Learn to read real literary Spanish. Learn to write in Spanish to get away from anti-poetic American thought disease. Learn basic French.
Write about myself less. Learn how to establish real characters besides good me and idiot me. Figure out what of what seems internally obvious actually needs to be expressed to make something readable. Conversely figure out what must seem pedantic to those who read it.
Delete self hate and self doubt, if impossible then channel aggressively. Get struck by lightning to become more interesting as a person. If I'm not going to drink I should probably at least smoke grass once in a while. Problem of finding that in suburbia in middle age, and navigating parent paranoia while high; possibly not worthwhile.
Try to write a story ala Keret (in the sense that it is short and sad and magical). Try to write a story ala Cortazar (in the sense that it attempts to map the esoteric worlds within the world/within the psyche that are hard to express but very real).
Ride bike to the monument to Emil Carranza out in the pines. Along the way plan a brief first novel; something like Sabato's the Tunnel in the sense that it is short, that it is inflected with darkness and beauty and philosophy. Write brief novel; around 120 pages, then wait a month and cut it to 99 before letting anyone read it.
Observe self observing son and wife; calculate emotional transformation factor in self and others. Consider other people as lab rats to be fictionalized. Consider self pre and post lightning strike; evaluate on quantitative scales with eye toward statistical significance.
Hire Ghostbusters to extract skeleton menagerie from closet. Exercise more. Hang out with friends for remaining therapy -- actual sporadic in-person conversation beyond nuclear family, as opposed to hiding behind Facebook and mutters to self and repeated refreshes of the New York Times web page... looking for dints of liberal bias past.
12.23.2009
12.17.2009
negative grand canyon
The day we buried you I sealed myself off in a way, like, with death an eventuality one should regard the world at such-and-such distance.
I don't remember you clearly alive in good form, only that you were a rare conduit, a conveyor of magic and spirit. Naturally cancer targeted you especially. One might argue the opposite view that angels brought you away to heaven. Or that believing in angels or heaven is cheap dualism that makes it easier to give up on the world, believing that the next or some alternate one is better to invest in. The way I picture it, you’d laugh and argue that logic is a poison that shouldn’t be sprayed near this particular discussion.
Those of us you left behind formed a silent pact to never deal with the loss, to allow it to submerge and grow in force and weight. For 25 years none of us dealt with your absence. We agreed that it should make a missing puzzle piece, the undiscussed key to our family’s bizarre and indefensible tendency toward entropy and isolation. That absence grew into a kind of negative Grand Canyon, not a mountain, I mean, but a colossal hole in the ground filled near to overflow with decades of human refuse, dirty laundry, broken toys, empty bottles, old newspapers, a kind of personal landfill, a museum of disappointment, each of us taking up residence on opposite sides, meeting in the center only when obligation overcomes the dull fear of being buried under a glimmering avalanche of detritus.
I visited her grave one morning this fall. I’d brought my son to meet her, and I remembered again the morning I'd said goodbye. I thought she’d like to meet him, that she might want to see the way his eyes catch light. That I knew now that our distance was the wrong choice, that it was the opposite of what she would have recommended.
I don’t know why I didn’t come to see her sooner. I can’t think of an excuse that’s sufficient. I only know that I love and miss her, that there’s still her magic in the world. That I feel her presence in the way these pines change colors, in the rare way light sustains itself through winter, bursting sudden through the branches of roadside trees.
I don't remember you clearly alive in good form, only that you were a rare conduit, a conveyor of magic and spirit. Naturally cancer targeted you especially. One might argue the opposite view that angels brought you away to heaven. Or that believing in angels or heaven is cheap dualism that makes it easier to give up on the world, believing that the next or some alternate one is better to invest in. The way I picture it, you’d laugh and argue that logic is a poison that shouldn’t be sprayed near this particular discussion.
Those of us you left behind formed a silent pact to never deal with the loss, to allow it to submerge and grow in force and weight. For 25 years none of us dealt with your absence. We agreed that it should make a missing puzzle piece, the undiscussed key to our family’s bizarre and indefensible tendency toward entropy and isolation. That absence grew into a kind of negative Grand Canyon, not a mountain, I mean, but a colossal hole in the ground filled near to overflow with decades of human refuse, dirty laundry, broken toys, empty bottles, old newspapers, a kind of personal landfill, a museum of disappointment, each of us taking up residence on opposite sides, meeting in the center only when obligation overcomes the dull fear of being buried under a glimmering avalanche of detritus.
I visited her grave one morning this fall. I’d brought my son to meet her, and I remembered again the morning I'd said goodbye. I thought she’d like to meet him, that she might want to see the way his eyes catch light. That I knew now that our distance was the wrong choice, that it was the opposite of what she would have recommended.
I don’t know why I didn’t come to see her sooner. I can’t think of an excuse that’s sufficient. I only know that I love and miss her, that there’s still her magic in the world. That I feel her presence in the way these pines change colors, in the rare way light sustains itself through winter, bursting sudden through the branches of roadside trees.
12.14.2009
matter-of-fact ghosts
When the weather gets crisp and cold like this a stillness spreads across the world and the world gets the quality of early morning pond before sunrise. When the weather gets like this if you drag yourself out of bed early, bundle up, and bring a cheap giveaway thermos of weak Wawa coffee you can sit on a rock or on the damp ground itself to watch the lake, to watch the lake as small washes of implied light demarcate the day. To watch memories of pain surface like sunnies or bass to briefly break the stillness of the morning water.
(Left to his own devices the balding bureaucrat feels another maybe side effect of no-longer drinking: Memories that haven't seen the light of day in ages break years of bad practice, of numbing anaesthetic).
What do you do with the pain you remember, tangled with the pain you caused others? How do you free yourself from it to live in the present? I’ve been tempted to find other ways to numb this dull pain because I don’t know how to look these memories in the face. It’s like being visited by matter-of-fact ghosts, droll ghosts that by this point bore and sadden as much as terrify.
When we were kids we used to go fishing. We mostly practiced catch and release but sometimes in between we would torture the fish. It wasn’t how I thought of it then, it felt more like playing. I remember we would whirl them on the end of the line like a kind of lasso. Sometimes the line would wrap around a branch, resulting in the improbable miracle of fish in a tree. All you needed to catch them was bread rolled in a ball on a hook.
Being exposed to violence and how you pass it onto other beings on some instinctive level. As a child you are simply a conduit of violence; it can pass through you (with you as its instrument) and you don’t even know. As an adult you might not know but you aren’t justified in that, because you’re in a position where you could and should know.
Throwing bread into the water, this time of course without a hook and an intent to twirl. Like apologizing to the fish, or their descendants. If they’re ginger to approach the surface I can’t blame them.
(Left to his own devices the balding bureaucrat feels another maybe side effect of no-longer drinking: Memories that haven't seen the light of day in ages break years of bad practice, of numbing anaesthetic).
What do you do with the pain you remember, tangled with the pain you caused others? How do you free yourself from it to live in the present? I’ve been tempted to find other ways to numb this dull pain because I don’t know how to look these memories in the face. It’s like being visited by matter-of-fact ghosts, droll ghosts that by this point bore and sadden as much as terrify.
When we were kids we used to go fishing. We mostly practiced catch and release but sometimes in between we would torture the fish. It wasn’t how I thought of it then, it felt more like playing. I remember we would whirl them on the end of the line like a kind of lasso. Sometimes the line would wrap around a branch, resulting in the improbable miracle of fish in a tree. All you needed to catch them was bread rolled in a ball on a hook.
Being exposed to violence and how you pass it onto other beings on some instinctive level. As a child you are simply a conduit of violence; it can pass through you (with you as its instrument) and you don’t even know. As an adult you might not know but you aren’t justified in that, because you’re in a position where you could and should know.
Throwing bread into the water, this time of course without a hook and an intent to twirl. Like apologizing to the fish, or their descendants. If they’re ginger to approach the surface I can’t blame them.
12.12.2009
new york tryptich/this golden nature
Morning subway ride with homeless mentally ill passenger his eyes dilated now he looks up you really shouldn't make the mistake of making eye contact now he's looking at you one of his hands is dark silver as if he's painted it and his nails white too the other the color of normal skin -- This silver skinned hand has a quality of menace people keep sitting next to him oblivious at first to the wide berth other passengers have given him and to the hand itself me I can't stop looking at it maybe he's wearing a tight white glove that's so tight you can't see where it separates from the skin maybe he's wearing that glove because he wants to kill us all and leave no prints don't be silly but still this feels like an omen like a departure from a good world this is where the universe reveals the worst it has in store for us gradual from this point people exchange quick looks the guy keeps looking straight at people talking to them in low tones the train won't move, the train keeps stopping and some fucked robot keeps apologizing for the unavoidable delay.
The guy keeps looking straight at people and talking to them: That's how you know someone's crazy in New York City. They look people in the eye and talk to them, like a child would. The train refuses to move.
Afternoon: Feel-good charity delivery for low-income workers, the rub being that the low-income workers are really the company's underpaid employees and the delivery was late and so that thick cloud of dread that hung only over me and the man with the silver hand this morning now has spread to the others around me; to mothers fathers and children waiting for something they thought they could get for free. Instead of giving them something free now we've taken hours of their time so it's like we're paying them by the hour in holiday food.
No one can reach the delivery people. The drivers don't seem to have phones. Perhaps they began driving before the invention of the cellphone and have stuck to CB radios. Stalwarts. Maybe if we had a CB radio we could reach them and tell them if they don't get here soon we'll burn their trucks and parade their heads in the street on pikes. There are kids crying in the lobby.
Night: we're in a fancy restaurant. One of the fanciest restaurants I think we've ever been in and it's making you uncomfortable. Maybe I'm uncomfortable too, but that isn't something I notice these days. We're doing okay though throughout the meal. Then you look across from me at the table and it looks like you're going to cry, like you've caught the dread. Maybe it's too much, that discomfort is turning to full leaden guilt, that you can picture how many folks the tab of this meal would feed for a week, or a month, or a year. To distract you I tell you a story, the story of this golden nature.
This is the story of a New York chef. One night, a Wednesday like any other, he shuts down the restaurant and goes to sleep early. At some point in the night though (here it becomes less a normal night) some pretentious foodie angels descend on a whim from the heavens and imprint two giant Michelin stars on his forehead as he sleeps.
When he wakes up in the morning our chef has a serious hard-on, the kind the label on the pills warns you about, and it just won't go away. He's worried for a minute, but then he looks in the mirror and sees the stars, and this makes him happy, I mean, two Michelin stars. That's pretty good; I mean, before he had zero stars, it hadn't even really been much of a thought. Only now he looks on his face and sees plenty of room for the third. Who's to say there couldn't be a third? Or more?
But still there's the matter of this pesky continuous stiffy. Our chef goes about his business, gets the paper and eats his breakfast. Now it's starting to get a little painful. And now (that's a little better actually) numb. Refreshed, our chef decides to take a shower, but the sound of the water bouncing off of it really makes him notice. Our chef looks down and his dick has turned to gold.
At first he considers going to the hospital, or smashing his penis free of the gold with a hammer. But after an hour or so he's calmed down. It really is a fine piece, he tells himself, it really shines. And what would the papers say? He's got these stars to think about now; the last thing he needs is a scandal.
Time passes and our chef really adjusts. And none are the wiser. There are things he'll never be able to do, it's true -- urinate, get an MRI, go through airport security-- but the man with the golden dick adjusts. He drives to his vacations, he seems to have lost the biological imperative or need to urinate, and his health has never been better.
Perhaps most important, this golden nature of his dick has freed him up to worry less about his libido and more about his cooking. It improves by leaps and bounds, it improves spectacularly; his cooking now is a perfect weave of science and inspiration and sublimated sex -- his cooking now is a celebration of the very essence of living, and those culinary professionals around him seek his presence as one would seek a yogi, or keeper of the flame.
At night he sleeps alone, always alone, and dreams of an inspection (somehow he knows that it's *her* there at the corner table) that glows so flawlessly, the result could never be in question. Later that year the third and fourth star are conferred all together, in the thick of the night by those same asshole angels.
The next morning his doorbell rings and it's her, this time without her disguise, love beaming in her face. They have three years of bliss together, until one day the dread arrives.
The guy keeps looking straight at people and talking to them: That's how you know someone's crazy in New York City. They look people in the eye and talk to them, like a child would. The train refuses to move.
Afternoon: Feel-good charity delivery for low-income workers, the rub being that the low-income workers are really the company's underpaid employees and the delivery was late and so that thick cloud of dread that hung only over me and the man with the silver hand this morning now has spread to the others around me; to mothers fathers and children waiting for something they thought they could get for free. Instead of giving them something free now we've taken hours of their time so it's like we're paying them by the hour in holiday food.
No one can reach the delivery people. The drivers don't seem to have phones. Perhaps they began driving before the invention of the cellphone and have stuck to CB radios. Stalwarts. Maybe if we had a CB radio we could reach them and tell them if they don't get here soon we'll burn their trucks and parade their heads in the street on pikes. There are kids crying in the lobby.
Night: we're in a fancy restaurant. One of the fanciest restaurants I think we've ever been in and it's making you uncomfortable. Maybe I'm uncomfortable too, but that isn't something I notice these days. We're doing okay though throughout the meal. Then you look across from me at the table and it looks like you're going to cry, like you've caught the dread. Maybe it's too much, that discomfort is turning to full leaden guilt, that you can picture how many folks the tab of this meal would feed for a week, or a month, or a year. To distract you I tell you a story, the story of this golden nature.
This is the story of a New York chef. One night, a Wednesday like any other, he shuts down the restaurant and goes to sleep early. At some point in the night though (here it becomes less a normal night) some pretentious foodie angels descend on a whim from the heavens and imprint two giant Michelin stars on his forehead as he sleeps.
When he wakes up in the morning our chef has a serious hard-on, the kind the label on the pills warns you about, and it just won't go away. He's worried for a minute, but then he looks in the mirror and sees the stars, and this makes him happy, I mean, two Michelin stars. That's pretty good; I mean, before he had zero stars, it hadn't even really been much of a thought. Only now he looks on his face and sees plenty of room for the third. Who's to say there couldn't be a third? Or more?
But still there's the matter of this pesky continuous stiffy. Our chef goes about his business, gets the paper and eats his breakfast. Now it's starting to get a little painful. And now (that's a little better actually) numb. Refreshed, our chef decides to take a shower, but the sound of the water bouncing off of it really makes him notice. Our chef looks down and his dick has turned to gold.
At first he considers going to the hospital, or smashing his penis free of the gold with a hammer. But after an hour or so he's calmed down. It really is a fine piece, he tells himself, it really shines. And what would the papers say? He's got these stars to think about now; the last thing he needs is a scandal.
Time passes and our chef really adjusts. And none are the wiser. There are things he'll never be able to do, it's true -- urinate, get an MRI, go through airport security-- but the man with the golden dick adjusts. He drives to his vacations, he seems to have lost the biological imperative or need to urinate, and his health has never been better.
Perhaps most important, this golden nature of his dick has freed him up to worry less about his libido and more about his cooking. It improves by leaps and bounds, it improves spectacularly; his cooking now is a perfect weave of science and inspiration and sublimated sex -- his cooking now is a celebration of the very essence of living, and those culinary professionals around him seek his presence as one would seek a yogi, or keeper of the flame.
At night he sleeps alone, always alone, and dreams of an inspection (somehow he knows that it's *her* there at the corner table) that glows so flawlessly, the result could never be in question. Later that year the third and fourth star are conferred all together, in the thick of the night by those same asshole angels.
The next morning his doorbell rings and it's her, this time without her disguise, love beaming in her face. They have three years of bliss together, until one day the dread arrives.
12.10.2009
non-essential life
It’s the chore you think you're going to finish in an afternoon but after a few big piles it starts raining, and everyone knows it’s folly to rake in the rain. Weeks later you get to a point where there’s one more leaf piled on your front curb than swirling in your yard, you declare a majority, and you check it off your list.
Then some Saturday morning weeks after VL-day you hear an early, rare sound, like something descending too close. You get dressed and go to the front window, hoping in your secret heart to see people hurling themselves down the inflatable slide of a misplaced jumbo jet, or at least buildings on fire.
Men in construction vehicles and men with leaf blowers make slow, reiterant progress up and down the block. There’s a quality of municipal gentility, of man reliant on his fellow man. And also one of alien invasion, of HR sentinels for a superior and disinterested race emptying a target planet of non-essential life.
Now a few spared leaves swirl, a few stay stuck to the street, pressed and faded etchings of recent history. There are days, love, when the things we never say ring loud inside, like lies of omission.
Then some Saturday morning weeks after VL-day you hear an early, rare sound, like something descending too close. You get dressed and go to the front window, hoping in your secret heart to see people hurling themselves down the inflatable slide of a misplaced jumbo jet, or at least buildings on fire.
