David's Blog

Continuing to Write

2012-02-12T17:22:00.000-08:00

PERISTALSIS

I.

Without motion, without movement
Internal storms brew violent and pass.
Puddles pool and ripple, reflections wavering constant,
Sliding focus. Now the figure, now the trees, now the startling, brilliant
Sky-clouds inching casual and full of grace.

Peer, intent, unflinching, in. Search the blurring, shifting
Worldish pantomime. Find what is there, what is hidden,
What explains. Parse this arch, invisible spectrum cloaking
The truth, what must be

{It has to.
It has to.
I won't believe this is the way.}

What more does the mirror know? What does it see
When not being watched? Like a dog resting content, nose tucked
Moist between couch leather and pang leg, it knows and will not say.
Staring dumb, expectant and receptive, it does what it is told, and apes what it is shown.

The leaves tremble on liquid branches. They age and die. They fall.
It happens as it has and will. Leaves scatter in the breeze, casual
And full of grace, catching in the fresh-mown sod blanketing
your grandmother, whose laugh would halt the globe. Those precious
Seconds ripple out from the center of the puddle, broken now by rain
Blurring your shimmering observation, nourishing
The parched and patient lawn.

Alex

2012-02-06T21:44:00.000-08:00

He walked like he knew exactly where he was going and didn't care he had yet to reach his destination.
He played with purpose, as though wielding a familiar tool, eyes down and focused, hands and fingers applying the necessary force--but he jerked and weaved with the neck, smiling to show it was not work.
His voice was clear, plain, and to the bone. What he sometimes lacked in tact he made up in pure, unflagging honesty.
He listened as though it was assumed he would, easy, calm and present; trusting, human and keen.

Finishing My Class...

2012-01-25T21:35:00.000-08:00

David, as thin as a broom
Stayed typing for weeks in his room.
So long he sat there
In electronic glare
That his shoes became lined with mushrooms.

Sometimes

2012-01-19T22:36:00.000-08:00

There are times when nothing fits and nothing comes to mind. Nothing is tangible and hanging from from the ceiling, or hovering over head like the personal storm cloud seen only in cartoons, waiting to rain, changing my individual barometric pressure, slowly, but steadily squeezing, pressing. It is so present it's almost solid, yet also amorphous and airy. The moment I try to reach out and take hold of it, the mass becomes transparent, dodging. Its dissipation is so quick that I can't be sure it was ever as tangible as I thought. Then, it returns, oozing, condensing and pressing once more. To mark its presence is to feel its full effect, but to pin it down is to realize it is an illusion, self-imposed and inescapable.

Found in a Pile of Stuff

2012-01-06T20:42:00.000-08:00

I recently found this in a black binder that had been given to me in rehab to hold exercise worksheets and short booklets on the symptoms and treatments of minor head injuries. I wrote while sitting in my wheelchair in the hallway outside of the occupational therapy room, waiting for my session to begin. It seems like more of a thought process than a poem, per se...which is why it loses cohesion toward the end. As far as I can remember, no one asked me to count backward by seven...I think I just used it as a stand in for the strange arbitrary numbers they asked me to put on things as a measure of my condition...but it's entirely possible that they did, it is not unlikely, and I was pretty out of it. I put it here without polishing or rewrites for posterity and morbid curiosity.

Back from 100 by seven,
Innocently tasked.
How do you measure, and what does it mean?
Concentrate, you're 29--
It's just subtraction.
Are you up to snuff?
Snuff: a universal constant.
Remember 4th grade?
You stayed inside for recess.
You were slow counting the beans and cups.
Now, with snuff on the line,
Can't you count them faster?
Don't you want to go outside?
Under their roof it's their standard.
They hold the bar
And decide your relative height.
How tall do you think you are?
It is irrelevant, they have instruments for that.
Just tell them you're bad at math,
They will give you a different test.
After all, this is for you.
This is your time,
Your life,
Your snuff.
They just need to make sure
You know that.
So, count.

If I ever kept a diary, I imagine the entries would look a lot like this...this is sort of how my brain lays things out. I have a difficult time expressing intangible feelings in prose...cryptic pseudo poems are my prime mode of expression...which makes it even more difficult to convey my thoughts to others. I just hope they figure out the puzzle.

For Jeannine and Sean

2011-12-22T16:02:00.001-08:00

WE TOGETHER

And so it goes that this has happened,
It's like this now, after all
That has been written, scrawled
And sketched--hushed and silent yearning,
Straining vainly to explain
Tragic sudden everlasting never
Sliding back to same. Now
Is new and neatly nothing
Like one ever could have dreamed.

The world will keep its orbit, spun
By unassuming fingers, unaware,
Or simply unaffected as our tiny,
Wheeling stories mount to nothing
Less than all we know--from the cold,
Unyielding pavement to the flaking,
Wooden seats behind the man,
The reason we, together, know
The limits of our patience,
Our capacities of courage, built
In parallel and open only due
To what we understand as horror.

