony involved a lot of walking in a crowd of about a thousand people, in a park in Seattle at midnight, and occasionally stopping to watch the next spectacle (his accordian was sawed in half by a giant feather with a knife on the end and hung from a tree; his hat was attached to a small hot-air balloon and let loose to roam the Seattle sky; his clothes were burned in a fairly large, paper boat; and his hair was cut by the four maidens, one of which attended him for each stage of the process). It was a moving process. After his clothes and hair and hat and accordian were all gone, he was ushered into a little car and drove off with his four death-maidens. Later, they drove by again; legs sticking out the windows and at least one, probably two, of the maidens on top of Jason Webley in what looked like a very passionate attempt to remind him he wasn’t really dead.

The world needs more madmen.

Vote for me for President and I promise that I’ll do my best to make the United States of America at least 13% less sane. Oh, and free tacos for everyone. Mmmmmm, tacos….

Categories
love news personal poetic

“Vote for me and I’ll set you free”

The polls are just around the corner.
Don’t forget: “Vote early, vote often.”
Oh, by the way, if you’re lazy like me,
and didn’t watch the debates as they happened,
you can watch them all online here.
Some other good discussion here and here.

Health’s fragile again, though it seems like I just gone done being sick recently. Mostly body ache this time, slight fever; perhaps I just need more sleep. Well, despite staying up late tonight for the concert, I have nowhere to be tomorrow, and I plan on sleeping most of the day, if not through the whole damned thing and into Monday. Ahhhh, sweet, sweet slumber. “To sleep, perchance…”

I dream of falling, dream of flight,
of pipers calling out the night,
of sunlight steeping in the dew;
I sleep, perchance to dream of you.

I dream of limbs, of sweat and heat,
of bodies ‘twined between the sheets
and as the dreams, at last, are through,
I wake to find – they all were true.

Ha. See, Eve, we all have sappy, bad poetry in us.

I have to admit, I’m yet a bit giddy about this new relationship in my life; and honestly, I hope to be for a long time. I’ve become prone to spontaneous, goofy smiles and randomly bursting into song and dance. Okay, so randomly bursting into song and dance is nothing new for me, but lately I’ve felt more exuberant about it.

An hour ago, hail fell like small loaves of bread
past the windows (really, really small loaves);
now the sun is shining against the damp leaves,
transforming them into small shards of emerald light.
I love my Washington weather.

Categories
cinema personal

Call me Vin [one day]

Swing-dancing four days a week now, which is just crazy. But I’m enjoying it (for the most part) so no complaints. Some of the better swing dancers in Oly and I have begun to work on a swing routine to be performed this Christmas season sometime. It’s involves a flip, and a lot of catching and weight-supporting on falls. Just watching the video (because they did it previously with two couple; this time we’ll have 4-5) made my back ache. So, time to hit the mats, so to speak, and work it out. I’d like to start doing some yoga (because I could use the flexibility too), but mostly need to work on upper body strength and back support (abs). So I’ll probably just do some basic weight training. If anyone has any suggestions, feel free … I’m sadly incompetent when it comes to fitness.

Skipped poetry last night (much as the week before) to hang with Alexis. We got some ice cream (mmmmmmm) and went to my place, watched the end of The Punisher (the new one) with Theo and Tim (and it sucked), and then watched some Fishing with John, which is a fun show where John Lurie goes fishing with different folks in different places, such as with Tom Waits in Jamaica (which is what we watched), or with Jim Jarmusch somewhere on the US coast. Then we watched the premiere of Drawn Together, which I must admit I had high hopes for, but which was ultimately disappointing. So much potential … and yet it ends up so base. What a tragedy.