Men in construction vehicles and men with leaf blowers make slow, reiterant progress up and down the block. There’s a quality of municipal gentility, of man reliant on his fellow man. And also one of alien invasion, of HR sentinels for a superior and disinterested race emptying a target planet of non-essential life.
Now a few spared leaves swirl, a few stay stuck to the street, pressed and faded etchings of recent history. There are days, love, when the things we never say ring loud inside, like lies of omission.
12.08.2009
this not knowing the names
Man, I can't wait to really talk to you. Even from what we can say to each other now, it's deep. You have this nascent honed and exact-timed sense of humor, you have communication down with only simple ingredients. So much is shared there already.
So much concurrent difference. We're both bad at goodbyes, and different in that you actually express that. We both love music, only you still let it echo through you and dance at any excuse.
We both play piano. You're pithier in your playing; you express a tired or whimsical or flat-out barbaric mood in 10 to 15 seconds and then move on to the next activity.
I let the piano's predilection for sentiment run its course, putting up a sad little tent in that maudlin space between Ben Folds 5 verses. You know instinctively that a piano can overwhelm a mix, that it can overwhelm a mood. You know that once the spotlight settles on Tori or Billy a kind of calcification begins, a kind of mold begins developing around the ears of listeners, that death wins the day.
Last night you slept through the night, which I thought was a pretty rugged thing for a little person to do. It's dark then, full of monsters and bad dreams whose names you don't even know. This not knowing the names is a source of your strength, and a test of your bravery, and I'm so proud of you, of your every grow and change.
As you learn the names, I get the feeling you'll know better what to do with them. I look forward to you showing us.
So much concurrent difference. We're both bad at goodbyes, and different in that you actually express that. We both love music, only you still let it echo through you and dance at any excuse.
We both play piano. You're pithier in your playing; you express a tired or whimsical or flat-out barbaric mood in 10 to 15 seconds and then move on to the next activity.
I let the piano's predilection for sentiment run its course, putting up a sad little tent in that maudlin space between Ben Folds 5 verses. You know instinctively that a piano can overwhelm a mix, that it can overwhelm a mood. You know that once the spotlight settles on Tori or Billy a kind of calcification begins, a kind of mold begins developing around the ears of listeners, that death wins the day.
Last night you slept through the night, which I thought was a pretty rugged thing for a little person to do. It's dark then, full of monsters and bad dreams whose names you don't even know. This not knowing the names is a source of your strength, and a test of your bravery, and I'm so proud of you, of your every grow and change.
As you learn the names, I get the feeling you'll know better what to do with them. I look forward to you showing us.
11.11.2009
article on fishing interrupted
A great weather weekend and a lot of striped bass combined to make Delaware Bay a very popular stretch of water.
Hundreds of boats and without a doubt many thousands of anglers took advantage of excellent conditions Saturday and Sunday and through Monday.
Pat Harris said it was the best weekend for fish and fishermen in years at Longreach Marina on the Maurice River. She said she weighed in so many fish "you wouldn't believe it." She said the sizable parking lot at Longreach was jammed, with an overflow that spread out around the area.
Harris had a "heck" of a crowd at Longreach on Monday as the mild weather pushed toward 68 degrees in some areas.
Harris' list of recent catches was long, with 40-pound bass common, and even eight 50-pounders mixed in. She said Longreach had about 40 big weigh-ins among what she estimated to be a couple of hundred over the weekend.
Ken Brady of Millville caught a 46-pound bass, Tim Regan of Berlin got a 44-pounder, and Ryan Bradway and Steve Smith of Laurel Lake combined for 40- and 39-inch bass for highlights of recently weighed fish at Longreach.
Ricky Wheeler, captain of the Cape May charterboat Exile, had 30-pound-plus bass Saturday and Sunday. He said striper averaged 20 pounds. The best catch recently on the Exile was a 53.2 pounder by Wheeler's grandfather Dicky, who was visiting from Odessa, Del.
"What are some things that loneliness can do to a man?" Wheeler asked his grandfather.
Dicky fell quiet, almost uncharacteristically so, looking out at the water, watching how the light danced and played out to the horizon.
"I think that loneliness can kill a man," Dicky said. "It can outright kill somebody, if he isn't careful."
Ricky Wheeler nodded, looking to the deck of the boat and out to the water himself, measuring his words as carefully as he would any catch.
"I think it just might," he said finally. "And not instant like, but rather, by degrees."
"In that respect," Dicky said gently, after some further thought, "the agency might either be ascribed to loneliness or to the man himself."
It took Ricky a second to think this through, but in the end he agreed. "And if he isn't downright judicious with his love, with his connection to humanity as a whole, loneliness can make a man kill himself by degrees."
Ben Budd at Budd's Bait and Tackle in Villas limited out on his charter trips and was back to the dock by noon Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.
Hundreds of boats and without a doubt many thousands of anglers took advantage of excellent conditions Saturday and Sunday and through Monday.
Pat Harris said it was the best weekend for fish and fishermen in years at Longreach Marina on the Maurice River. She said she weighed in so many fish "you wouldn't believe it." She said the sizable parking lot at Longreach was jammed, with an overflow that spread out around the area.
Harris had a "heck" of a crowd at Longreach on Monday as the mild weather pushed toward 68 degrees in some areas.
Harris' list of recent catches was long, with 40-pound bass common, and even eight 50-pounders mixed in. She said Longreach had about 40 big weigh-ins among what she estimated to be a couple of hundred over the weekend.
Ken Brady of Millville caught a 46-pound bass, Tim Regan of Berlin got a 44-pounder, and Ryan Bradway and Steve Smith of Laurel Lake combined for 40- and 39-inch bass for highlights of recently weighed fish at Longreach.
Ricky Wheeler, captain of the Cape May charterboat Exile, had 30-pound-plus bass Saturday and Sunday. He said striper averaged 20 pounds. The best catch recently on the Exile was a 53.2 pounder by Wheeler's grandfather Dicky, who was visiting from Odessa, Del.
"What are some things that loneliness can do to a man?" Wheeler asked his grandfather.
Dicky fell quiet, almost uncharacteristically so, looking out at the water, watching how the light danced and played out to the horizon.
"I think that loneliness can kill a man," Dicky said. "It can outright kill somebody, if he isn't careful."
Ricky Wheeler nodded, looking to the deck of the boat and out to the water himself, measuring his words as carefully as he would any catch.
"I think it just might," he said finally. "And not instant like, but rather, by degrees."
"In that respect," Dicky said gently, after some further thought, "the agency might either be ascribed to loneliness or to the man himself."
It took Ricky a second to think this through, but in the end he agreed. "And if he isn't downright judicious with his love, with his connection to humanity as a whole, loneliness can make a man kill himself by degrees."
Ben Budd at Budd's Bait and Tackle in Villas limited out on his charter trips and was back to the dock by noon Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.
11.10.2009
a) five reasons for writer's block (50 words or less); b) penthouse forum interrupted
Because it's all been said. Because what the fuck does one person's perspective matter at this point? Because Anais Nin's diaries would have been sickening if written by a paunchy, middle-aged man. Because I had a bad day at work. Because finishing something means admitting it can’t be perfect.
Zoe and I have an average sex life. We've been married for 11 years. We've made love a few times, but nothing comes close to the letters I've read in your magazine. Zoe has a nice body and keeps herself in good shape. She's very attractive and a lot of fun, but she can also be prudish. It's this prudish side that makes what you're about to read so hard to believe.
We own a boat, and we enjoy cruising and fishing from time to time. Usually when we are away from shore and alone, Zoe will take off her top to get an all-over tan. Unfortunately for me, every time I make a move toward her, she stabs me in the eye with a red-hot poker that she has kept simmering by her deck chair.
Every summer there is an air show along our lakefront, and this time Zoe wanted to invite her best friend Amanda and Amanda's boyfriend to watch from our boat. I told her that would be fine by me, and thought nothing more about it. My good eye twitched, a little. Sometimes that means a storm is coming.
The day before the outing, Amanda called and said her boyfriend couldn't make it. Zoe said good, it's done then, and that she should come alone.
We met her at the harbor the next morning. Zoe wore a baggy pair of busted old sweat pants and a cotton tank top with a completely opaque black sweatshirt underneath that totally obscured her form. Amanda had a cutlass which she would occasionally jab threateningly toward my good eye. Ever since I met Amanda, I've given her a wide berth. She has great dexterity and knows how to flaunt it in all the right ways. She always kicks the shit out of me and tells my wife that sometime they should kill me and dump the body in the creek behind our apartment complex.
By the time we left the harbor, the girls had had two glasses of wine and were kicking what appeared to be a severed head amiably down the deck of the boat. It took the better part of an hour to get to the air show. There was a large gaggle of pleasure craft, and it was hard to find a spot to anchor. We decided to drift to the outside of the flotilla to try to anchor there. I finally got the hook to grab where we could see the show, about 100 yards outside the main pack.
Once we were secure, Amanda asked where she could change into her bathing suit. I told her she could use the cuddy cabin once I was done stowing the bags and coolers. My wife said that would take too long, and there was no room because of all the gear. Amanda asked what she should do. With that, Zoe stabbed my remaining good eye with the poker.
I am unclear on what happened next. I only know that I awoke in what felt to be the trunk of a moving car. I write this letter to you, Penthouse Forum, in the hope that you can assist me in some form. Please be swift and strong. Please spare this man's life. You are my last hope. --Name and address withheld
Zoe and I have an average sex life. We've been married for 11 years. We've made love a few times, but nothing comes close to the letters I've read in your magazine. Zoe has a nice body and keeps herself in good shape. She's very attractive and a lot of fun, but she can also be prudish. It's this prudish side that makes what you're about to read so hard to believe.
We own a boat, and we enjoy cruising and fishing from time to time. Usually when we are away from shore and alone, Zoe will take off her top to get an all-over tan. Unfortunately for me, every time I make a move toward her, she stabs me in the eye with a red-hot poker that she has kept simmering by her deck chair.
Every summer there is an air show along our lakefront, and this time Zoe wanted to invite her best friend Amanda and Amanda's boyfriend to watch from our boat. I told her that would be fine by me, and thought nothing more about it. My good eye twitched, a little. Sometimes that means a storm is coming.
The day before the outing, Amanda called and said her boyfriend couldn't make it. Zoe said good, it's done then, and that she should come alone.
We met her at the harbor the next morning. Zoe wore a baggy pair of busted old sweat pants and a cotton tank top with a completely opaque black sweatshirt underneath that totally obscured her form. Amanda had a cutlass which she would occasionally jab threateningly toward my good eye. Ever since I met Amanda, I've given her a wide berth. She has great dexterity and knows how to flaunt it in all the right ways. She always kicks the shit out of me and tells my wife that sometime they should kill me and dump the body in the creek behind our apartment complex.
By the time we left the harbor, the girls had had two glasses of wine and were kicking what appeared to be a severed head amiably down the deck of the boat. It took the better part of an hour to get to the air show. There was a large gaggle of pleasure craft, and it was hard to find a spot to anchor. We decided to drift to the outside of the flotilla to try to anchor there. I finally got the hook to grab where we could see the show, about 100 yards outside the main pack.
Once we were secure, Amanda asked where she could change into her bathing suit. I told her she could use the cuddy cabin once I was done stowing the bags and coolers. My wife said that would take too long, and there was no room because of all the gear. Amanda asked what she should do. With that, Zoe stabbed my remaining good eye with the poker.
I am unclear on what happened next. I only know that I awoke in what felt to be the trunk of a moving car. I write this letter to you, Penthouse Forum, in the hope that you can assist me in some form. Please be swift and strong. Please spare this man's life. You are my last hope. --Name and address withheld
10.20.2009
2029
It is a restless moment. She has kept her head lowered, to give him a chance to come closer. But he could not, she turns and walks away.
10.19.2009
simple math
Goldman Sachs bonus pool: $23 billion. New York State budget deficit: $3 billion. What's a new 13 percent recession-year GS bonus tax between friends?
electric snowflake
Some dread from yesterday must have carried over and I'm dragging my feet. It isn't that my desk chair isn't comfortable, rather that a skullplate lowers from the ceiling and an invisible mediocre hand starts tightening the nonprofit screws into my skull. One way to describe my role would be that of a fat guy riding a bike in a snow globe. Another would be of the same guy trapped in a nagging loop of sell and explain, sell and explain, the same guy selling used cars that turn out to be concept papers for really amazing cars that (if used) would transform society, the guy selling used cars that run with amazing speed and grace but require uranium-235 for fuel, the same guy selling used cars to be driven only by the extremely poor; the cars get 2 miles per gallon and travel 2 miles an hour and the rich gather to praise themselves for providing the deserving poor with such elegant means of transportation.
Story of a new parent: He had work early today but last night his daughter was fussing, she wouldn’t fall asleep. He’d been charged with the task and he couldn’t figure out how to sit her just right so she’d sleep. She clearly wanted to but she’d been out of all day, he said, and she was just fussing. He tried setting her lying face forward, then held face up in the crook of his arm, then curled in variations between the two. It was maybe a half hour now, or an hour. It hadn’t been smart to keep her out all day. Now was time to pay for it. He kept trying different positions. Usually they could find a way to click if he just paid attention. Finally she let out a solid fart, almost like the fart of a grown person, and fell asleep.
As far as I can tell no one has yet invented an emoticon for snowflake, for an electric snowflake. It would be pretty. The flakes could sprinkle out beyond the browser or Word window in which they were typed, wending a wind-blown path, hitting the bottom of the screen and melting at first, then finally accumulating and drifting there. When enough had stuck, you could click with the mouse to gather it in piles, for throwing, or sculpting, or building.
Story of a new parent: He had work early today but last night his daughter was fussing, she wouldn’t fall asleep. He’d been charged with the task and he couldn’t figure out how to sit her just right so she’d sleep. She clearly wanted to but she’d been out of all day, he said, and she was just fussing. He tried setting her lying face forward, then held face up in the crook of his arm, then curled in variations between the two. It was maybe a half hour now, or an hour. It hadn’t been smart to keep her out all day. Now was time to pay for it. He kept trying different positions. Usually they could find a way to click if he just paid attention. Finally she let out a solid fart, almost like the fart of a grown person, and fell asleep.
As far as I can tell no one has yet invented an emoticon for snowflake, for an electric snowflake. It would be pretty. The flakes could sprinkle out beyond the browser or Word window in which they were typed, wending a wind-blown path, hitting the bottom of the screen and melting at first, then finally accumulating and drifting there. When enough had stuck, you could click with the mouse to gather it in piles, for throwing, or sculpting, or building.
10.18.2009
stuck words/kool aid man
vanity project that this is i've been trying to use it as an impetus to write, as a forced discipline where if i tell myself i need to, for a few days or a week in a row i'll write every night. then things close up and i can't.
the radio silence doesn't mean i'm brimming with stuck words, more that i’m so busy or confused or dark that there aren’t extra words. mostly that i’m so busy in a journey that i don’t have time to write a postcard.
not a journey, something less intentional, a forced trip or tagging along on other people’s trips. the postcard would read dear so and so, wish you were here, not sure where that is.
potential application for kool aid man to improve the art of white people: whenever white persons (or the privileged in general) get all abject/dejected/ponderous in their art, bust through the wall and start kicking people's asses.
examples:
1) the double suicide scene in Romeo and Juliet.
2) the film As Good As It Gets (many scenes; kool aid man should probably bring a flamethrower).
3) the film or novel Requiem for a Dream (many scenes).
4) The Jose Gonzalez cover of Heartbeats.
the radio silence doesn't mean i'm brimming with stuck words, more that i’m so busy or confused or dark that there aren’t extra words. mostly that i’m so busy in a journey that i don’t have time to write a postcard.
not a journey, something less intentional, a forced trip or tagging along on other people’s trips. the postcard would read dear so and so, wish you were here, not sure where that is.
potential application for kool aid man to improve the art of white people: whenever white persons (or the privileged in general) get all abject/dejected/ponderous in their art, bust through the wall and start kicking people's asses.
examples:
1) the double suicide scene in Romeo and Juliet.
2) the film As Good As It Gets (many scenes; kool aid man should probably bring a flamethrower).
3) the film or novel Requiem for a Dream (many scenes).
4) The Jose Gonzalez cover of Heartbeats.
10.17.2009
seven months/photo album
The other day L. and my mom and I were looking through photos of the past five to ten years. Taken in cities all over the world, with friends near and far gone. The two common denominators to each photo: one, I'm holding a drink; and two, I don't remember much at all about the setting in which the photo was taken.
So it's been seven months since I had a drink. For stretches I've felt clear and easy and right. At other points (now) I crave a good beer, would kill for just one good beer or a sharp glass of wine, or maybe 5 martinis or a nice simple case of beer and a joint.