Together we discover, we illuminate
And prove our hushed and silent,
Pained and screaming, awful,
Beautiful reality is worth the frigid
Truth: we will carry on in darkness,
Blessed, believing on occasion
There is sunlight superseding all
We thought we knew of brightness.
Together we remind we know
The darkness is not all.

Fractured Fairy Tales

2011-12-21T22:36:00.000-08:00

The moral of today's story is:
Don't get laid off;
Don't get hit by a car;
and Don't be unable to afford insurance.

See you next week, boys and girls.

People to Talk to

2011-12-16T20:13:00.000-08:00

To Know You

In this we know together,
Living separate though entwined,
Drawn in and wrapped
In circumstance. Always
Now a piece of this,
All seeking forward
From the birth of our new
And fearsome intelligence.

About us now the moment
Stands a mirror to the past;
Our movement brings each
Second further towards
ourselves. Our own patience
Manifests the love we know
Is worth it--alive and ever
Fortunate to share our revelations.

today

2011-12-11T17:33:00.000-08:00

Alex was the kind of guy who comes over and picks out Blood on the Tracks to listen to when we're drinking and talking. "I know it's kind of weird, but I'm into it." He wanted our lyrics to tell stories, and we talked about Tom Waits and "Burma Shave." And I said how I wouldn't know why that song was great if I hadn't seen that episode of Quantum Leap with my sister, where Sam was out in the middle of nowhere in a Chevy convertible with the wife of whoever's body he was inhabiting driving past those brick red Burma Shave signs in the dim headlamp light of the 1950's. And then there was that Looney Tunes with Bugs and Daffy that started out with rhyming signs leading up to Bugs's hole. We both got the joke, and we both got the song. We happened to understand at just the right time. We drank Tequila, because it doesn't have gluten, and we sat and spoke and listened while Bob Dylan crackled and cried with beautiful disarray, Alex's boots heavy and faded on our thick, red coffee table, his motorcycle parked outside the window.

Where I'd Say I'm At Right Now

2011-11-21T22:38:00.001-08:00

THE LETTER, SEALED and WAITING

"It may take two months; it may take a year and a half. Everybody's different."

It may take more than I would ever think. It may take
From and always always in the night She will wonder
And see what was to Her, what little She could merge
Concrete and shrieking fantasy. Horror in the evening,
Always never sure before the door steps in. Always
Never able to allow those others, those unknown partners
In conveyance, full regard of faith and doubtless
Tendency to more than not be generous and thoughtful.

It may take the hope, the narrow thread of my conception
Soul is generally choosing having justifying all perspective
Larger picture at the end it might more likely be
What made all sense then. Charity towards that unseen
Maybe like so all those before just because would so much
Better, it is vapor hanging low like fog, when roads dip
Valley slides all wisp obscure and clinging fogging much
Like ever chill and spreading sifting into air when pavement rises.

It may take what would have if such truths exist. It may
Take a lifetime one had never yet but only if It never only ever
if It stands alone as this and always what It was It takes without
A pause. Time will live in segments titled short and memorable.
This word of His will only factor in this next and only stand not
Ever fill and always only minute from the years It still has taken.
Always this and ever only less than something more.

And Again

2011-11-21T21:50:00.001-08:00

Do not close your eyes to the pain.

One must stay awake,

Aware.

The walls will remain, no sudden, convalescent Eden

Appeared bestows leaps in agile flexion sans sheaves

Of intricate documentation.

Do not hope for some miraculous transport.

Know here now, and why.

Live in the pain. Breathe the endless moment stretching,

Every novel, quick, consuming sting.

Separate and understand. Know this twist, this pulsing strain.

Experience the heightening spread of patience without choice.

This is now until the next has hatched.

Pain registers in terms of times before.

Movement and memory build tomorrow

And today.

Physical Therapy

2011-11-10T14:38:00.000-08:00

ON THE TABLE

Do not close your eyes to the pain.
One must stay awake,
Aware.

Do not wish for sudden transportation.
Know here now, and why.
Live in the pain as the endless moment stretches on,
Every nuance, every unique and delicate burn.
Know the difference, know each twist and pulsing strain.
Experience fully the process, the gathering patience.

Pain registers in terms of days before.
Movement and memory build tomorrow
And today.