Full moon tonight. Awesome eclipse last night, which I hope everyone got to see. Somehow, the sky in Oly was generously clear; today it resembles, as per usual, a gray blanket. I watched as the last sliver of light was shadowed over, and the moon looked like a wax-paper cutout, hung up in the sky, dark but visible. There’ve been plenty of eclipses in my life, but somehow, this is the first I’ve actually watched. It’s crazy to think about celestial motion, the sizes of planets; that our shadow blotted out the moon for an hour as we came between it and the sun. Some part of that shadow was my shadow (not literally, sure), transposed over pale moonrock.

To celebrate the full moon: pinochle and yellow tail.
Tomorrow: a random drive to Portland to drop off friends.
Saturday: work all day, then Jason Webley in Seattle.
Halloween: not sure, maybe I’ll watch scary movies and eat junk food all day. That sounds fun.

Then November arrives, and I start writing.
And something more cohesive than I’ve been able
to form here, recently. Oh, the horror.

Categories
love personal

Come play with us, Danny

My good friend Daniel has been living in China,
and since his blog hasn’t been working from there,
he’s been sending out big e-mails, frequently.

This is an excerpt from a recent e-mail,
which I particularly enjoyed, on relationships:

it seems to me that lasting, true love between two people is about being close and trusting and sharing and joyously intertwining. from this growing union of two hearts and minds comes understanding of the other and insight into the unique dynamic that you create together. you learn what she wants and needs, how she thinks, her sensative spots, her longings, her dark corners, her shame, her pride, her heart of hearts–there are no limits to the insight we can have into each other. as mysteriously as the special bond of love began between the two of you, so it continues to grow and deepen. from this love and understanding of what’s really going on with your partner, it becomes clear how you can serve her best, what really heals her , what she needs to hear, what she needs you to do. everything you do for her is because you truly want to, because it’s so important to you–it’s work that you’re commited to, that you labor in joyously because it’s so deeply meaningful to you. there’s no accomodation, no grudging concessions, and no fearful, confused fighting or running away.

Well said, my friend.

Categories
book love personal poetic

A jellyfish, maybe; but definately electric

Sometimes I forget that we love to complicate,
that it’s easy to complicate,
and that it’s generally gratuitous to complicate.

I enjoy that people are complex, multi-faceted
creatures, full of intricacy and detail;
but that needn’t mean we can’t be simple too.

And this is the trap that I fall into,
too often: a mind-trap of worry, doubt,
second-guessing and over-thinking.
But I’ve overcome it again, loosed my grasp
on the shiny bauble of drama that had my hand
caught tight in its snare, and relaxed.

Were I once a buoy, I’ve now grown a sail,
and I’ve set my course with no fear for waters unknown.
Here there be monsters.

To be plain: I feel I’ve lightened up a lot,
particularly as concerns romance and relationships.
Perhaps we can never truly know another person,
but I find people fascinating anyway, as is,
and if I find one person particularly interesting,
or beautiful, or fun and exciting, then by all
means I’ll do my best to know that person better,
and no longer fear the consequences.

It’s that fear, itself, that dooms us.
I was so sure of that in Ohio, but I forgot
somewhere between, so that the higher I’d climb
the more I’d look down and the farther I’d have
to fall. But I’ve stepped off the ladder now;
nowhere left to fall but up.

I feel good about this.

–

I started reading Plato’s Republic yesterday,
but quickly got tired of his rhetoric.
I hate sophists! These are the types of conversations
I zone out to when my friends have them:
semantics and verbal trickery; and it’s not much
more interesting in print. I’ll return to it,
but I’ve given up for the time being to read
Swan Lake by Mark Helprin, since I’ve finally
finished Winter’s Tale (and it only took me a few months!).
Come November, I may have to eschew reading to write,
but ’til then I’ll try to find some quick inspiration in
Helprin’s angelic prose. Speaking of, if you never have,
read Winter’s Tale. It may be the best-written book
I’ve ever read, even if I wasn’t entirely happy with its finish.

–

On one last note, my very good friend, Jason, has
emerged from his cocoon of web-silence and started
his very own blog. He’s a fantastic writer, thinker
and poet, and one of the most educated people I know,
so stop over at In Search of Honesty
and wish him a pleasant welcome to the blogosphere.