It's not that if I drank one I'd wake up under a pile of cops, or sleep my way through suburbia (delicious tense hopeless moms, fear not), or start pounding full bottles of vodka every night and end up one of those red-faced commuter jerks on the train. It's more that the act of not drinking has turned off some muting or filter and allowed a range of thoughts/emotions/memories to surface.
I'm interested in what's buried under there, even though some is shit, some is poison, some is scary. A lot of it is me, a strange me that I barely know, the past me.
I was thinking this morning that I will have earned a drink if I make it to one year. I think it would be a very nice glass of white wine, in Paris, with fish soup and fresh toasted bread.
Then I was thinking that I will earn a drink when I: finish all of Faulkner; read a modern novel in Spanish and understand it; publish a novel; complete an album of music; climb a large mountain or run a marathon or bike from here to the Jersey shore; and develop my own black and white photographs.
At that point I could have a drink, it wouldn't kill me. Even five out of the six. Maybe I could have one drink when I make it to the year, then another for five out of six, then take it from there. Or, I could go get a drink now...
So it's been seven months since I had a drink. For stretches I've felt clear and easy and right. At other points (now) I crave a good beer, would kill for just one good beer or a sharp glass of wine, or maybe 5 martinis or a nice simple case of beer and a joint.
It's not that if I drank one I'd wake up under a pile of cops, or sleep my way through suburbia (delicious tense hopeless moms, fear not), or start pounding full bottles of vodka every night and end up one of those red-faced commuter jerks on the train. It's more that the act of not drinking has turned off some muting or filter and allowed a range of thoughts/emotions/memories to surface.
I'm interested in what's buried under there, even though some is shit, some is poison, some is scary. A lot of it is me, a strange me that I barely know, the past me.
I was thinking this morning that I will have earned a drink if I make it to one year. I think it would be a very nice glass of white wine, in Paris, with fish soup and fresh toasted bread.
Then I was thinking that I will earn a drink when I: finish all of Faulkner; read a modern novel in Spanish and understand it; publish a novel; complete an album of music; climb a large mountain or run a marathon or bike from here to the Jersey shore; and develop my own black and white photographs.
At that point I could have a drink, it wouldn't kill me. Even five out of the six. Maybe I could have one drink when I make it to the year, then another for five out of six, then take it from there. Or, I could go get a drink now...
9.22.2009
progressive damage
A few of us in the main conference room: the new foundation person, the executive director, development, program leads. Meet and greet for the new foundation person.
We have a telescope that we point out the window by way of show and tell, magnifying different parts of the South Bronx for the new foundation person. The practice people zone in close on an old tan brick. Much to say re> brick, much that can be changed. Is the change sustainable?
The policy folks aim the telescope at the sky. There isn't much, I think a cloud, I think maybe a flit of a hawk or a daring high-altitude pigeon, sunlight diffuse and un-pinpointable. Sunlight, if only you could get to the source and change the angle or tint. If only you could start upstream.
The foundation person turns the telescope back into the room and inspects the angles where the walls meet the floor, the ceiling. An hour passes, during which she asks a sequence of architectural questions, ranging catholic from arcane to obvious to questions put in terms we understand, but devastatingly difficult to answer. From her tone at first (world weary disappointment and smartest guy in the room and vague hint of should have stayed asleep today) it's hard to tell but I think we're doing alright.
Beat. Beat. Someone from our side asks, "But how can we fix all this?" Gesturing out the window, out at the world at large, out into the world as it is.
"Good question," the new foundation person admits. For a second it looks like her face is going to sag off of its moorings, that she might lose corporeal stature, her spirit spilling onto the floor.
She gathers her thoughts and answers sharply, answers in herobureacratic fashion, for a minute we can all picture the solution. We break for lunch.
We have a telescope that we point out the window by way of show and tell, magnifying different parts of the South Bronx for the new foundation person. The practice people zone in close on an old tan brick. Much to say re> brick, much that can be changed. Is the change sustainable?
The policy folks aim the telescope at the sky. There isn't much, I think a cloud, I think maybe a flit of a hawk or a daring high-altitude pigeon, sunlight diffuse and un-pinpointable. Sunlight, if only you could get to the source and change the angle or tint. If only you could start upstream.
The foundation person turns the telescope back into the room and inspects the angles where the walls meet the floor, the ceiling. An hour passes, during which she asks a sequence of architectural questions, ranging catholic from arcane to obvious to questions put in terms we understand, but devastatingly difficult to answer. From her tone at first (world weary disappointment and smartest guy in the room and vague hint of should have stayed asleep today) it's hard to tell but I think we're doing alright.
Beat. Beat. Someone from our side asks, "But how can we fix all this?" Gesturing out the window, out at the world at large, out into the world as it is.
"Good question," the new foundation person admits. For a second it looks like her face is going to sag off of its moorings, that she might lose corporeal stature, her spirit spilling onto the floor.
She gathers her thoughts and answers sharply, answers in herobureacratic fashion, for a minute we can all picture the solution. We break for lunch.
9.21.2009
friends
One said let’s make a try of it, which was only a way one had of making a more graceful exit, of evading clutching hands, drawing sharp dry parallel lines where before rose confused floodwaters of dramatic feeling, which was only a way one had of replacing awkward animate clutching love with something crisper, more manageable.
The thing being tried the high concept of "friends." Friends! to be shouted standing atop roofs, etc., friends the concept left worn out rust- or dirt-encrusted in a kind of mutual discard pile.
Years pass and the end result is a kind of faint residual taste akin to a vaguely recognizable chemical in tapwater, punctuated by the occasional appearance of that special friend in one's dreamlife less as a friend so much as a kind of extra, a last minute casting addition brought forward by memory as a sort of unfunny joke, then to reappear in one's consciousness as a skipping record for the next several weeks. Sentimental 78 rpm hiss, standing girl, non-speaking part.
The thing being tried the high concept of "friends." Friends! to be shouted standing atop roofs, etc., friends the concept left worn out rust- or dirt-encrusted in a kind of mutual discard pile.
Years pass and the end result is a kind of faint residual taste akin to a vaguely recognizable chemical in tapwater, punctuated by the occasional appearance of that special friend in one's dreamlife less as a friend so much as a kind of extra, a last minute casting addition brought forward by memory as a sort of unfunny joke, then to reappear in one's consciousness as a skipping record for the next several weeks. Sentimental 78 rpm hiss, standing girl, non-speaking part.
8.13.2009
ninjas bury their dead
Seen on the side of a highway in South Jersey: a group of ninjas paying their respects to a fallen comrade. A small ninja mournfully twirling small nunchucks. Another (priest?) holding a bible or its martial arts equivalent. Two setting themselves on fire, rolling to put it out in synchronized sad motion.
Let no ninja fight on this day; let no wall be climbed. Let none defy gravity; nor no individual shoot lasers from her or his eyes. In the secret outpost the reading torch has gone out and no one bats an eye. There's one I know who usually tells jokes; today he's got nothing to say and when you rouse him he just wants to point out that death takes each man but why this man now? Why is death selective?
Leave the graveyard razed and burning to the ground; it wasn't on purpose so much as fallout from a stop drop and roll gone wrong. Tomorrow there'll be another funeral; soon the ninjati may only live in memory, the stuff of faded, forgotten myth.
I knew it had gotten bad, but I had no idea it had gotten this bad.
Let no ninja fight on this day; let no wall be climbed. Let none defy gravity; nor no individual shoot lasers from her or his eyes. In the secret outpost the reading torch has gone out and no one bats an eye. There's one I know who usually tells jokes; today he's got nothing to say and when you rouse him he just wants to point out that death takes each man but why this man now? Why is death selective?
Leave the graveyard razed and burning to the ground; it wasn't on purpose so much as fallout from a stop drop and roll gone wrong. Tomorrow there'll be another funeral; soon the ninjati may only live in memory, the stuff of faded, forgotten myth.
I knew it had gotten bad, but I had no idea it had gotten this bad.
8.12.2009
mariposa
You're sitting on a warm bench in an isolated garden at the edge of town, a garden that seems so empty it could be an abyss until this butterfly catches your attention.
One thing about this creature is the mode of its flight, recombined on itself in stop-time at complementary angles as though G-d were cutting and pasting sloppy animation. Then you notice the colors, the black circles that decorate the tips of its wings. The form of its abdomen.
Its flight path's lit by a green ray of spring. Where could it want to fly, only recently drunk on dew or pollen, now with its back to you, intent on a flower.
And if it disappears beyond the wall (because it's a small garden or through excess speed), make a mental picture. Trace its path along the green ray, where it stretches to the horizon. Or picture where it and the ray diverge paths; now the ray proceeds forever and the butterfly could be anywhere, you'll never find it. Maybe it'll flicker back or leave you here, in this garden at the edge of town, at the edge of the known world.
(for/at/from Nicanor Parra)
One thing about this creature is the mode of its flight, recombined on itself in stop-time at complementary angles as though G-d were cutting and pasting sloppy animation. Then you notice the colors, the black circles that decorate the tips of its wings. The form of its abdomen.
Its flight path's lit by a green ray of spring. Where could it want to fly, only recently drunk on dew or pollen, now with its back to you, intent on a flower.
And if it disappears beyond the wall (because it's a small garden or through excess speed), make a mental picture. Trace its path along the green ray, where it stretches to the horizon. Or picture where it and the ray diverge paths; now the ray proceeds forever and the butterfly could be anywhere, you'll never find it. Maybe it'll flicker back or leave you here, in this garden at the edge of town, at the edge of the known world.
(for/at/from Nicanor Parra)
155 emails
Today I sent 155 business-related emails and I can't remember the content of a single one I'd made plans to have lunch with my brother but by the time I'd finished emailing it was 3pm my brother was gracious and agreed to meet me for a late late lunch I finally got underway but on the way I hit a flash flood and got there at more like 4 by that point my sister her son and our kid brother had arrived and I sent a few more emails and then somebody wanted to talk on the phone in reply to the email so we talked on the phone and made plans to talk longer on the phone tomorrow then I set my phone and my computer on fire extinguishing the fire in a cloud of piss and fury and we all went for something like early dinner.
What it was was excellent Chinese the home-style bean curd perfectly soft my siblings and I don't always sit together in one place these days there are usually thousands of miles preventing that I was mad not to have the brain space to focus on this rare rainbow comet confluence and this is why I dislike the architecture of Microsoft software so much because I have unwittingly come to live inside it and in my sent items is a sad history of affirmations logistical coordinates occasional flashes of humor or warmth recommendations for fixing words fixing words and grovelingly polite requests for hundreds of thousands of dollars.
I was at just about the mental level where smiling and making goofy faces at my nephew felt ambitious but achievable then in a flash he transcended my mental age and wanted more than I could possibly provide conversationally my brothers and my sister started a game where in at least one word per sentence you alter the pronunciation to make that word sound utterly different though still recognizable, to avoid cliche. It was almost nice to be so slow and fried I couldn't drive the game much myself, because I could just appreciate how smart, how present, how memorable they were.
What it was was excellent Chinese the home-style bean curd perfectly soft my siblings and I don't always sit together in one place these days there are usually thousands of miles preventing that I was mad not to have the brain space to focus on this rare rainbow comet confluence and this is why I dislike the architecture of Microsoft software so much because I have unwittingly come to live inside it and in my sent items is a sad history of affirmations logistical coordinates occasional flashes of humor or warmth recommendations for fixing words fixing words and grovelingly polite requests for hundreds of thousands of dollars.
I was at just about the mental level where smiling and making goofy faces at my nephew felt ambitious but achievable then in a flash he transcended my mental age and wanted more than I could possibly provide conversationally my brothers and my sister started a game where in at least one word per sentence you alter the pronunciation to make that word sound utterly different though still recognizable, to avoid cliche. It was almost nice to be so slow and fried I couldn't drive the game much myself, because I could just appreciate how smart, how present, how memorable they were.
8.11.2009
advice for the interviewee
You've just landed an interview for a seemingly wonderful job! Now what? Successful interviewing will be essential in order for you to lock in an offer. Here are some tips and strategies for effective interviewing from preparation through follow up.
1. Smile, be polite, and try to relax. The economy sucks and your kids are dying of malnutrition. What can you do? Put that shit out of your mind. Picture yourself on your first vacation from the new job, in the Bahamas with a whore fluent in American Sign Language, a line of coke the size of a jungle cat and all the god-damned Ovaltine you can drink.
2. Don't shit on the table -- yet. Avoid shitting on the table during the opening moments of the interview. It can even be a risk later, when first impressions are being cemented into firm evaluations. By the same token, if you're going to do it, own it, bring a newspaper and squat comfortably and pronouncedly, as if you do this all the time. Make them doubt their grip on consensus reality and the job's yours.
3. Be upbeat and make positive statements. If you're going to bring a gun it's important to think about what kind of message you're going to send. Conventional wisdom will tell you the bigger the gun, the more effective the message, but that isn't always true. A well-aimed .22 magnum mini revolver can leave much more of an impression than a haphazardly fired Negev light machine gun. According to recent research from Accenture, nearly half (40 percent) of major corporate decisions are based on the good 'ole gut.
4. Make frequent eye contact. Do not blink even once.
5. Tell a feel-good story about a prostitute with a heart of gold. Preferably early on; declare that you'd like to use it as a formal introduction to yourself and your work, then refer to it throughout the interview for emphasis.
1. Smile, be polite, and try to relax. The economy sucks and your kids are dying of malnutrition. What can you do? Put that shit out of your mind. Picture yourself on your first vacation from the new job, in the Bahamas with a whore fluent in American Sign Language, a line of coke the size of a jungle cat and all the god-damned Ovaltine you can drink.
2. Don't shit on the table -- yet. Avoid shitting on the table during the opening moments of the interview. It can even be a risk later, when first impressions are being cemented into firm evaluations. By the same token, if you're going to do it, own it, bring a newspaper and squat comfortably and pronouncedly, as if you do this all the time. Make them doubt their grip on consensus reality and the job's yours.
3. Be upbeat and make positive statements. If you're going to bring a gun it's important to think about what kind of message you're going to send. Conventional wisdom will tell you the bigger the gun, the more effective the message, but that isn't always true. A well-aimed .22 magnum mini revolver can leave much more of an impression than a haphazardly fired Negev light machine gun. According to recent research from Accenture, nearly half (40 percent) of major corporate decisions are based on the good 'ole gut.
4. Make frequent eye contact. Do not blink even once.
5. Tell a feel-good story about a prostitute with a heart of gold. Preferably early on; declare that you'd like to use it as a formal introduction to yourself and your work, then refer to it throughout the interview for emphasis.
8.10.2009
vision
I got home late from work and everyone was out late too, so I took a walk to unwind. To the center of town. It was hot and the streets were pretty empty. A woman walking a dog, a kid on a bike, not much else.
I thought about buying some cigarettes and headed in the general direction of Wawa, but that felt like too momentous of a decision (buying smokes in Paris is one thing, buying them in Jersey would be a level of commitment I'm not ready for).
So I cut the circuit short, turning back toward our street. Pines and crooked concrete, vaguely functional street lighting. A cicada fell to a dark patch of sidewalk, skittering in frustration to bury itself in the concrete like a piece of a sound wave falling out of the sky and I had this vision for the rest of my walk of all the creatures on earth stricken sudden with that death dance, every living creature fallen to the ground and twitching its last.
When I got home I felt better.
I thought about buying some cigarettes and headed in the general direction of Wawa, but that felt like too momentous of a decision (buying smokes in Paris is one thing, buying them in Jersey would be a level of commitment I'm not ready for).
So I cut the circuit short, turning back toward our street. Pines and crooked concrete, vaguely functional street lighting. A cicada fell to a dark patch of sidewalk, skittering in frustration to bury itself in the concrete like a piece of a sound wave falling out of the sky and I had this vision for the rest of my walk of all the creatures on earth stricken sudden with that death dance, every living creature fallen to the ground and twitching its last.
When I got home I felt better.
8.09.2009
social engineering
There are a few books Nat likes. His taste is for action adventure -- for short novels with exaggerated plot curves and without introspection. Not yet 2, our son has his finger on the pulse of the current literary milieu. Career moves: freelance literary agent, or internship with Dial Press. Open question of whether ESA standards for child labor apply to infants in publishing.
At bedtime tonight I was trying to read him something a little too long for his taste. Then I picked up another one. It must have read to him like the kid equivalent of tax forms, or the Necronomicon or something. He kept throwing the books on the ground, then he squirmed out of my lap, lowered himself to crawl and bee-lined for the bedroom door. It was shut so I just watched him. First he reached for the handle, which he realized was out of reach.
He turned and sized up the crib, for whether he might climb it, then open the door. Then he looked to the footrest for the rocker, and the night stand. He came back and started pulling books from the night stand. But I wouldn't let him take the lamp down. For reasons that weren't clear (I think to distract me) he tried to pull the child-proof caps out of the electrical socket. Then he went back to unpiling books from the night stand.