Categories
love music personal

The soundtrack to my life goes like …

Well I hope that I don’t fall in love with you
‘Cause falling in love just makes me blue,
Well the music plays and you display
your heart for me to see,
I had a beer and now I hear you
calling out for me
And I hope that I don’t fall in love with you.

Well the room is crowded, people everywhere
And I wonder, should I offer you a chair?
Well if you sit down with this old clown,
take that frown and break it,
Before the evening’s gone away,
I think that we could make it,
And I hope that I don’t fall in love with you.

Well the night does funny things inside a man
These old tom-cat feelings you don’t understand,
Well I turn around to look at you,
you light a cigarette,
I wish I had the guts to bum one,
but we’ve never met,
And I hope that I don’t fall in love with you.

I can see that you are lonesome just like me,
and it being late, you’d like some some company,
Well I turn around to look at you,
and you look back at me,
The guy you’re with has up and split,
the chair next to you’s free,
And I hope that you don’t fall in love with me.

Now it’s closing time, the music’s fading out
Last call for drinks, I’ll have another stout.
Well I turn around to look at you,
you’re nowhere to be found,
I search the place for your lost face,
guess I’ll have another round
And I think that I just fell in love with you.

–

Connecting with Tom Waits now like a brother,
and just looking for people who understand me;
sometimes they seem so few. It’s a lot to ask,
as seldom as I understand myself, but I’m tired of
feeling adrift. This life has a rudder, which until now
has been but another ornament. Do I have the courage
to allow it to be the instrument I use to guide my life?

I believe in compromise, though I try hard not to be
compromised by it. Sometimes everyone can come out ahead,
but more often life’s a matter of give and take,
the balance between is a razor’s edge in a relationship.
Often I’m too willing to give myself away,
but that always leads to destruction in the end.

Last night I spoke with Emily on the phone, and though
the conversation could be considered somewhat mundane
(though we had a good if brief talk on relationships)
I had something of an “oh yeah” sort of moment;
that this is what it felt like to talk to someone
I identified with, who I understood and who understood me,
how could relate and who cared. I won’t gush,
but it was a nice feeling. [thank you]

I’m feeling sentimental and easily swayed,
rocking like a buoy in the breakers,
waiting to capsize.

One day I’ll remember:
buoys can’t capsize.

And then what?

Categories
book love music personal poetic

City of Familiar Light

This one’s for Alexis; you know, because
I think she’s neat. *warning: sap content*

–

We sit untouching
but for the hairs on our arms
brushing together,
and this is bliss.
Kissing follicles, sensual molecules,
our skin flaunts what lips miss.

You shift,
lift your palm to your smile,
yawn a while,
limbs stretched, reaching
for stars in the nile-black sky.
You lean back, sigh,
high as the moon and
I’m just so high on your high
I could cry.
And I’d die right now,
content, because every moment
underwent a thousand smiles spent,
and each smile sent my heart
a thousand skipped beats.

–

I may lengthen it one day.
It ends rather abruptly, I think.

So, I’ve decided to take part,
for what it’s worth, in both NaNoWriMo
and NaNoBlogMo; so I’ll be doing my best,
in the month of November, to blog a novel.
The title is “City of Familiar Light”, and it’s
a quasi-existential (of course) sci-fi story.
I’m trying to set up the blog for it,
but Blogger’s giving me problems; hopefully
I can get those resolved soon.
[edit: is resolved, novel blog is here ] So …
who all else is going to take part in this madness?

Yesterday: coffee and trying to read
(still finishing “Winter’s Tale”, sadly)
overtaken by helping Alexis study for her
Western Civ exam today, which meant a slow and
mostly incomprehensible journey (for me) through
19 pages of her notes. Not enough coffee and some
hours later, we finished said “studying”, and took
a brain-break to watch “Crybaby“.
If you’ve not seen it, it’s a must, particularly
if you enjoy Johnny Depp (and that includes everyone!).

Post-movie we forced friends to make us tacos
(mmmmmmmmm, tacos), and hung out at their place for
an hour or so. They tried to rope us into staying for
“Settlers of Cattan”, but we had places to be,
namely at a concert including Romanteek, a duo of
drum and keyboard, with female vocals. They were
awesome, and made us all dance! I get nervous dancing
in public (swing-dancing doesn’t count), but definately
had a good time, anyway. Alexis looked very comfortable,
but later admitted she’s only danced in public three times,
and was incredibly nervous also. Go figure.

Natural progression: coffee –> homework –> movie –>
tacos! –> dancing –> ice cream! –> sleep. Food items
get exclamation because I’m hungry right now.

So, life’s good and the nerves have calmed.
There’s yet a butterfly or two, but they’re just
fluttering about now, rather than chewing holes
in my stomach, so I suppose that’s acceptable.

Tonight’s poker night!

Categories
book personal poetic

Sun-dappled leaves of cedar

It’s a happy, sun-shiny sort of day today,
odd for mid-October. We should be into monsoon
season by now, or at least feel the threat of it
more strongly. Instead, we had a few days of rain,
a few days of sun, then rain again, and now sun.
It’s definately getting colder though,
and it’s becoming damned hard to get out of bed
in the frigid mornings.

November is NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month.
Blogger has adapted this to NaNoBloMo, which looks cooler
but is essentially just writing your novel using a blog.
Like Karla, I’m unsure of whether or not I can
muster the commitment to plunge so far into words.
I’ve got my idea, and even a fairly lucid story-line,
characters and plot twists, all worked out in my head.
Problem is, I’m already too busy to do half the things
that I’d like to be doing. I have enough of a problem reading
a novel in a month, with all my other activities, and I’d
hate to, in the midst of this, try and write a novel within
a month only to fail, maybe to never try again.
Oh, the horror! (Ha, I’m so dramatic.)
Seriously, though. I’d like to do this, but don’t think
I can balance my time well enough to pull it off.
But then the question that begs to be asked:
If not now, when?
November is just around the bend, so I must
focus on this with the most heavy of ponderance.

50,000 words sure does seem like a lot.

Categories
book love personal poetic

17 Black and 29 Red

I feel as though I’ve swallowed
a nest of caterpillars, which have all
metastasized into hungry butterflies,
chewing at my stomach lining. Pleasant as
this image is, it’s entirely self-inflicted.
I had the pleasure this weekend of hanging out
with a wonderful girl who I’m very much interested in.
Turns out, she likes me too!

So, the butterflies are little envoys of giddiness,
and betray my nervousness. Normally confident,
I’ve begun to examine all my foibles and weaknesses,
waiting for the dream to end or the other shoe to drop.
I’m entirely aware of this, and that I need to relax,
and to enjoy. I’m not entirely loathsome, after all.
I think that a lot of this anxiety is owed in part to the
fact that I (fairly) recently got out of a near-four-year
relationship, and I’ve had little choice since but to
examine how I failed in that relationship. This is good
in a sense, as I’d like to think that I can learn from
my mistakes, but easily leads to me being a bit hard
on myself. I’m in the second half of being 24, and
last time I started a relationship I was 20. I’ve changed
a lot since then, and I’m still learning how this
new me works. Hopefully I can get the bastard to chill.

–

We’re to start poker nights on Thursdays,
boisterous evening of jazz, poker, and vin rouge.
I stayed up ’til two the other night, watching
celebrity poker, and though I realize it may mean I’m
a dork (who woulda guessed), it really made me want
to play some Texas Hold ‘Em. Anyway, poker night has
been an idea in the works for some time, but now we’re
gonna make it happen, so good for us. I had too many
evenings free as it was, so ha! (yeah right)

We’re also thinking of starting some sort of weekly seminar,
which would be great if it means getting me off my ass
and reading some more. I don’t know where the time goes,
honestly, but not into books! Theo keeps calling me
intellectual, and even uber-intellectual, but I haven’t
been feeling it lately, so hopefully some good reading
will help. I are pretty smart, after all.