Finally, realizing that he had a much easier option in sight, Nat held up his hand. I took it and walked him out of the room. Social engineering: some doors you open yourself; sometimes the best way around locked doors is to ask someone to open them.
At bedtime tonight I was trying to read him something a little too long for his taste. Then I picked up another one. It must have read to him like the kid equivalent of tax forms, or the Necronomicon or something. He kept throwing the books on the ground, then he squirmed out of my lap, lowered himself to crawl and bee-lined for the bedroom door. It was shut so I just watched him. First he reached for the handle, which he realized was out of reach.
He turned and sized up the crib, for whether he might climb it, then open the door. Then he looked to the footrest for the rocker, and the night stand. He came back and started pulling books from the night stand. But I wouldn't let him take the lamp down. For reasons that weren't clear (I think to distract me) he tried to pull the child-proof caps out of the electrical socket. Then he went back to unpiling books from the night stand.
Finally, realizing that he had a much easier option in sight, Nat held up his hand. I took it and walked him out of the room. Social engineering: some doors you open yourself; sometimes the best way around locked doors is to ask someone to open them.
8.08.2009
ghost girl
I'm always finding stuff when I mow the lawn, particularly in the back yard. Last time it was some kind of bone--which I put in the rose bed to look at more closely later and then couldn't find. (There are a couple of bricks and flat big stones in one corner of the yard, which probably represent where the outhouse used to be, but also always seem to demarcate a miniature graveyard, markers of lives far past, energy long from active but faintly humming or glowing at the periphery of perception).
This most recent time I found a rusty pin about 2.5 inches in diameter from Walt Disney World. Top to bottom it read as follows:
1. Happy Birthday (pre-printed, arc across top)
2. Cake, three layers with "9" written in magic marker.
3. Tablecloth or snow-topped hillside supporting the cake, with the name "Kate" written in the same marker, flanked by Mickey Mouse heads on either side.
4. Cursive "Walt Disney World," pre-printed.
5. Where Dreams Come True, pre-printed.
The pin was rusted and discolored, but I couldn't figure out in an image search what year it dated from.
Spent the rest of the afternoon daydreaming about a treacly novel called "Kate's Room," about a couple who move out to the suburbs, to an old house they soon discover is haunted by the ghost of a 9 year old girl. They can't have children of their own, see, and for whatever reason adoption isn't their bag. At first fright the ghost just seems like a final insult from the world.
The ghost has a young girl's taste and objects until they furnish her room properly, etc. Eventually the couple and the ghost girl become friends. The novel doesn't end happily ever after, but it ends brightly enough, with the couple realizing that they might find happiness in the suburbs, a woman, her husband, and a bright little ghost girl with a world of potential. A sort of magic realist response to "Revolutionary Road."
This most recent time I found a rusty pin about 2.5 inches in diameter from Walt Disney World. Top to bottom it read as follows:
1. Happy Birthday (pre-printed, arc across top)
2. Cake, three layers with "9" written in magic marker.
3. Tablecloth or snow-topped hillside supporting the cake, with the name "Kate" written in the same marker, flanked by Mickey Mouse heads on either side.
4. Cursive "Walt Disney World," pre-printed.
5. Where Dreams Come True, pre-printed.
The pin was rusted and discolored, but I couldn't figure out in an image search what year it dated from.
Spent the rest of the afternoon daydreaming about a treacly novel called "Kate's Room," about a couple who move out to the suburbs, to an old house they soon discover is haunted by the ghost of a 9 year old girl. They can't have children of their own, see, and for whatever reason adoption isn't their bag. At first fright the ghost just seems like a final insult from the world.
The ghost has a young girl's taste and objects until they furnish her room properly, etc. Eventually the couple and the ghost girl become friends. The novel doesn't end happily ever after, but it ends brightly enough, with the couple realizing that they might find happiness in the suburbs, a woman, her husband, and a bright little ghost girl with a world of potential. A sort of magic realist response to "Revolutionary Road."
8.06.2009
idea for pharmaceutical
RePatria, the drug to restore one's inner patriot.
RePatria may cause a severe allergic reaction. Stop taking it and get emergency medical help if you have any of these signs of an allergic reaction: hives; difficulty breathing; swelling of your face, lips, tongue, or throat.
RePatria can cause side effects that may impair your thinking or reactions. Until you know how this medication will affect you during waking hours, be careful if you drive, operate machinery, pilot an airplane, or do anything that requires you to be awake and alert. You may feel sleepy for one or more election cycles.
Some people using this medicine have engaged in activity such as driving, eating, or human history and later have had no memory of the activity. If this happens to you, stop taking RePatria and talk with your doctor about another treatment for your grave national doubt.
Ad campaign: before and after RePatria. Unlikely spokespersons (Bin Laden, Charles Manson, etc.)
RePatria may cause a severe allergic reaction. Stop taking it and get emergency medical help if you have any of these signs of an allergic reaction: hives; difficulty breathing; swelling of your face, lips, tongue, or throat.
RePatria can cause side effects that may impair your thinking or reactions. Until you know how this medication will affect you during waking hours, be careful if you drive, operate machinery, pilot an airplane, or do anything that requires you to be awake and alert. You may feel sleepy for one or more election cycles.
Some people using this medicine have engaged in activity such as driving, eating, or human history and later have had no memory of the activity. If this happens to you, stop taking RePatria and talk with your doctor about another treatment for your grave national doubt.
Ad campaign: before and after RePatria. Unlikely spokespersons (Bin Laden, Charles Manson, etc.)
8.05.2009
travel yarn
When you go to Cortázar's grave you have to bring something. I thought about leaving a motivational note or a little stone, a Metro Card or a Lonely Planet guide. Nat didn't weigh in, he just munched on a piece of French bread. In the end I couldn't figure anything out and it started to rain.
On this trip we learned that Nat and French bread are soul mates. You can take the kid anywhere in Paris in any weather condition and if he has a piece of bread, he's fine. No bread, another story entirely. Though Nat likes French bread, he dislikes gendarmes, and dislikes French prison yet more.
In fairness to my son (and for the benefit of my fellow travelers) I should also note that, contrary to the spirit of family bonding, Napoleon III's bed is no longer suitable for use as a changing table, nor is his chamber pot intended for use by the general public.
Confinement allowed for meditation. Upon our release it struck me that I could leave a ball of yarn on JC's grave. Though we spent our remaining week wandering Paris, I couldn't find one anywhere. Finally, on our last day, L. took us to the Montparnasse Monoprix. In place of yarn I could only find a spool of thread, but it would have to suffice. Nat selected a pan viennoise.
When we got back to the gravesite I laid the spool on the grave. Nat had eaten most of the viennoise but he threw down the piece he had left, in case our man was hungry.
On this trip we learned that Nat and French bread are soul mates. You can take the kid anywhere in Paris in any weather condition and if he has a piece of bread, he's fine. No bread, another story entirely. Though Nat likes French bread, he dislikes gendarmes, and dislikes French prison yet more.
In fairness to my son (and for the benefit of my fellow travelers) I should also note that, contrary to the spirit of family bonding, Napoleon III's bed is no longer suitable for use as a changing table, nor is his chamber pot intended for use by the general public.
Confinement allowed for meditation. Upon our release it struck me that I could leave a ball of yarn on JC's grave. Though we spent our remaining week wandering Paris, I couldn't find one anywhere. Finally, on our last day, L. took us to the Montparnasse Monoprix. In place of yarn I could only find a spool of thread, but it would have to suffice. Nat selected a pan viennoise.
When we got back to the gravesite I laid the spool on the grave. Nat had eaten most of the viennoise but he threw down the piece he had left, in case our man was hungry.
7.09.2009
reform committee
One additional suggestion for federal health policy reform efforts: to ensure that these efforts are successful, the government ought to establish a ten-year committee to analyze the problem.
The committee will issue 2 reports at five-year intervals. It will be evenly bipartisan and should reflect the perspective of every stakeholder (doctor, nurse, worker, consumer, for-profit business owner, administrator, policymaker, family member, etc.)
The first five year report will serve as a Mid-Term Report, and provide hints about the contours of the second, final report. The Final Report may also recommend an additional ten-year period, which could itself be extended. Each report should be drafted by the same unpaid intern.
Questions to be addressed include: What is every possible angle on the problem? Is there a problem? Is a solution necessary? If it will always be broke, should we fix it?
The committee will issue 2 reports at five-year intervals. It will be evenly bipartisan and should reflect the perspective of every stakeholder (doctor, nurse, worker, consumer, for-profit business owner, administrator, policymaker, family member, etc.)
The first five year report will serve as a Mid-Term Report, and provide hints about the contours of the second, final report. The Final Report may also recommend an additional ten-year period, which could itself be extended. Each report should be drafted by the same unpaid intern.
Questions to be addressed include: What is every possible angle on the problem? Is there a problem? Is a solution necessary? If it will always be broke, should we fix it?
6.28.2009
mower
We got our mower on craigslist for 10 bucks. It's electric and it takes two outdoor extension cords to cover the yard. The trick is working out a pattern on the grass that doesn't involve constant danger of running them over. That kills the whole process and feels kind of dangerous, like, you can picture the cord spraying electricity, like the tentacle of a pissed off octopus.
The whole thing is rusted through, like an abandoned boat or one littered with the skeletons of erstwhile explorers. One of the wheels wobbles and the handle is missing a bolt halfway down. Easily fixable with electrical tape. When we bought it the motor didn't work, but that was easily fixable too with a soldering iron and a voltmeter.
I mowed the back, then the front, skirting the tangle of rose bushes (project for other day). It was looking pretty good, only trouble was that now my grass was shorter than the neighbors' grass on either side. I ran down to the hardware store for a couple of extra extension cords, came back and did the Green's front yard and back yard. Mowed Rose's yard while her dog barked through the French doors. The across the street neighbors' yards as well.
I was happy with myself, like I was making a contribution as opposed to town vampire. Looking down the block in either direction, you could see a symmetric plane of grass, albeit one that still grew higher two houses down in either direction. I went back to the hardware store and bought as many cords as I could carry.
They kept getting snagged on people's fences, on their porches and hedges. I knocked over a bird bath, and some kids kept messing up the chain playing double dutch. I went back to the house, got another glass of water, and put on work gloves.
It was starting to get late but I finished the Egan's yard, then the yard on the other side of Rose's house, people I haven't met but who waved through their front window. I could picture in my mind a sea of grass waiting to be mowed, through the town and out across the state. It would be easier to see it all from the air, then again the height of the grass would be less apparent.
My legs get tired and I start thinking about dinner. I realize I've plum forgotten about the edging. It'll only take a couple minutes.
The whole thing is rusted through, like an abandoned boat or one littered with the skeletons of erstwhile explorers. One of the wheels wobbles and the handle is missing a bolt halfway down. Easily fixable with electrical tape. When we bought it the motor didn't work, but that was easily fixable too with a soldering iron and a voltmeter.
I mowed the back, then the front, skirting the tangle of rose bushes (project for other day). It was looking pretty good, only trouble was that now my grass was shorter than the neighbors' grass on either side. I ran down to the hardware store for a couple of extra extension cords, came back and did the Green's front yard and back yard. Mowed Rose's yard while her dog barked through the French doors. The across the street neighbors' yards as well.
I was happy with myself, like I was making a contribution as opposed to town vampire. Looking down the block in either direction, you could see a symmetric plane of grass, albeit one that still grew higher two houses down in either direction. I went back to the hardware store and bought as many cords as I could carry.
They kept getting snagged on people's fences, on their porches and hedges. I knocked over a bird bath, and some kids kept messing up the chain playing double dutch. I went back to the house, got another glass of water, and put on work gloves.
It was starting to get late but I finished the Egan's yard, then the yard on the other side of Rose's house, people I haven't met but who waved through their front window. I could picture in my mind a sea of grass waiting to be mowed, through the town and out across the state. It would be easier to see it all from the air, then again the height of the grass would be less apparent.
My legs get tired and I start thinking about dinner. I realize I've plum forgotten about the edging. It'll only take a couple minutes.
6.26.2009
storm summer
The clouds come every evening in dark black and blue clusters of soft still-setting paper-mâché in darkening swirls thickening under gravity the rain is too liquid violent fragmenting blue light in torrents of electricity and breath and the birds have all flown somewhere else until this all blows over the mornings are quiet waiting that fans out from the porches into the air that hangs from the branches on the tip of everyone's tongues that echoes from the ground to the reflective glass of antique windows painted futile shut against the sneaky whims of air that people notice and watch their backs against as if to make sure that as they walk the whole town isn't disappearing behind them a void of space a retreating of form back to empty essence.
The cats grow restless on window ledges hemmed by screens if the mystery were small they could hunt it kill it and bring it back surrendered to their masters but it's
everywhere filling the town and seems bigger worth bowing to in the pecking order not attacking to kill outright wait until it really sleeps no one knows entirely what the quiet means besides storm has passed another on its way.
The flowers are still hungover are justifying the next gallons as hair of the dog stoic in the manner of a man backed into a corner the ground will stand its ground the sun shines ignoring the required retreating of light ignoring what it and everything around it knows must change only the lonely roots smile to themselves snaking everywhere underground to and fro preparing for the banquet feast a swelling to the point of nearly touching in the wet dirt.
Rain it rained so hard and on the road I almost lost control of the car a truck was passing on my left and shooting water all across the windshield of the dumb small car I had the little one in the back and I couldn't see anything but water covering too much the whole car it actually occurred to me maybe the river had gone to higher ground and we were plowing under water my hands kept the wheel shaky or straight all long enough that I knew I was still on the road but had no control at all.
Then I could see again and he was still asleep, safe in the back of the car. I know you trust me but what if I fuck it up and fail you.
The cats grow restless on window ledges hemmed by screens if the mystery were small they could hunt it kill it and bring it back surrendered to their masters but it's
everywhere filling the town and seems bigger worth bowing to in the pecking order not attacking to kill outright wait until it really sleeps no one knows entirely what the quiet means besides storm has passed another on its way.
The flowers are still hungover are justifying the next gallons as hair of the dog stoic in the manner of a man backed into a corner the ground will stand its ground the sun shines ignoring the required retreating of light ignoring what it and everything around it knows must change only the lonely roots smile to themselves snaking everywhere underground to and fro preparing for the banquet feast a swelling to the point of nearly touching in the wet dirt.
Rain it rained so hard and on the road I almost lost control of the car a truck was passing on my left and shooting water all across the windshield of the dumb small car I had the little one in the back and I couldn't see anything but water covering too much the whole car it actually occurred to me maybe the river had gone to higher ground and we were plowing under water my hands kept the wheel shaky or straight all long enough that I knew I was still on the road but had no control at all.
Then I could see again and he was still asleep, safe in the back of the car. I know you trust me but what if I fuck it up and fail you.
6.25.2009
health reform that works
America spends far more on health care than other industrialized nations, yet lags persistently behind in health outcomes. With quality widely considered by experts to be a lost cause, successful health reform will focus exclusively on cutting costs, killing the poor, and maximizing profit for doctors and private industry.
In that spirit, a 13-point plan to destroy America's health care system:
1. Require doctors and all care providers to adopt a Patriot version of the Hippocratic Oath on which unanimous bipartisan agreement has be reached.
2. Ensure that the public makes informed decisions about pharmaceuticals, by requiring medical journals and scientific trials to operate under the full editorial control of the drug companies that produce them. Disallow the sale and manufacture of a given pharmaceutical when its patent expires after 7 years, requiring replacement with new brands. Outlaw generics and the export of drugs to the developing world.
3. Create Altria Wellness Centers in communities and schools, promoting Kraft and Phillip Morris products to remedy common ailments.
4. Require a license for exercising more than 10 minutes per day, to be maintained by unsubsidized weekly fees, and policed by randomized steroid, human growth hormone, and drug testing. Disallow exercise for high risk patients.
5. Increase the use of paper records; where possible incorporate scrap paper. Prescriptions should be written in crayon, or using human feces and an improvised wooden utensil.
6. Health reform needs a public option: an option for the public to purchase private insurance at inflated prices. Eliminate Medicaid, Medicare, and CHIP.
7. Require drug and device manufacturers to provide payments and incentives to providers and physicians, with a zero tolerance policy regarding transparency.
8. Strengthen existing incentives for tests and procedures; eliminate all documentation of primary care outcomes.
9. Increase the prevalence of C-sections, reduce the use of doulas, and eliminate the education of women about the risks and benefits of obstetric procedures. Create special, more lenient laws concerning the murder of abortion providers.
10. The number of uninsured Americans under 65 has increased more than 10 million since 1999, or an increase of little more than 1 million per year. Increase premium costs and coverage restrictions to magnify this trend and further reduce costs.