Categories
personal work

Tenacious template transmutation

Well well, new template.
Basically still just a standard issue blogger template,
unfortunately, but for a few touch-ups.
I never claimed to be a web-genius.
What do you all think?
Personally, I’m glad to be rid of the black.

–

Life’s been busy as usual.
I found out that I didn’t get the part-time
position for which I had applied downtown, which
is a major bummer, but life goes on. They ended
up having four internal applicants (for a part-time job!)
so I never even made it in to interview.
I did, however, have a good conversation with the head
of circulation down there. I think that I made a good
impression, and I cackled as I said,
“You haven’t seen the last of me!” Then I disappeared
in a cloud of smoke, and winged monke…
Oh wait, no, none of that happened.
I was perfectly nice, and picked up a volunteer form.
If they won’t pay me to work there, I’ll do it for free
for awhile so they can come to learn how kick-ass I am,
and eventually beg me to consider taking tons of
their money for my invaluable services.

That, and there’s a 10-16 hour page position open.
It’s low hours at crappy pay, but if I’ve learned
nothing else in the last couple months, it’s that there’s
nothing more valuable in getting a job than already
having your foot in the door when the time comes.
Besides, even low hours and low pay is better than
no hours and no pay. Can’t argue there.

–

Social interactions are complicated.
Sometimes I enjoy their intricacies, and sometimes
I wish we could all just get along in the simplest
fashion possible. I imagine that my prevarications
in this lend me an occassional air of confusion; one
moment hyperbolically obtuse, the next insidiously crafty
and dissembling. There is no reason to my rhyme.

Really, it’s no so bad as all that.
Mostly I’m honest and straight-forward,
particularly when it matters. Sometimes,
the monkey in me gets loose and rampages,
which can lead to no end of trouble.

Still, I wouldn’t trade my inner-monkey for anything.

Categories
music personal

Against the night

Against the Night
(c)1999 by Jason Webley

Hold on to these words,
I’d like to think that they may offer
Some protection,
Against the night.

Against the night,
Your life can feel transparent,
A reflection,
A trick of light.

So when sleep just won’t come,
And you’ve got no occupation,
But nibbling at the fruit
Of the melancholy tree,
Just hold on to these words,
Hold on to me.

Just hold on to these words,
They’re the best I’ve got to offer
At the moment,
As a lullaby.

As a lullaby,
You can lay down by the tracks
And feel the world
Slip by.

–

Eighty people, give or take, sitting knee to knee,
shoulder to shoulder as one man woos us with
his melodies; voice changing from gravel to choral
between heartbeats. He sits just in front of us,
raised up so all can see him but within arm’s reach,
nonetheless. He’s got long, wild hair, a beard;
looks like a true mountain man, the pure kind.

He starts with a happy song, and continues,
until asking, he realizes how many of us have never
seen him before. He asks us to forget it all, start over;
puts on a crazy mask and sings a wild song, dancing about,
seeking to impress upon us his audacity. With this
initiation, we are taken into the fold,
and the concert begins. He picks songs randomly,
asks the audience what they want to hear, begins to play
Michael Jackson’s Thriller, stopping halfway
to ask if we’d like to hear a ghost story;
or perhaps a story about russians, or his worst gig ever.
Setting down his accordian, he raises his seat,
abandons his microphone, and begins to speak. His story
lasts a good ten minutes, if not longer, but none of
us bore. He’s got a stage-presence that transfixes, onstage
he’s a giant, impossible to ignore. But he’s humble,
fun, quiet about it; you can’t stop watching him simply
because he may be the most interesting man you’ve ever met.

He finishes his story, begins to play music again.
He makes us dance, makes us sing along, plays a Russian
birthday song for the two people with birthdays
(who’ll admit to it) in the audience, and makes them skip
through the crowd. As the evening winds down, he asks us
all to lay, each with our head on someone else’s stomach
(it doesn’t matter if you know them), and relax, eyes closed.
He plays us two quiet, sleepy songs; slightly melancholy,
slightly happy, as we, an ocean of weary strangers, are
carried way by melodies, lulled by the rise and fall of
the breath of whomever happens to be our pillow.

He rouses us with laughter, lightens our loads and then
tell us The Story of Blixie Bimber and the Power of the
Gold Buckskin Wincher. He holds the book that includes
the story, a relic of the 1920s, but he rarely refers to it,
having memorized the 20-minute story eons ago. Having read
the story, we asked what a “wincher” is, he replies “Yes.”
and moves on, leaving us forever to wonder.

He ends with a rousing drinking song and a happy song,
demanding we sing along, loudly, and sway side to side,
trapped in long lines of arm-locked strangers,
transformed to friends through a night of singing.

After the show’s finished, we stumble out into the night,
all a bit aglow, ready to preach the gospel of
a kick-ass man named Jason Webley.

I’ve already bought tickets to see the last show
of his tour up in Seattle on the 30th. If you’re
in the area, don’t miss it.

Categories
love music personal poetic work

Devil be good

New music to wake up to: Jason Webley
and Tom Waits. Men of steeled voices that
rasp the sun behind the clouds and make the rain come.
Gotta fuckin’ love em. I’m gonna see Jason Webley live
tonight at the Backstage, and it’ll kick ass.

Last night was a CD release party at Last Word Books
for Jorah LaFleur, a totally awesome local spoken-word
artist. There was a lot of other amazing literary talent
there that read before Jorah, including some friends of mine,
and all in all it was a grand and inspiring event.
I need to bust out some rhymes!

After the event, my friend Alexis and I went to an
all-night diner for some coffee (at 1 in the morning!?),
which may have been a ridiculously bad idea,
but it was fun, anyway. We made little pirate ships out of
french fries, toothpicks, bits of tuna, creamer lids (for sails)
and a small piece of pickle. It was a thing of beauty.
Then we hung out at my place ’til about four,
tried to pass out because I had to get up early for work,
and both got at most a fitful couple hours of sleep.
We had a really great time, though,
so I’ve no regrets. I’m just sleepy as hell.

–

I purchased myself a guitar tuner, cord, and a kapo;
grace à Emily, who told me not to spend it all on bills.
At the music store, I asked about lessons. They’re a bit cheaper
than I’d thought, so a definate possibility in the near-future,
once I get a second job somewhere, or one full-time position.
I applied for the absolutely, most-ideal job for me in the world
right now, though sadly I think I stand a snowman’s chance
in Cancun of getting it. It’s an assistant supervisor position,
for which I have no more than a couple years basic library
experience; but you’ve got to get experience sometime, right?
I can’t even begin to explain how much it would rock if I got
this job. My application’s in, so now I play the waiting game,
and try to rock the interview (should I get one) as I never have
before. And then, back to my original point, guitar lessons!
I’ve been playing guitar for like 10 years, but I’ve never
had any training, and I’m lazy; so I still suck at it.
I’ve procrastinated too long, it’s fucking time to get good!

Some guitarists / singers / songwriters that rock me:

Jack Johnson
Sam Beam [Iron & Wine]
Doug Martsch
Chan Marshall [Cat Power]
Robyn Hitchcock

I could probably think of a thousand more,
but these are the notable artists off the top of my head;
oh, and Tom Waits and Jason Webley, of course.