11. Appoint Princeton University's Peter Singer as Czar for Life of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, giving him broad discretion on policy decisions.
12. Close all free clinics, and require insurance coverage for care in all provider settings. Enact legislation banning the un-insured and under-insured from stepping within 500 feet of all provider settings.
13. Bomb France. And Cuba. And Scandinavia as a whole. More wars = more patients.
(For SE.)
In that spirit, a 13-point plan to destroy America's health care system:
1. Require doctors and all care providers to adopt a Patriot version of the Hippocratic Oath on which unanimous bipartisan agreement has be reached.
2. Ensure that the public makes informed decisions about pharmaceuticals, by requiring medical journals and scientific trials to operate under the full editorial control of the drug companies that produce them. Disallow the sale and manufacture of a given pharmaceutical when its patent expires after 7 years, requiring replacement with new brands. Outlaw generics and the export of drugs to the developing world.
3. Create Altria Wellness Centers in communities and schools, promoting Kraft and Phillip Morris products to remedy common ailments.
4. Require a license for exercising more than 10 minutes per day, to be maintained by unsubsidized weekly fees, and policed by randomized steroid, human growth hormone, and drug testing. Disallow exercise for high risk patients.
5. Increase the use of paper records; where possible incorporate scrap paper. Prescriptions should be written in crayon, or using human feces and an improvised wooden utensil.
6. Health reform needs a public option: an option for the public to purchase private insurance at inflated prices. Eliminate Medicaid, Medicare, and CHIP.
7. Require drug and device manufacturers to provide payments and incentives to providers and physicians, with a zero tolerance policy regarding transparency.
8. Strengthen existing incentives for tests and procedures; eliminate all documentation of primary care outcomes.
9. Increase the prevalence of C-sections, reduce the use of doulas, and eliminate the education of women about the risks and benefits of obstetric procedures. Create special, more lenient laws concerning the murder of abortion providers.
10. The number of uninsured Americans under 65 has increased more than 10 million since 1999, or an increase of little more than 1 million per year. Increase premium costs and coverage restrictions to magnify this trend and further reduce costs.
11. Appoint Princeton University's Peter Singer as Czar for Life of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, giving him broad discretion on policy decisions.
12. Close all free clinics, and require insurance coverage for care in all provider settings. Enact legislation banning the un-insured and under-insured from stepping within 500 feet of all provider settings.
13. Bomb France. And Cuba. And Scandinavia as a whole. More wars = more patients.
(For SE.)
24-hour news cycle
In the basement of the Fermi National Accelerator laboratory, scientists have set up a large maze, home to a continuous experiment. At one end, typically at the start of a given day, they release a rat. At the other is a blue button, and when the rat reaches and pushes the button a cube of delicious cheese drops onto a small red plate positioned in front of the button. The maze spans the entire 3.9 mi. facility, from the Tevatron to the Main Injector, and under ideal circumstances it takes the rat a full day to complete.
When the button is depressed, an action impetus is also broadcast via satellite into the brains of the editors in chief and station directors who lead our nation's noble information infrastructure. An internal chemical reaction forces them to tire of whatever subject they were covering nonstop and to seize instantly on whatever next topic comes to mind.
Sometimes the test rat gets lost or dies, corresponding to news events we will later consider to have been major, such as a hurricane or the marital strife of vague celebrities. The next day, scientists send in an additional rat. On rare occasions (9-11, etc.) the second rat also gets lost or dies, and a third must be released into the maze. If for some reason a fourth fails to reach the goal, a technician presses the button, the maze is checked for obstructions and cleansed of missing rats, and a new rat is released the following day.
Rats completing the maze successfully are repatriated to New York City.
When the button is depressed, an action impetus is also broadcast via satellite into the brains of the editors in chief and station directors who lead our nation's noble information infrastructure. An internal chemical reaction forces them to tire of whatever subject they were covering nonstop and to seize instantly on whatever next topic comes to mind.
Sometimes the test rat gets lost or dies, corresponding to news events we will later consider to have been major, such as a hurricane or the marital strife of vague celebrities. The next day, scientists send in an additional rat. On rare occasions (9-11, etc.) the second rat also gets lost or dies, and a third must be released into the maze. If for some reason a fourth fails to reach the goal, a technician presses the button, the maze is checked for obstructions and cleansed of missing rats, and a new rat is released the following day.
Rats completing the maze successfully are repatriated to New York City.
6.24.2009
cautery
Burning bridges give you even more than burning airlines. Because eventually they can send other planes, whereas a bridge takes time. If you want to be alone, start with the bridges. To burn a friendship fast throw insults, piss on the outstretched hand. To burn a friendship slow ignore it. When your friend drives past, turn off the lights so they can see you hide. Ignore the doorbell. To burn a relationship heap emotional abuse until you've chased the person out of town. Now call her every night and tell her how much you love her. (Tell her you're sorry, tell her you need your baby). Burn away your potential for sorrow, for kinship, for hope for anything beyond a sports score or a boatload of cash. Burn away love so the only other death you ever have to face is your own. Reach out just enough to maintain a perfunctory variable sex life. Burn away potential for emotion as a kind of cautery. Only keep hate, you need that as fuel. The others simply aren't cost effective. There are a lot of ways to burn memories. One technique is burn as you go-- pay no attention to anything that happens and you don't have to worry.
Father's Day night L. and I got a sitter and saw Up. I couldn't stop crying for the whole movie. I was happy to, it's been years since I was able to outside of being maudlin wasted. Part of being able to cry was that it was a beautiful movie, economically edited, exquisitely written, and wonderfully drawn. Another part was what parenthood has done, loving the little one without the slightest hesitation. Part of it is being more open than maybe ever, to the way I feel, the way other people feel. Part of it is that I wasn't eating popcorn or drinking a big fat soda. There was only the movie, and L and I holding hands, and our lives here.
Father's Day night L. and I got a sitter and saw Up. I couldn't stop crying for the whole movie. I was happy to, it's been years since I was able to outside of being maudlin wasted. Part of being able to cry was that it was a beautiful movie, economically edited, exquisitely written, and wonderfully drawn. Another part was what parenthood has done, loving the little one without the slightest hesitation. Part of it is being more open than maybe ever, to the way I feel, the way other people feel. Part of it is that I wasn't eating popcorn or drinking a big fat soda. There was only the movie, and L and I holding hands, and our lives here.
6.23.2009
metronome
I messed up my ears hanging out with guitarists. Nothing angers a guitarist like the keyboard player asking him to turn down. Then I was 30 and half deaf too.
Bands are a good place to learn that god hates you, that only rarely does man understand his fellow man. Most bands are amateur hour, without measure or law, a battle of myopic painters to see who can pitch the most neon onto a canvas too small to share, while the drummer runs forward to smear logs of fresh shit over everything in the manner of an expressive gibbon. Silence and space banished to un-imaginability.
To aid me in my solo project, to be completed by 2025 at the absolute latest, I've procured a hearing aid with a metronome implanted in it. A small remote adjusts volume, tempo, and tone. The presets include Classic (faux pendulum metronome, Digital Madness (treble-bound octaves of any note), and Dom DeLuise (in which the late actor exhorts one to 'prac-tice' repeatedly in a number of time signatures and languages).
The metronome keeps me out of trouble. A sense of time curving, stretching and contracting is a narcotic for me, and prior to the installation I would go to great and reprehensible lengths to achieve it. The metronome is handy late at night, when cartons of ice cream would otherwise go emptied, or at my desk at work, when productivity might slip for a second, or an hour, or a day. It's handy in dull social settings. The metronome adds order, dividing the world into manageable, symmetric packets, provides information I know I can trust as valid and precise.
Early on, my mother and father urged me to success, to earn, if not a position as the conductor of an elite institution such as the All South Jersey Orchestra, then at least a modicum of rhythmic dignity and respectability in whatever profession I chose. Rare to consensus in all else, they insisted on the metronome as a unified voice. Practice is useless without it, Man needeth but food, sleep, and a metronome, etc.
But if my mother ran an errand and the mood struck him, my dad would quietly lock the swinging bar of the metronome in place and leave me to practice on my own, with my own sense of time. The notes carried me out to sea, into the depths and currents of feeling. When she returned, it always took me by surprise and I would back quickly away from the piano, as if it were a man just knifed in the back.
For a while when I lived on my own, I was happy to do without a metronome. But I see now that that was a foolish waste of time. That a man with his feet on the ground is to be admired and respected, that a man at sea is in trouble, whether he knows it or not.
Bands are a good place to learn that god hates you, that only rarely does man understand his fellow man. Most bands are amateur hour, without measure or law, a battle of myopic painters to see who can pitch the most neon onto a canvas too small to share, while the drummer runs forward to smear logs of fresh shit over everything in the manner of an expressive gibbon. Silence and space banished to un-imaginability.
To aid me in my solo project, to be completed by 2025 at the absolute latest, I've procured a hearing aid with a metronome implanted in it. A small remote adjusts volume, tempo, and tone. The presets include Classic (faux pendulum metronome, Digital Madness (treble-bound octaves of any note), and Dom DeLuise (in which the late actor exhorts one to 'prac-tice' repeatedly in a number of time signatures and languages).
The metronome keeps me out of trouble. A sense of time curving, stretching and contracting is a narcotic for me, and prior to the installation I would go to great and reprehensible lengths to achieve it. The metronome is handy late at night, when cartons of ice cream would otherwise go emptied, or at my desk at work, when productivity might slip for a second, or an hour, or a day. It's handy in dull social settings. The metronome adds order, dividing the world into manageable, symmetric packets, provides information I know I can trust as valid and precise.
Early on, my mother and father urged me to success, to earn, if not a position as the conductor of an elite institution such as the All South Jersey Orchestra, then at least a modicum of rhythmic dignity and respectability in whatever profession I chose. Rare to consensus in all else, they insisted on the metronome as a unified voice. Practice is useless without it, Man needeth but food, sleep, and a metronome, etc.
But if my mother ran an errand and the mood struck him, my dad would quietly lock the swinging bar of the metronome in place and leave me to practice on my own, with my own sense of time. The notes carried me out to sea, into the depths and currents of feeling. When she returned, it always took me by surprise and I would back quickly away from the piano, as if it were a man just knifed in the back.
For a while when I lived on my own, I was happy to do without a metronome. But I see now that that was a foolish waste of time. That a man with his feet on the ground is to be admired and respected, that a man at sea is in trouble, whether he knows it or not.
6.21.2009
99 problems...
...and a drink ain't one. It's been that many days since I had a sip of alcohol. I feel boatloads healthier but also, like the guy at the asylum who's started skipping his medication.
I've always been so critical of meds (as "a short-cut to dealing with one's real problems"). Turns out I've been using my own cheaper, less effective form since age 18. And that I maybe can't handle my real problems.
Since I quit drinking I've craved much more red meat (and have gone with that). I've craved cigarettes (have not). I've craved pot (too much effort to find down here, and the synapses need no further loosening). I've drunk way too much coffee, which in the right doses makes me crazier. Green tea has helped, but you can over do that too; my balls turned green. My distracted craving for new computer information has been more intense than ever. Music, love, writing, and friendship help. Exercise has helped too, but it's been hard to get into a rhythm with it.
The goal for the second hundred days of the new Freeman administration is to find better medicine -- something sustainable that is less about escape and shielding from all I fear, and more about constructive engagement. Actually fighting the monsters under the bed, etc.
I've always been so critical of meds (as "a short-cut to dealing with one's real problems"). Turns out I've been using my own cheaper, less effective form since age 18. And that I maybe can't handle my real problems.
Since I quit drinking I've craved much more red meat (and have gone with that). I've craved cigarettes (have not). I've craved pot (too much effort to find down here, and the synapses need no further loosening). I've drunk way too much coffee, which in the right doses makes me crazier. Green tea has helped, but you can over do that too; my balls turned green. My distracted craving for new computer information has been more intense than ever. Music, love, writing, and friendship help. Exercise has helped too, but it's been hard to get into a rhythm with it.
The goal for the second hundred days of the new Freeman administration is to find better medicine -- something sustainable that is less about escape and shielding from all I fear, and more about constructive engagement. Actually fighting the monsters under the bed, etc.
6.10.2009
angel of the pines
We met up at the Palace Diner and drove east, drinking coffee from big paper cups. She and I hadn't talked just the two of us in a while so we kept the conversation light: family, the future, mortality. That with new kids and aging parents neither of us has wills set up or knows where anyone's are.
We kept passing flower shops for Gerda on the way, but I kept waiting for the perfect one. Then for a long time there weren't any, just pines, and pines, and thick fog.
My sister had to study for an exam. I was feeling talky and expansive, but I put on Beck and shut myself up so she could. It was suicide Beck, the best Beck, Beck at the end of his rope, the stuff where Scientology couldn't help. Sorry man, we were looking for thetans, this is some other shit entirely. You could picture Beck stuck on the side of the road with a flat, cursing his fate among the pines. And people just driving past, ignoring him, not to be mean or crass, just to urge him on to his best stuff.
We found flowers at the last possible moment at a garden center, pink impatients in a big hanging basket. Then we were on the bridge to Long Beach Island, suspended now only in the fog, dark gray water implied on all sides. My sister closed her book and said she missed the pines. I knew what she meant: As if instead of holding demons and witches, those pines were home to a protective angel, who kept watch over our families and everyone we loved. You couldn't trust the gods of the sea the same way.
Gerda had been admitted to LBI General on Monday with a heartbeat of minus 14 and complaining of slight fatigue. Technically dead, they said, but walking, talking. They'd put a pacemaker in and today she was better, already bored and ready to get out of there.
The same was true for our grandfather: though relieved, he was also bored and getting punchy in his bedside capacity. Getting to know death is one thing, what are you going to do, but the gradual intrusion of hospitals is another entirely. It's like a preview of hell where the TVs are too small, the meals lack salt entirely, and the best dinner option is probably the barbecue chicken, only they only have that every other day.
The conversation stayed on food. Gerda was talking about a particularly good Reuben sandwich she'd had. What goes in a Reuben, anyway? We started talking about Chinese, which our grandfather likes. Then about his food options at home, cooking for himself before Gerda got out of the hospital. There were frozen shrimp and leftover stuffed shells in the fridge. Hot dogs and canned ravioli. A Phillies game on TV.
When it was time to go my sister and I were both starving. We passed a McDonalds on the way back through Manahawkin, but I wasn't sure. Then we stopped at an Italian place, but the pizza all looked petrified, like something in a museum for display. Finally we settled on McDonald's, and started back.
We kept passing flower shops for Gerda on the way, but I kept waiting for the perfect one. Then for a long time there weren't any, just pines, and pines, and thick fog.
My sister had to study for an exam. I was feeling talky and expansive, but I put on Beck and shut myself up so she could. It was suicide Beck, the best Beck, Beck at the end of his rope, the stuff where Scientology couldn't help. Sorry man, we were looking for thetans, this is some other shit entirely. You could picture Beck stuck on the side of the road with a flat, cursing his fate among the pines. And people just driving past, ignoring him, not to be mean or crass, just to urge him on to his best stuff.
We found flowers at the last possible moment at a garden center, pink impatients in a big hanging basket. Then we were on the bridge to Long Beach Island, suspended now only in the fog, dark gray water implied on all sides. My sister closed her book and said she missed the pines. I knew what she meant: As if instead of holding demons and witches, those pines were home to a protective angel, who kept watch over our families and everyone we loved. You couldn't trust the gods of the sea the same way.
Gerda had been admitted to LBI General on Monday with a heartbeat of minus 14 and complaining of slight fatigue. Technically dead, they said, but walking, talking. They'd put a pacemaker in and today she was better, already bored and ready to get out of there.
The same was true for our grandfather: though relieved, he was also bored and getting punchy in his bedside capacity. Getting to know death is one thing, what are you going to do, but the gradual intrusion of hospitals is another entirely. It's like a preview of hell where the TVs are too small, the meals lack salt entirely, and the best dinner option is probably the barbecue chicken, only they only have that every other day.
The conversation stayed on food. Gerda was talking about a particularly good Reuben sandwich she'd had. What goes in a Reuben, anyway? We started talking about Chinese, which our grandfather likes. Then about his food options at home, cooking for himself before Gerda got out of the hospital. There were frozen shrimp and leftover stuffed shells in the fridge. Hot dogs and canned ravioli. A Phillies game on TV.
When it was time to go my sister and I were both starving. We passed a McDonalds on the way back through Manahawkin, but I wasn't sure. Then we stopped at an Italian place, but the pizza all looked petrified, like something in a museum for display. Finally we settled on McDonald's, and started back.
6.09.2009
fortune cookie (Elora 2)
You can have a better tomorrow. Many women who are lonely have just given up too soon in trying to find a partner. The man you're hoping for could be within five blocks, three towns away, in another state, or in another country. You might meet him in a few days or it might take months. It shouldn't take years but it honestly could. The man you're hoping for might have lived in another era, or may not yet be born.
Perhaps you almost met the man you're hoping for at a friend's party but instead you played it shy. Maybe you flicked your hair meaningfully but he didn't catch it. Maybe he wandered into the kitchen looking for ice, then walked out onto the back porch to look at the moon, only the moon was so big he decided to walk in the woods out back, with the sound of crickets and night birds telling him everything is going to be alright, everything. Maybe he's still walking. Or he got lost and starved, now carrion birds are picking his bones clean. I'm not saying the man you were hoping for was a survivalist. I think he'd had a bit to drink, too.
Maybe you actually met the man you're hoping for only he wasn't hoping for you. Maybe he even briefly thought he was hoping for you the same, but actually, no, he was hoping for his new fiance, queen of last week's Vows in the Times, who has bigger boobs, more Times-worthy parents, and actually holds his interest.
But don't worry about before. What's done is done. Seriously, if you could change three things about the past, what would it be? Bullshit aside. Asking as a friend. Obsess over the past. Those who don't must surely relive it, etc. Your romantic past is pure gold. Seriously. Forever.
I opened a fortune cookie a few months ago, when some things weren't going too well on a number of fronts. The little paper inside was perfectly blank and I started to cry. I knew then that the universe had little of note in store for me. That I would live out the rest of my days without much meaning. This will be my last column for Cupid's Bow.
Listen: Find a man you can tolerate physically, the smartest one you can find, but don't be too picky on either count. Find him at a moment of relative weakness (e.g. during a transition in his career, or after he has just been dumped). Find that man, confuse the shit out of him, and mold him into the man you were hoping for. Move on, I mean it, you're too stubborn, get to bed, hon.
(Elora up late reading online romantic advice gives up, stubs out cigarette.)
Perhaps you almost met the man you're hoping for at a friend's party but instead you played it shy. Maybe you flicked your hair meaningfully but he didn't catch it. Maybe he wandered into the kitchen looking for ice, then walked out onto the back porch to look at the moon, only the moon was so big he decided to walk in the woods out back, with the sound of crickets and night birds telling him everything is going to be alright, everything. Maybe he's still walking. Or he got lost and starved, now carrion birds are picking his bones clean. I'm not saying the man you were hoping for was a survivalist. I think he'd had a bit to drink, too.
Maybe you actually met the man you're hoping for only he wasn't hoping for you. Maybe he even briefly thought he was hoping for you the same, but actually, no, he was hoping for his new fiance, queen of last week's Vows in the Times, who has bigger boobs, more Times-worthy parents, and actually holds his interest.
But don't worry about before. What's done is done. Seriously, if you could change three things about the past, what would it be? Bullshit aside. Asking as a friend. Obsess over the past. Those who don't must surely relive it, etc. Your romantic past is pure gold. Seriously. Forever.
I opened a fortune cookie a few months ago, when some things weren't going too well on a number of fronts. The little paper inside was perfectly blank and I started to cry. I knew then that the universe had little of note in store for me. That I would live out the rest of my days without much meaning. This will be my last column for Cupid's Bow.
Listen: Find a man you can tolerate physically, the smartest one you can find, but don't be too picky on either count. Find him at a moment of relative weakness (e.g. during a transition in his career, or after he has just been dumped). Find that man, confuse the shit out of him, and mold him into the man you were hoping for. Move on, I mean it, you're too stubborn, get to bed, hon.
(Elora up late reading online romantic advice gives up, stubs out cigarette.)
5.31.2009
division by zero (Elora 1)
Elora had a calculator that could divide by zero. When she pressed equal she held her breath. The answer was always the same.
When she pressed equal she made a wish. Usually the same one every time. But once in a blue moon she wished she existed as an infinite quantity of Eloras in an infinite number of universes. Like a competition, so she could pick a few she liked best and focus on those.
They'd met in Brooklyn, at a bar with a potentially ironic nautical theme and nothing on tap. He'd gone to great lengths to win her over, gesticulating wildly as they leaned against the fake oak bar, with a lifeboat looming overhead and no less than 20 life preservers at the ready.
At the pivotal moment of his argument, making the case to take her home, he'd actually said: "In layman's terms, there are a very large, perhaps infinite, number of universes. Everything that could possibly happen or have happened in our universe, but doesn't or hasn't, actually happens in other universes."
Looking back, the fact that in some universes it must have worked out between them didn't grant comfort so much as spotlight that in this shitty hole of a universe, the real universe, their meeting had marked the beginning of a tremendous downturn in Elora's life.
"If you want to kiss me," she said, cutting him off midway through some further explanation, "sing karaoke."
This had unsettled him and at first he'd refused, stammering, still gesticulating wildly. Finally he'd chosen Roberta Flack and sung it all off key, the tonic vacillating between 3 or 4 incompatible notes.
Aware that that wasn't working he'd added Wyclef Jean ad libs, little one-time one-times, singing that like he was black and sending the patrons of the bar scattering to the lavs or far corners of the bar, scrambling to dodge a tidal wave of cultural insult that could drive a stake through the hot heart of Saturday night, pinning them drenched and screaming to their Monday desks.
Whatever her wish the answer was always the same. But the problem with infinity is that it's useless when what you want is to stand on solid ground, or to be nothing so that none of this has ever happened.
He'd returned to the bar shoulders slumped, a Poseidon who'd lost his trident and with it the respect of all sea creatures. But he'd seemed so vulnerable that she'd kissed him anyway.
With her expectations lowered his apartment and manner in bed weren't nearly as bad as feared. Anyway this city wasn't a buyer's market, you had to find fixer-upper men and hope you could make do with a little paint and spackle.
You could see the clock tower from his bedroom and after an hour or so she even fell asleep, which generally did not happen in these situations. In the morning he made her pancakes, pouring the batter expertly and timing them such that they inflated and never sank, as if puffed constantly by little jets of air.
When she pressed equal she made a wish. Usually the same one every time. But once in a blue moon she wished she existed as an infinite quantity of Eloras in an infinite number of universes. Like a competition, so she could pick a few she liked best and focus on those.
They'd met in Brooklyn, at a bar with a potentially ironic nautical theme and nothing on tap. He'd gone to great lengths to win her over, gesticulating wildly as they leaned against the fake oak bar, with a lifeboat looming overhead and no less than 20 life preservers at the ready.
At the pivotal moment of his argument, making the case to take her home, he'd actually said: "In layman's terms, there are a very large, perhaps infinite, number of universes. Everything that could possibly happen or have happened in our universe, but doesn't or hasn't, actually happens in other universes."
Looking back, the fact that in some universes it must have worked out between them didn't grant comfort so much as spotlight that in this shitty hole of a universe, the real universe, their meeting had marked the beginning of a tremendous downturn in Elora's life.
"If you want to kiss me," she said, cutting him off midway through some further explanation, "sing karaoke."
This had unsettled him and at first he'd refused, stammering, still gesticulating wildly. Finally he'd chosen Roberta Flack and sung it all off key, the tonic vacillating between 3 or 4 incompatible notes.
Aware that that wasn't working he'd added Wyclef Jean ad libs, little one-time one-times, singing that like he was black and sending the patrons of the bar scattering to the lavs or far corners of the bar, scrambling to dodge a tidal wave of cultural insult that could drive a stake through the hot heart of Saturday night, pinning them drenched and screaming to their Monday desks.
Whatever her wish the answer was always the same. But the problem with infinity is that it's useless when what you want is to stand on solid ground, or to be nothing so that none of this has ever happened.
He'd returned to the bar shoulders slumped, a Poseidon who'd lost his trident and with it the respect of all sea creatures. But he'd seemed so vulnerable that she'd kissed him anyway.
With her expectations lowered his apartment and manner in bed weren't nearly as bad as feared. Anyway this city wasn't a buyer's market, you had to find fixer-upper men and hope you could make do with a little paint and spackle.
You could see the clock tower from his bedroom and after an hour or so she even fell asleep, which generally did not happen in these situations. In the morning he made her pancakes, pouring the batter expertly and timing them such that they inflated and never sank, as if puffed constantly by little jets of air.
5.27.2009
piles of newspapers
A man and a women fall in love, buy a house, and dedicate themselves to filling it with piles of newspapers. "Our love is eternal," says the man. "We need a subscription," agrees the woman.
The secret to not throwing out the paper is that it prevents the day from ending. Whereas before, time might have been a succession of days, one leading to the next, now it should be pictured more as a kind of revolving door. By staying longer in the door, you end up right where you started. Time stops: Nothing can hurt you, nobody dies, and love never ends.
There are marital relations between the man and woman, and they have 2.5 children. When the piles grow too high they carve paths with a hedger. When that becomes unsustainable they pitch a tent in the backyard, sending the half-child into the house on slender missions to find somewhere, anywhere, where a newspaper can be added.
On one such mission the half-child disappears and the marriage of the man and the woman faces its first crisis. It's the man's thought that the game is up; that they must empty the house of newspapers in the desperate hope of finding their beloved half-child. The woman sees his side, but believes that altering the process now would renew the passage of time, thus re-opening their lives to pain, death, and disappointment.
(Or, what's the sense of regaining a half-child, only to see the entire family threatened by the vagaries of chance, desire, and destiny?)
In the backyard camp of the man and the woman a quiet argument rages, while little ones dream Morse code from a brave half-sibling. By dawn a compromise is reached. Cranes remove the roof of the house, and the man and woman find the half-child -- malnourished, scared, and over-read, yes, but very much alive.
The love of the man and woman blossoms and their pile of newspapers grows to tower over the whole neighborhood. A beacon of hope and truth in a decaying, dangerous world.
The secret to not throwing out the paper is that it prevents the day from ending. Whereas before, time might have been a succession of days, one leading to the next, now it should be pictured more as a kind of revolving door. By staying longer in the door, you end up right where you started. Time stops: Nothing can hurt you, nobody dies, and love never ends.
There are marital relations between the man and woman, and they have 2.5 children. When the piles grow too high they carve paths with a hedger. When that becomes unsustainable they pitch a tent in the backyard, sending the half-child into the house on slender missions to find somewhere, anywhere, where a newspaper can be added.
On one such mission the half-child disappears and the marriage of the man and the woman faces its first crisis. It's the man's thought that the game is up; that they must empty the house of newspapers in the desperate hope of finding their beloved half-child. The woman sees his side, but believes that altering the process now would renew the passage of time, thus re-opening their lives to pain, death, and disappointment.
(Or, what's the sense of regaining a half-child, only to see the entire family threatened by the vagaries of chance, desire, and destiny?)
In the backyard camp of the man and the woman a quiet argument rages, while little ones dream Morse code from a brave half-sibling. By dawn a compromise is reached. Cranes remove the roof of the house, and the man and woman find the half-child -- malnourished, scared, and over-read, yes, but very much alive.
The love of the man and woman blossoms and their pile of newspapers grows to tower over the whole neighborhood. A beacon of hope and truth in a decaying, dangerous world.
5.25.2009
blaming the demon drink
More reprehensible shit I did when I was drinking, and making blog amends.
To my parents: I'm sorry I worshiped the devil in your house. That I traded your furniture for a quart of hooch. For the fire, and that I put out that hit.
To my first wife, my heart's desire, my Becky Sue: I'm sorry I didn't wash the dishes unless you begged, that I never said sorry until morning. That I slept with your parents, spurring our pulsating bodies forward on that fateful autumn paddle boat, Baltimore Harbor, 1997. Though I know it can never be enough, I've taken down the streaming video.
To Mindy, my treasure, my second wife: I'm sorry, sincerely sorry I sold our children on E-Bay. What I can say is that each fetched the Buy It Now price, that each faced ground shipping with the heart of a champion. I know that parental pride can only take you so far; after that you want the identities of the purchasers. I can only apologize again, my love, and refer you to E-bay's privacy policy.
To the Gay Men's Chorus of San Diego: I'm sorry I hurt you, sorry I disrespected you. All I have is a heavy heart, a dim memory of awakening center stage under a pile of cops, and this restraining order. Please be assured that I intend to honor it.
To the countries I invaded, the Space Shuttle I blew up, the old ladies I mugged, the orphans I stole candy from, the cats I skinned/dogs I ran over and others too countless to name: I'm sorry. It wasn't me, it was the demon drink. Today is the first day of the rest of my life.
To my parents: I'm sorry I worshiped the devil in your house. That I traded your furniture for a quart of hooch. For the fire, and that I put out that hit.
To my first wife, my heart's desire, my Becky Sue: I'm sorry I didn't wash the dishes unless you begged, that I never said sorry until morning. That I slept with your parents, spurring our pulsating bodies forward on that fateful autumn paddle boat, Baltimore Harbor, 1997. Though I know it can never be enough, I've taken down the streaming video.
To Mindy, my treasure, my second wife: I'm sorry, sincerely sorry I sold our children on E-Bay. What I can say is that each fetched the Buy It Now price, that each faced ground shipping with the heart of a champion. I know that parental pride can only take you so far; after that you want the identities of the purchasers. I can only apologize again, my love, and refer you to E-bay's privacy policy.
To the Gay Men's Chorus of San Diego: I'm sorry I hurt you, sorry I disrespected you. All I have is a heavy heart, a dim memory of awakening center stage under a pile of cops, and this restraining order. Please be assured that I intend to honor it.
To the countries I invaded, the Space Shuttle I blew up, the old ladies I mugged, the orphans I stole candy from, the cats I skinned/dogs I ran over and others too countless to name: I'm sorry. It wasn't me, it was the demon drink. Today is the first day of the rest of my life.
5.23.2009
quack
Nat's first word! Pointing and laughing at rubber ducks in the tub, in the silly voice he cribbed from his mother. Slapping the water with wild flat palms.
5.22.2009
house on fire
I have a snow globe, something I got for Christmas when I was 17 from an aunt overseas who'd never acknowledged that I'd grown past 9.
The layout is basic snow globe. There's a two-story 19th century house, with a lamp post and a horse in a small barn off to the back of the lot, surrounded by a couple of other, smaller houses. A few tiny neighbors walking by. The ground snow-covered, and the sidewalks. The streets are just wet--shiny and black.
On the bottom of the globe, under the base, I mean, there's a white button. You shake the globe and push the button and after a few minutes, little plumes of smoke start curling out from the top windows of the house. Eventually tiny flames lick all four sides, bottom up, and then the whole thing's up in flames.
At the last second there's an additional flicker of activity in the house, a man and woman trying to run out, but you can see it's too late.
I'm not sure my aunt knew about the button, but it's possible she'd been baiting me for years, and this was her idea of a sick joke or life lesson.
The layout is basic snow globe. There's a two-story 19th century house, with a lamp post and a horse in a small barn off to the back of the lot, surrounded by a couple of other, smaller houses. A few tiny neighbors walking by. The ground snow-covered, and the sidewalks. The streets are just wet--shiny and black.
On the bottom of the globe, under the base, I mean, there's a white button. You shake the globe and push the button and after a few minutes, little plumes of smoke start curling out from the top windows of the house. Eventually tiny flames lick all four sides, bottom up, and then the whole thing's up in flames.
At the last second there's an additional flicker of activity in the house, a man and woman trying to run out, but you can see it's too late.
I'm not sure my aunt knew about the button, but it's possible she'd been baiting me for years, and this was her idea of a sick joke or life lesson.
5.20.2009
bird's eye view
You're on a hike, a day hike where all of human history is a mountain range. Some of the mountains are green, verdant, lush as spring. Some are gray and snow-capped, some are solid lava long-cooled, burning lakes of fire bubbling inside. Some, and these are the shitty ones, trust me, are totally man-made. Styrofoam. But the mountains are so densely packed, one taller than the next, that all you can see is the mountain you're on, maybe a little of the next one or the one behind you. This hike is long as fuck; luckily you've brought some optimal-assed trail mix that's keeping you in tip-top stride. You're the shit, don't sweat it.
On your hike you walk past everyone who's ever lived. It's only polite to wave hello, hiker's credo, and as you do you notice a range of expression and experience. Any emotion, hope, or dream you can name, lit in the eyes and faces of your fellow hikers. All the evil or good there's ever been, etc. But everyone says hello, down to the best and worst of them, and as you pass you can understand how they all got to where they are, to where they were. What's crazy is you're struck point by point by history, seemingly at random. One hiker's from 1709. Another from 1933, and this kid from 702. Another is from this exact age. Then you're in different calendars, the future, etc.
It's a disorienting trip and you're almost out of trail mix. Fuck this metaphor. Only then you get to the highest peak in the whole range. The highest by far. And out there below you is all human history, everyone and everything there's ever been, and for a minute you can sit on a rock and take it in, that whole god-damned crazy dense trip, before you start back.