Categories
personal

Love-struck Troilus

Last night I had another dream,
this time about a stranger:
a young woman with asian features
who called herself Troilus.
I find this kind of ironic because
Troilus is the male lead in Chaucer’s
Troilus and Criseyde, which is in many
ways the precursor to Romeo and Juliet,
which makes Troilus basically a pre-Romeo.
That’s an over-simplification to be sure,
but even so. If this is a portent,
it’s an interesting and mysterious one;
and it leaves me too lost to try and psychoanalyze.
And that was it, that’s basically all
of the dream that I can remember,
though I doubt any of the other parts could
have been more interesting. I’m intrigued.

The world around me is sick, but I’m
feeling much better now, though this morning I awoke
with the weight in my head of too much
second-hand smoke. Having been a smoker, it really
bothers me that second-hand smoke should affect
me so much; it’s a recent development, and I
certainly never go around and chastise people for
smoking, but it has become physically difficult for
me to be around smokers. I find this annoying.
Maybe I should move to California? Ha!

Trying to get my life back on an even keel;
temper play with work and growth with frivolity
so that my eyes don’t lose their sparkle.
Having unpacked boxes of books, I’ve realized
that I spend far too little time reading these days,
and my imagination and my pen have suffered for it.
So no more of that, or actually, more of it!
I’ve got lots to do, no doubt, but I can surely
fit a page or two in here and there, and slowly,
once again begin to peck away at the sloppy
leaning towers of books lined against the wall
in our living room (we’ve as yet no bookshelves).
Sometimes I see the books and the X-box glaring
at each other: such immortal enemies as these
no living room would be complete without!
And I, mere mortal, caught between. Woe is I.

Life’s so rough.

Categories
love personal

Like a sheepish lion

There’s this girl on campus that I think
is really beautiful, and she’s Belgian, and
speaks fluent and melodic french; and hell,
that’s enough to drive any good man insane.
I haven’t really spoken to her much, just
recently over the last few days as I’ve helped
her with some reference work on a group project
she is doing, but she smiles at me whenever
she sees me now, which is just cruel.

So anyway, it’s a good indication of the level
of romantic sap that I am that I have a dream
about this girl, and in this dream there’s nothing
more than a smile and the accidental contact
of our hands, which don’t shy away but rest against
each other; like secret lovers of a more innocent
age that silently interwine fingers in the loud dark
of the opera pit. Anonymous lovers washed away
in sound and fire, burning under the skin.
And that’s it, that’s all; a dream about the contact
of hands and then I awake.

I haven’t much chance for a decadent life
when even my dreams are so tame. Which might be
a shame, were I not happy being so circumspect.

–

So I’ve been sick, flu-ish, coughing up the
sticky residue of my sins, sweating profusely and
trying to keep my brain from leaking too far out
my nasal cavity. I’ve taken this opportunity to
quit smoking; for three months, two years, I’m happy
for any amount of time to allow my lungs their
recuperation. I haven’t had coffee in days, and that’s
an addiction I’m certainly unwilling to give up;
yet still a day or two before I’m recouped enough
to recommence the onslaught of caffeine upon my body.

So that’s my excuse for my blog-silence;
that and I’ve felt like the creative equivalent
of a door-stop. Onward, then, to health and inspiration!

Categories
game music personal webcomics work

Morning sounds

In the mornings, I invariably make coffee,
strong, strong coffee; and listen to Diana
Krall sing some great jazz in DTS.
The music really fills the house, and it’s
a great way to start a day. I got a Norah
Jones SACD, but I can’t get any volume out
of it. Saddest thing ever.

So we picked up Burnout 3 yesterday, thanks
to the rave reviews of Tycho at Penny Arcade,
and I’d just like to take this opportunity to curse
him for being right. This game has everything a good
racing game should have, including the wanton destruction
of, well, everything, including your opponents,
and vast hordes of rush hour traffic.
Theo, at least, had the good sense to go out
on a date, have some dinner, see Arts Walk.
All things I had certainly planned on doing,
once, long before Burnout took me in its clutches
and forced me to play it all freakin’ day.
I feel so used; good thing I have to work today.

Work: the anti-crack.