For just that interlude you're outside it and this is life, this thing you're looking at from the outside, from a bird's eye view. And the weight's almost too much to bear, but who cares what you can bear because in the end your view only matters so much, it's one in a zillion.
Spent more time with Bach's "Aria Varied in an Italian Manner" today. Variation IX breaks it wide open-- switching the time from 4/4 to 12/8, throwing an aerial view at what had previously just been another fat guy in a South Jersey rec room.
On your hike you walk past everyone who's ever lived. It's only polite to wave hello, hiker's credo, and as you do you notice a range of expression and experience. Any emotion, hope, or dream you can name, lit in the eyes and faces of your fellow hikers. All the evil or good there's ever been, etc. But everyone says hello, down to the best and worst of them, and as you pass you can understand how they all got to where they are, to where they were. What's crazy is you're struck point by point by history, seemingly at random. One hiker's from 1709. Another from 1933, and this kid from 702. Another is from this exact age. Then you're in different calendars, the future, etc.
It's a disorienting trip and you're almost out of trail mix. Fuck this metaphor. Only then you get to the highest peak in the whole range. The highest by far. And out there below you is all human history, everyone and everything there's ever been, and for a minute you can sit on a rock and take it in, that whole god-damned crazy dense trip, before you start back.
For just that interlude you're outside it and this is life, this thing you're looking at from the outside, from a bird's eye view. And the weight's almost too much to bear, but who cares what you can bear because in the end your view only matters so much, it's one in a zillion.
Spent more time with Bach's "Aria Varied in an Italian Manner" today. Variation IX breaks it wide open-- switching the time from 4/4 to 12/8, throwing an aerial view at what had previously just been another fat guy in a South Jersey rec room.
5.18.2009
a fall is a flight
The piano fell out of tune in February, which the tuner said would happen when he first came in December. It was May before I called him back. He said it should be good now until the end of the summer, when the shifting weather will drag the pitch in a million different directions.
This morning in its best new intonation the piano couldn't have expected the torture I'd put it through, mucking up some Bach. Variations on an aria in an Italian manner, in the manner of five sonnambulatic Italians in a potato sack race, with their ankles tied together on a pot-holed 70-degree incline.
But every variation repeats, giving me a chance that second or fifth time through to approximate triplets and grace notes, notes that by a generous reckoning might even register as 16ths, were the tempo slowed 200 percent and the listeners dosed with ketamine.
The problem is trying find the right note. Only one note is; the rest are garbage at best or at worst, fusion. The detective should say something clever and piercing; he shouldn't speak with the air of a spurned lover in a harlequin romance or don a Cincinatti Bengals uniform, unless that move comes in the service of solving the case. The sprinter doesn't squat to shit mid-way through the hundred yard dash, nor does the tight-rope walker at the midpoint of the wavering rope. Unless for either it is a shitting to absolve oneself of a tremendous weight, to sail onward to victory with unprecedented lightness.
By their own survival instinct the notes form lines, a sheet on a summer clothesline with storm wind under it, lifting it into concave sine patterns. For a second my Italians become airborne and a fall is a flight. Then I hit a clinker, and can't get the flow back. I have to go, it's time for work, and that's all I can think for the last few bars.
This morning in its best new intonation the piano couldn't have expected the torture I'd put it through, mucking up some Bach. Variations on an aria in an Italian manner, in the manner of five sonnambulatic Italians in a potato sack race, with their ankles tied together on a pot-holed 70-degree incline.
But every variation repeats, giving me a chance that second or fifth time through to approximate triplets and grace notes, notes that by a generous reckoning might even register as 16ths, were the tempo slowed 200 percent and the listeners dosed with ketamine.
The problem is trying find the right note. Only one note is; the rest are garbage at best or at worst, fusion. The detective should say something clever and piercing; he shouldn't speak with the air of a spurned lover in a harlequin romance or don a Cincinatti Bengals uniform, unless that move comes in the service of solving the case. The sprinter doesn't squat to shit mid-way through the hundred yard dash, nor does the tight-rope walker at the midpoint of the wavering rope. Unless for either it is a shitting to absolve oneself of a tremendous weight, to sail onward to victory with unprecedented lightness.
By their own survival instinct the notes form lines, a sheet on a summer clothesline with storm wind under it, lifting it into concave sine patterns. For a second my Italians become airborne and a fall is a flight. Then I hit a clinker, and can't get the flow back. I have to go, it's time for work, and that's all I can think for the last few bars.
5.17.2009
two months
Two months since I had a drink. I'm clearer, more level. Most of my old t-shirts and all of my pants fit again. I feel more aware of how I'm feeling and better able to check that needs be. I'm also a thousand times less depressed.
I just read my first Zola, L'Assommoir, which shows the arc of a couple destroyed by drink. The husband gets delirium tremens; the wife dies under a staircase. While both situations struck me as extreme to be directly applicable to my life, they also rang true.
In about 15 years drinking I did some reprehensible shit. I drove drunk twice, once getting pulled over and only escaping a breathalyzer out of luck and over-politeness. I kicked in a door in a maudlin rage, dated the wrong people, dated the right people and systematically fucked their friends. I flunked out of college, saw and instantly forgot lover's eyes or movies. Came close to punching someone I love in the face.
I cried my eyes out because a girl wouldn't kiss me, then drank so much I puked before she could. I lost friends, drank until I couldn't get drunker, then snorted heroin or popped capsules of unknown chemical liquid. Blacked out and woke up in somebody's mouth (okay I'm not saying it was all bad).
Early one morning I got into an accident, maybe one I would have avoided had I been more alert, less groggy and hungover. Another time I almost pulled out in front of an 18-wheeler. Not drunk then, just hung over. Sluggish. Another time I crashed a TNT-laden chopper into a childrens' hospital.
I owe it to my family not to hasten death on purpose. To take care of myself and them. To pay more attention. There are things I wanted to understand more in the Zola, so I'm reading it again.
I just read my first Zola, L'Assommoir, which shows the arc of a couple destroyed by drink. The husband gets delirium tremens; the wife dies under a staircase. While both situations struck me as extreme to be directly applicable to my life, they also rang true.
In about 15 years drinking I did some reprehensible shit. I drove drunk twice, once getting pulled over and only escaping a breathalyzer out of luck and over-politeness. I kicked in a door in a maudlin rage, dated the wrong people, dated the right people and systematically fucked their friends. I flunked out of college, saw and instantly forgot lover's eyes or movies. Came close to punching someone I love in the face.
I cried my eyes out because a girl wouldn't kiss me, then drank so much I puked before she could. I lost friends, drank until I couldn't get drunker, then snorted heroin or popped capsules of unknown chemical liquid. Blacked out and woke up in somebody's mouth (okay I'm not saying it was all bad).
Early one morning I got into an accident, maybe one I would have avoided had I been more alert, less groggy and hungover. Another time I almost pulled out in front of an 18-wheeler. Not drunk then, just hung over. Sluggish. Another time I crashed a TNT-laden chopper into a childrens' hospital.
I owe it to my family not to hasten death on purpose. To take care of myself and them. To pay more attention. There are things I wanted to understand more in the Zola, so I'm reading it again.
5.13.2009
fundraiser
I've hit a wall in my work raising money for charity: I've come to see the statement of problem as more compelling and believable than the solution I'm trying to sell. The problem can be defined to the nth detail. The solution often seems implied at best and when there are measurable outcomes it's unclear how solving the problem is one of them.
In the end I focus on the quality of how the proposal is written, which I can control. And when it gets funded and it looks like the project will have any positive impact on the world at all, I get all inordinately happy. I guess it should be enough to know that sometimes the work pays people's salaries.
In the end I focus on the quality of how the proposal is written, which I can control. And when it gets funded and it looks like the project will have any positive impact on the world at all, I get all inordinately happy. I guess it should be enough to know that sometimes the work pays people's salaries.
5.11.2009
everyone there was white
Tonight I went to a book party with L., at the Four Seasons in shitty Midtown. The hors d'oevres were delicious but everyone there was white. The book was about the wacky adventures of an investment bank that recently nearly destroyed the U.S. economy.
There were crab cakes and tuna with caviar dressing on potato chips and caviar by itself in little open pouches of dough. There were white bean crackers and spring rolls and shrimp curled into a defensive crouch. Strips of chicken on wooden sticks. All of the servers were white, too.
There were cheese poppers and roast beef crackers and youngish professionals eyeing each other in mating clothes, a group you could picture dashing from the Mayflower with the maddening scent of American money on their noses, pausing only to populate New England.
The guy who turned on the water for you in the bathroom seemed like he might be olive-skinned, maybe from a country near the Mediterranean. But it was dim in there and he turned out to be white too. A guy from a catty website made sincere pleasant smalltalk. Someone complained: "They've declared war on the rich."
We took the V down to 34th and walked over to Penn. There was an altercation at the Sbarro on the corner of 32nd and 7th. Actually, people had set it on fire. Everybody in the crowd outside the burning restaurant was white, too. Eventually the fire was really raging and the crowd had to back away. Their shadows extended far into the sky, arms waving, hands searching out dim stars.
There were crab cakes and tuna with caviar dressing on potato chips and caviar by itself in little open pouches of dough. There were white bean crackers and spring rolls and shrimp curled into a defensive crouch. Strips of chicken on wooden sticks. All of the servers were white, too.
There were cheese poppers and roast beef crackers and youngish professionals eyeing each other in mating clothes, a group you could picture dashing from the Mayflower with the maddening scent of American money on their noses, pausing only to populate New England.
The guy who turned on the water for you in the bathroom seemed like he might be olive-skinned, maybe from a country near the Mediterranean. But it was dim in there and he turned out to be white too. A guy from a catty website made sincere pleasant smalltalk. Someone complained: "They've declared war on the rich."
We took the V down to 34th and walked over to Penn. There was an altercation at the Sbarro on the corner of 32nd and 7th. Actually, people had set it on fire. Everybody in the crowd outside the burning restaurant was white, too. Eventually the fire was really raging and the crowd had to back away. Their shadows extended far into the sky, arms waving, hands searching out dim stars.
5.10.2009
delaware
Nat and I are up early this morning. The air smells like Canada; it's crisp and perfect, like a fresh apple left out over night in an oak bucket. We walk to Wawa and I get you a Times and me a coffee. Nat wants to drink the coffee so we have breakfast, Greek yogurt with Gerber banana mixed in, a small bottle of formula.
We're listening to Monk's Misterioso , its joyful major sixths like a friendly arachnid who lost 2 legs in the war but whose heart melted for love and now he wanders the land, regaling the children with stories of all he's seen. To live and breathe, my children, to eat flies, the colors and sounds and the sweet noble spinning of the Earth. Nat and I like this, he's nodding his head and dancing along to the ribbons of saxophone.
When the Monk finishes and breakfast's done I look through the CDs and find a Death Cab one, the one with the drawn out "I will possess your heart" and not much else I've bonded with (still a listen in progress). I can't figure out what would put me in the mood for that until I remember a day last summer before Nat was out in the air when we drove to Delaware for A's sister's wedding. We had some time so we stopped at Rehoboth. On the way we'd heard the song on the radio and we couldn't stop singing the chorus, which was all we'd retained.
You were so strong carrying our son. That day it was like 100 but you wanted to be on the beach so we were and it hit me how everything was going to change and now it has, only better than I let myself hope. It's incredible to me what you did and what you've done, it's incredible to me that we're here and he's here, over our heads in love.
5.09.2009
late Picasso
At opposite ends of a hall with high wood beamed ceilings are doors. A door of light and a door of dark. Inside the dark room you can't see anything, not even the light from the hall. When your eyes adjust you see blurred shapes on a blurred platform.
In the light room are 20 or so men in 17th-century costume trying out for a TV commercial. The coveted role is Rembrandt, the narrator; the commercial is for a device that's one part bong and one part phallus, called The Dildabong.
The role of Rembrandt calls for the actor to dress as a musketeer, who should wield The Dildabong as a vanquishing sword. For beginners the suggested order is bong, dildo. Mixed mode is recommended only for advanced users craving a more membranous high. The order of the name suggests a yet more challenging application, the possible result of a perilous quest for enlightenment.
In the dark room when your eyes adjust you see lovers on a soft brown bed. Their bodies exhibit abnormal plasticity, as if their genes have scrambled and an arm can have eyes and legs grow sensibly from necks. The constraints of matter became matters of trivia when the lines foreshortened and blurred in the fading light.
Picasso's final performance was in Indianapolis at the Market Square Arena on June 26, 1977. According to many from his entourage, it was the "best show he had given in a long time," with "some strong singing."
In the light room are 20 or so men in 17th-century costume trying out for a TV commercial. The coveted role is Rembrandt, the narrator; the commercial is for a device that's one part bong and one part phallus, called The Dildabong.
The role of Rembrandt calls for the actor to dress as a musketeer, who should wield The Dildabong as a vanquishing sword. For beginners the suggested order is bong, dildo. Mixed mode is recommended only for advanced users craving a more membranous high. The order of the name suggests a yet more challenging application, the possible result of a perilous quest for enlightenment.
In the dark room when your eyes adjust you see lovers on a soft brown bed. Their bodies exhibit abnormal plasticity, as if their genes have scrambled and an arm can have eyes and legs grow sensibly from necks. The constraints of matter became matters of trivia when the lines foreshortened and blurred in the fading light.
Picasso's final performance was in Indianapolis at the Market Square Arena on June 26, 1977. According to many from his entourage, it was the "best show he had given in a long time," with "some strong singing."
5.08.2009
funnel cloud/caesura
the noise from the thunder woke him up. it scared and confused him. he was standing in his crib so freaked his cries were confused and stutter stop. he was still half asleep.
i sat with him on the rocking chair, holding him. sang to him. it wasn't a song with words. it was from a deeper or non-lingual place, a song about safety, intentions, strong hopes for bright futures. a song about Dartmouth. my strong hope that he gets in. it was actually the Dartmouth fight song.
i sat with him until the storm passed, holding him in my arms after he'd long gone back to sleep. by some point it was more for me than for him. caesura to emphasize: concrete example of being able to protect him.
i go to sleep and my dream is of a change of pressure in the room and looking out to see a funnel cloud on the closing horizon. we all have to get to the basement but i'm not sure there's time.
i sat with him on the rocking chair, holding him. sang to him. it wasn't a song with words. it was from a deeper or non-lingual place, a song about safety, intentions, strong hopes for bright futures. a song about Dartmouth. my strong hope that he gets in. it was actually the Dartmouth fight song.
i sat with him until the storm passed, holding him in my arms after he'd long gone back to sleep. by some point it was more for me than for him. caesura to emphasize: concrete example of being able to protect him.
i go to sleep and my dream is of a change of pressure in the room and looking out to see a funnel cloud on the closing horizon. we all have to get to the basement but i'm not sure there's time.
5.02.2009
stress test/wishing you well
I had a stress test this week. Because when I went on vacation this winter when I went out into the water for the first time it felt like my chest had cold fingers stretched inside it, for a long minute. The water was beautiful, crisp and the sunlight had worked out a mutually beneficial arrangement with it. The fingers eventually retracted and maybe it was all my imagination.
I had a stress test because I had a checkup and told a doctor. They shaved my chest in a few places and stuck EKG wires on the cleared skin, then I got on a treadmill. Printer paper spat out the results like a seismograph.
At the end of the test the computer froze. The Windows hourglass for suspense. The tech and the nurse said that happens sometimes. Then the printer changed its pace and a single dense sheet like a photograph started to print. It looked like a Cornell box. An aged wooden box painted navy blue, held together by rusty nails. The box was open so you could see the objects inside. A long lock of a woman's hair. A diecast replica of the Space Shuttle Challenger. A birthday card from my mom's mom that I thought I hadn't saved. And all the mean things I'd ever said to you. They said that happens sometimes, and they'd send the results on to my GP.
We were good friends and that made it seem perfect for us to work together. I know how we pictured it was different than how it turned out. It ended up with both of us stuck pushing forever in opposite directions. It's painful to me because we did good work together. None of it changed the world (which was different from how I pictured it.) But maybe some of it prevented the world from getting worse in small areas that two other people wouldn't have noticed. Maybe it stalled some inevitable decline.
Man, I'm proud of you for seeing we were stuck and making a change. I think I would have been willing to keep pushing until it broke. Maybe it did break and I didn't notice. I'm sorry it got to this. But I wish you well.
The other day in the office you had all your papers in trash bags. A decade worth of records of your good fight. I'm glad I got to help you with some of that. I'm sorry so much energy got wasted trying to make you see my perfect vision of the world.
My hope is that when this shakes out and I'm over here and you're over there we can think of each other and know the other one is trying to make things better. That neither of us is alone in that. Maybe one day we'll be able to talk about it.
I had a stress test because I had a checkup and told a doctor. They shaved my chest in a few places and stuck EKG wires on the cleared skin, then I got on a treadmill. Printer paper spat out the results like a seismograph.
At the end of the test the computer froze. The Windows hourglass for suspense. The tech and the nurse said that happens sometimes. Then the printer changed its pace and a single dense sheet like a photograph started to print. It looked like a Cornell box. An aged wooden box painted navy blue, held together by rusty nails. The box was open so you could see the objects inside. A long lock of a woman's hair. A diecast replica of the Space Shuttle Challenger. A birthday card from my mom's mom that I thought I hadn't saved. And all the mean things I'd ever said to you. They said that happens sometimes, and they'd send the results on to my GP.
We were good friends and that made it seem perfect for us to work together. I know how we pictured it was different than how it turned out. It ended up with both of us stuck pushing forever in opposite directions. It's painful to me because we did good work together. None of it changed the world (which was different from how I pictured it.) But maybe some of it prevented the world from getting worse in small areas that two other people wouldn't have noticed. Maybe it stalled some inevitable decline.
Man, I'm proud of you for seeing we were stuck and making a change. I think I would have been willing to keep pushing until it broke. Maybe it did break and I didn't notice. I'm sorry it got to this. But I wish you well.
The other day in the office you had all your papers in trash bags. A decade worth of records of your good fight. I'm glad I got to help you with some of that. I'm sorry so much energy got wasted trying to make you see my perfect vision of the world.
My hope is that when this shakes out and I'm over here and you're over there we can think of each other and know the other one is trying to make things better. That neither of us is alone in that. Maybe one day we'll be able to talk about it.
4.27.2009
first grand slam at dunkin field/marketing concept
Saw my first game at Dunkin field tonight. Sentimentality aside the layout is much better than Shea's. Anyone capable of paying admission can expect an unobstructed view of every advertisement in the place.
True, the first grand slam in the field's history did not land anywhere near the Dunkin Donuts ad in center field. It was not in that respect perfect. However, when you looked by sheer instinct in the general direction of that ad, it did glow a little brighter. The mystery of the missing g in the verb seemed more pronounced, more pressing than ever. Was it meant to be colloquial and therefore familiar? Psst. The rules of grammar don't apply here, you're safe, friend.
And then you realized that the g stood for grand slam. Like inserting the jewel into the pagan statue that brings it to life. And we stood in amazement and roared as one breathing intellectual mass, thousands strong, potent in the Queens night.
In the glow of that slam I was struck by a marketing concept. Out of loving trust I share it here without fear of breach of patent: Edible adult diapers. Possible promotional giveaway should ticket sales lag. Endorsement opportunities from veteran players. Able substitute for Pepsi T-shirt launch.
Primary note in favor is novelty. For the man who has everything (and uses adult diapers). Perfect as a gag gift. Or as a deadly serious one. Possible spokesperson: Mr. Met; whose heretofore shadowy personality could be explored in a sequence of emotionally vulnerable radio spots, ala the Boston Medical Group. 90 is the new 69.
Cons: saddest gag gift ever. Health risks/possible liability. The difficulty of establishing a material that is both edible and leak proof.
Americans are resilient, creative, and entrepreneurial; nothing during the last two years has erased any of that. We will resolve this challenge as one.
True, the first grand slam in the field's history did not land anywhere near the Dunkin Donuts ad in center field. It was not in that respect perfect. However, when you looked by sheer instinct in the general direction of that ad, it did glow a little brighter. The mystery of the missing g in the verb seemed more pronounced, more pressing than ever. Was it meant to be colloquial and therefore familiar? Psst. The rules of grammar don't apply here, you're safe, friend.
And then you realized that the g stood for grand slam. Like inserting the jewel into the pagan statue that brings it to life. And we stood in amazement and roared as one breathing intellectual mass, thousands strong, potent in the Queens night.
In the glow of that slam I was struck by a marketing concept. Out of loving trust I share it here without fear of breach of patent: Edible adult diapers. Possible promotional giveaway should ticket sales lag. Endorsement opportunities from veteran players. Able substitute for Pepsi T-shirt launch.
Primary note in favor is novelty. For the man who has everything (and uses adult diapers). Perfect as a gag gift. Or as a deadly serious one. Possible spokesperson: Mr. Met; whose heretofore shadowy personality could be explored in a sequence of emotionally vulnerable radio spots, ala the Boston Medical Group. 90 is the new 69.
Cons: saddest gag gift ever. Health risks/possible liability. The difficulty of establishing a material that is both edible and leak proof.
Americans are resilient, creative, and entrepreneurial; nothing during the last two years has erased any of that. We will resolve this challenge as one.
4.23.2009
the stations of the cross
I went to a double funeral this week, to support a friend who'd suddenly lost people she loved. The mass was Catholic. The presiding saint was Sebastian. The first time they tried to kill Sebastian they tied him to a stake and shot him full of arrows. When that didn't stick they beat him to death. That worked out pretty well.
Guy died twice and only got one funeral. For these folks it was the same way, two deaths, one basic mass. The priest just did the necessary rites twice. The altar servers still bumbled and smiled and joked under their breath when they thought no one was looking. I wanted to believe but I still didn't.
The church was in Queens, right under the elevated train. But once the mass started you didn't notice it going by. Maybe they stopped it, or maybe looking at kids who no longer had parents took precedent.
There should be stations of the cross for modern times. In one you have Jesus checking his email. In another he's doing the crossword. But besides jokes and maybe one of Jesus looking somebody in the eye, a close friend or family member, the others would just be worse and worse violent things the modern world throws at you.
In one there's a crucifixion. But in another maybe two of the people Jesus is closest to get killed in a senseless wreck. And you the viewer are his friend who has to watch him try to make sense of his new world. As his friend you know you should say something but what is there to say. In another is a neutron bomb. In another is crushing poverty. Another: depleted uranium. Challenge to the artist.
I imagine she takes comfort in the stations of the cross. That she sees his suffering and hers and everyone's and knows that in the end when that good trumpet sounds we'll all be together. I hope that's how she sees it, even after all that's happened.
Guy died twice and only got one funeral. For these folks it was the same way, two deaths, one basic mass. The priest just did the necessary rites twice. The altar servers still bumbled and smiled and joked under their breath when they thought no one was looking. I wanted to believe but I still didn't.
The church was in Queens, right under the elevated train. But once the mass started you didn't notice it going by. Maybe they stopped it, or maybe looking at kids who no longer had parents took precedent.
There should be stations of the cross for modern times. In one you have Jesus checking his email. In another he's doing the crossword. But besides jokes and maybe one of Jesus looking somebody in the eye, a close friend or family member, the others would just be worse and worse violent things the modern world throws at you.
In one there's a crucifixion. But in another maybe two of the people Jesus is closest to get killed in a senseless wreck. And you the viewer are his friend who has to watch him try to make sense of his new world. As his friend you know you should say something but what is there to say. In another is a neutron bomb. In another is crushing poverty. Another: depleted uranium. Challenge to the artist.
I imagine she takes comfort in the stations of the cross. That she sees his suffering and hers and everyone's and knows that in the end when that good trumpet sounds we'll all be together. I hope that's how she sees it, even after all that's happened.
4.10.2009
cry it out
They say we're supposed to let you cry sometimes, that it'll help you develop. It's a counter-intuitive move that still has a certain logic, despite the fact that doctors say it. I picture a Ferber box or Freud administering liquid cocaine to cranky newborns. But I still -- almost -- get it.
And enough people that I trust as parents have said it makes sense. Yet I've clung reticent, even though I buy it to a degree, even though the lack of sleep from running to your side in the middle of the night has primarily impacted your mother.
The other night we were in a strange town, you were in a strange crib and you cried a little more than usual going to sleep. I sat on the steps outside your door and rocked back and forth, caught myself saying you're going to be okay, you're going to be okay. Caught myself reliving your first surgery, the one we had no vocabulary for, the one where I could feel our ancestors huddled around to make sure you were okay. The one where I paced the halls of the hospital willing you with them to be okay, to be okay, to be whole and right.
I haven't been drinking now for about a month, so the things I self-medicated into oblivion are starting to become conscious. One of the big but recently buried ones is the worry from the summer that you would have died at just a few days old. You didn't, you obviously didn't, but I still carry around the fear that you would have. And with it the worry that somehow we'll hurt you, or let the world hurt you.
Realizing the depth of that has helped me to release some of it. Made me more willing to let you cry it out. And here you are, you've gone to sleep. Your dreams each night add magic to the world, make more luck possible. The images, the plots must be absurd.
And enough people that I trust as parents have said it makes sense. Yet I've clung reticent, even though I buy it to a degree, even though the lack of sleep from running to your side in the middle of the night has primarily impacted your mother.
The other night we were in a strange town, you were in a strange crib and you cried a little more than usual going to sleep. I sat on the steps outside your door and rocked back and forth, caught myself saying you're going to be okay, you're going to be okay. Caught myself reliving your first surgery, the one we had no vocabulary for, the one where I could feel our ancestors huddled around to make sure you were okay. The one where I paced the halls of the hospital willing you with them to be okay, to be okay, to be whole and right.
I haven't been drinking now for about a month, so the things I self-medicated into oblivion are starting to become conscious. One of the big but recently buried ones is the worry from the summer that you would have died at just a few days old. You didn't, you obviously didn't, but I still carry around the fear that you would have. And with it the worry that somehow we'll hurt you, or let the world hurt you.
Realizing the depth of that has helped me to release some of it. Made me more willing to let you cry it out. And here you are, you've gone to sleep. Your dreams each night add magic to the world, make more luck possible. The images, the plots must be absurd.
the physiology of chills
Music can arouse extraordinarily strong affective responses, up to ecstatic “chill” experiences defined as “goose bumps” and as “shivers down the spine” (Panksepp, 1998; Sloboda, 1991); even, in some cases, "shitting oneself" (Freeman, 2009).
Since emotional states may change in the course of every piece of
music, it is necessary to measure psychological and bodily reactions continuously. In order to investigate distinct musical events related to chill reactions, we combined psychological and physiological methods in one experiment.
The experiment: See if your cracker ass can hold on to its ironic detachment through five minutes of this video, sent to me by my friend Jolene, who doubtless intended just such a chipping away of useless reserve.
4.09.2009
choose your own exodus
This day is like every other but also irreplaceable. Part of a continuum never to be repeated. The day you’re supposed to notice that and ask about it. Is there a God, does she care about us a smidge and if so why not intervene, or why intervene this way. But to undercut that pessimistic bullshit the baby kid who can’t ask directly is asking questions with his face, checking in with his eyes and waiting for the green light to smile and laugh.
So we name and check suppositions. Best not get hung up on G-d in a Jason mask, horrors plagues etc., it's choose our own Exodus. If Israel implies too mercenary a nation-state to inspire, let’s say California’s the promised land and New York is Egypt, go down Rt. 80 and show them what they’ve done. Let’s add back-door syncretistic Christian Zoroastrian or Pagan shit, hide everything from the seder plate and run a Passover hunt to start the festive meal. Leave the door open for Elijah, the Easter Bunny, and penitent golden calves.
There are so many questions that they infuse the objects on the table with their own life and self-consciousness, their own questions. The Manischevitz skips like rams, the kugel, also like rams. (There was a run on lambs). The bitter herbs have bitter questions. What’s your problem, you lame-assed self conscious idiot, not when do we eat but when do we die and let New Jersey Pac Man eat our stinking corpses.
The shank bone is all Ozymandius-am-I, I was hot shit/coulda been a contender but how did I get so dead? The boiled eggs just want to talk abortion. The Gefilte fish want to know how much is Yiddishkeit and how much is religion, want to know street addresses in the Bronx or Brooklyn, precise GPS coordinates of shtetls in second-century or 1930s Poland, whether anybody else remembers that fetching Golem and where it got to when it was needed most.
The Matzoh is itching to get out on the road and keeps asking about travel destinations, alternating that with gossipy questions about things folks and deeds it thinks might be Chametz. The Haroseth and the spring vegetable are outnumbered but they’re trying to keep it positive, aren’t we lucky to be here at all, guys? Isn’t it amazing, that unbroken chain of survival from here to us, everything that had to go right for us to make it to this dinner?
The chopped liver has more ontological concerns; wants to know how it got here and what it might be called, the meaning of life, etc. What am I? Am I chopped liver? What am I, chopped liver?
So we name and check suppositions. Best not get hung up on G-d in a Jason mask, horrors plagues etc., it's choose our own Exodus. If Israel implies too mercenary a nation-state to inspire, let’s say California’s the promised land and New York is Egypt, go down Rt. 80 and show them what they’ve done. Let’s add back-door syncretistic Christian Zoroastrian or Pagan shit, hide everything from the seder plate and run a Passover hunt to start the festive meal. Leave the door open for Elijah, the Easter Bunny, and penitent golden calves.
There are so many questions that they infuse the objects on the table with their own life and self-consciousness, their own questions. The Manischevitz skips like rams, the kugel, also like rams. (There was a run on lambs). The bitter herbs have bitter questions. What’s your problem, you lame-assed self conscious idiot, not when do we eat but when do we die and let New Jersey Pac Man eat our stinking corpses.
The shank bone is all Ozymandius-am-I, I was hot shit/coulda been a contender but how did I get so dead? The boiled eggs just want to talk abortion. The Gefilte fish want to know how much is Yiddishkeit and how much is religion, want to know street addresses in the Bronx or Brooklyn, precise GPS coordinates of shtetls in second-century or 1930s Poland, whether anybody else remembers that fetching Golem and where it got to when it was needed most.
The Matzoh is itching to get out on the road and keeps asking about travel destinations, alternating that with gossipy questions about things folks and deeds it thinks might be Chametz. The Haroseth and the spring vegetable are outnumbered but they’re trying to keep it positive, aren’t we lucky to be here at all, guys? Isn’t it amazing, that unbroken chain of survival from here to us, everything that had to go right for us to make it to this dinner?
The chopped liver has more ontological concerns; wants to know how it got here and what it might be called, the meaning of life, etc. What am I? Am I chopped liver? What am I, chopped liver?
3.31.2009
nutrition information
As another step in No Die '09, I'm changing breakfast from a meat-egg-and-cheese sandwich (Death's Blanket, 500 calories) to cereal.
It's different to make meals with a measuring cup. More linear. A cup of soy and one of Total is 190 calories. What the fuck is riboflavin? I'm glad you asked. Riboflavin increases the portion of funk a person is allocated in a given day, useful in performing complicated handshakes and understanding the accents of people who did not attend prep school.
Pantothenic acid (vitamin B5) helps the body to metabolize and create carbs, proteins, and fats. If consumed in high enough doses, folic acid conjures the semi-clad ghost of William Faulkner, who after a brief mean inscrutable haunting ultimately becomes your trusted dietary coach and as an added benefit constantly explains the phenomena of nature to you in inspired language.
My foray into portion control has admittedly been tentative. It dies with coffee, where my method remains add as much water and coffee as will fit, brew, then mix in Coffeemate Hazelnut until it's potable. Somebody: invent an Egg and Cheese Zero.
3.28.2009
two weeks
Last year a good octogenarian friend of mine took a fall. He bore the impact on his shoulder and arm. The arm ended up in a sling and my friend got some new meds.
I was worried and I called a bit more than usual. To my surprise he was more conversational, more lucid, quicker than he'd been in years. The major difference was that he'd stopped drinking for the meds.
Lately I've been down. There are logical reasons, work, the economy, New Jersey, American foreign policy, weight gain. But those alone shouldn't have the gravitas to trump what there is to feel joy and hope about. L. & I have a new son who's healthy, who's bright-eyed and loving, whose life opens wider every hour. We're both employed and we live within our means. The world brims with music, movies, and books. We have friends who love us. We have a furry fat grey cat who's stopped trying to kill us. We have each other.
When I say I've been down I mean I'm losing my shit and for the past few years it's gotten worse. I wake up feeling slow and without control. I become overwhelmed by basic tasks. I wade through it restless and hyper-caffeinated. I can't look people in the eye or even look near their faces. I burrow in lame tasks. I feel suicidal urges that I sublimate into slow ways to achieve the same end. All the sugar I can eat, red meat, fried food, diet soda, cup after cup of coffee. And it never feels time to reach out. Emails from people I love I've been afraid to answer for months.
All ways to be unconscious, secret ways to disappear, and all that before the sun went down. By night I'd drink. For a while I thought the drinking was the natural salve for all the craziness, something to cut the edge from it and bring me a bit closer to calm. But I started to wonder if drinking were the cause of some of it. At the very least, if drinking were amplifying my special place on the DSM-IV.
In a real Lenten move I've given up drinking for 100 days. It's been two weeks, and I feel better every day.
I took a long walk this morning first thing. Gray light by the pond, the way drops of water collect in rhythmic full beads along branchlets. Headphones mixing on the fly with birdsong in loose sync. Walking fast, picking up litter as I went.
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