Two on Yosemite

2011-09-07T16:46:00.000-07:00

Yosemite in Recovery

I watched an old man prepare his breakfast from my campsite table. He had brought a small, handleless broom he used to brush the minor debris accumulated during a night in the woods from atop the metal bear-proof locker. From the locker he pulled a gray, weather-beaten box which held an old propane camp stove with only one burner. He poured water into a small saucepan from one of two plastic jugs he kept stored behind the locker. I could tell the locker had been packed tightly. He lifted everything out, setting it neatly on top, then returning what he did not need. He stood tall and thin in his red, woolen shirt, a green knit stocking cap fit tightly over the tops of his ears, white-silver strands curling slightly at the nape of his neck. In Birkenstocks and thickly padded socks he carried his supplies to the picnic table, wiping each dish thoroughly with a paper towel before setting it in place. The sun rose higher, glinting off his wristwatch. He retrieved a leather jacket from his one man tent and slipped it on, watching his breath dissipate in the chill of early morning. As he walked forward to the table I noticed the jacket was not leather, but a deep green and brown flannel plaid lined with fleece, cream and fuzzy. He reminded me of the men in the yellowed Remington calendar that hung from the wall of my Grandpa's basement workshop, solitary and comfortable. He set the pot on the burner, lighting the flame with a match he had produced from his pocket. As the water heated, he stepped back to the edge of his campsite and took out a thin, silver digital camera. He took photos of his makeshift kitchen from every angle. Leaning against his sparkling blue Prius, he pointed the camera across his table, facing mine. If he saw me there he did not acknowledge it. I watched him there alone. His gait was tall and confident, striding without determination, simply from point to point, at home in his surroundings. My own steps cane-bound and measured, each foot carefully placed in the sloping dirt as I paced slowly the length of the campsite, staving off the building tension in joints at rest and encouraging circulation, one hand clutching the foam handle of my cane, the other buried deep inside the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt, retreated inside the sleeve. The man poured the now steaming water into a small tupperware half-filled with oats. He stirred it casually with a metal spoon, sitting down with a plastic mug of orange juice and a newspaper. He did not look up to see me watching, rubbing my hands, waiting for the others in my party to wake so we could prepare our breakfast.

Crutching to Soda Springs

Slow but steady - consistent thud against gravel
And grass - small reverberations through my arm and chest,
Like an aluminum bat struck gently just below
The sweet spot.

I watch the ground for slight changes in elevation -
Errant pebbles - the mountains rise behind me,
Snow-patched and unaffected.

Fifty yards ahead my friends graciously hike
A casual pace - they slow and swivel to remember
Where they are - my wife listens to me huff
And shuffle close beside.

The sign said .5 miles.

Larger gravel skids the rubber tip askew -
A series of rock-edged steps rise two feet
In total - they must be calculated, navigated -
Must be focus and a plan.

The path rises, rock-strewn and narrow - crutches dig
tight to armpits - Lean my weight against them,
Splaying aluminum arms for solid footing - the grass
Edging the dirt slips - a sharp intake of breath
Behind me.

A clear plateau too high to trust - I loose weight
From the crutch, trusting wrists- straining
To raise one more half-foot.

Let the others pass - It is not
Too long - Inefficiency and payoff
Do not concern those climbing
Back.

The sign said .5 miles.

The sweat and dust, sun
And time - the privilege of my wife scooping
A handful of Soda Springs - to taste
The rusty carbonation of a minor miracle.

One mile - back and barely standing -
One day I will be glad my knees
And ankles swelled for days - Couldn't sleep -
The sun through the trees - the nothing
Else but being in the morning in the woods.

True

2011-09-07T09:56:00.001-07:00

A Conversation Held at 12:30 am in the Fairmont Rehab Facility

Having returned from emptying my urinal, the nurse pulls aside the privacy curtain holding a small, plastic cup full of pills, a package of thin plastic tubing and a large wad of gauze. I sit up, groggy, focused warily on the tubing.

"Okay Mr. Robinson, time for your IUC."

"What is that for?"

"The catheter will help you go to the bathroom."

"I go to the bathroom fine already. You just emptied my urinal."

"Oh, that's right. I just emptied it, didn't I? Let me check something."

She leaves briefly, reemerging through the peach translucent curtains.

"Okay Mr. Robinson, take your pills then."

"I'm not Mr. Robinson."

"What?"

"My name isn't Robinson, it's Brehmer."

"Oh it is? Gosh, it's a good thing you're more awake than I am."

She leaves, taking the pills, tubing and gauze to the bed across from me, where Mr. Robinson waits with a full bladder, paralyzed from the waist down.

...And

2011-09-06T22:39:00.000-07:00

The Highway

My brain opened, before
My eyes, to blackness, complete
And without direction, consciousness
And only that.

My neck was solid, trapped
By nothing. Fear made me
Helpless, shouting to blank
Infinity.

As the belt came into focus
He was above me, choking,
Helpless there, his thick chest
Hanging heavy and still.

His halting convulsion woke me,
I knew again the buckle.
My voice was weak, the highway
Quiet.

Burning shock left legs lay rigid,
Sliding forward before my body,
Fingers walking gently
Glass and pavement.

Cold, alone on the highway, fighting
To stand and failing in spasm fire.
My voice and vapor breath
The only working piece.

Hearing steps and knowing he
Remained beneath the belt
And straining silent, trapped
Inside himself.

She held me sweatshirt warm and eyes,
Pity and confidence wooing
Panic shivering innocence. Calm,
She knew where he would go.

They bend and lift and cut me
Free, strapping tightly board
And mask. I cannot breathe, despite
Their assurances.

Moving, there is no curious now
How it will be. My body, plastic
Suffocating humid defines
Awareness and time.

The rising sickness, the shifting
Equilibrium, flat and rigid, covered
With faces, blind and nowhere
Beyond existence.

Bah

2011-09-06T22:02:00.000-07:00

Profile

In the shoe store's full length mirror
My jeans hang sagging, draping
Awkwardly front and back, each leg
Pancaking flat at either ankle side.
Elbow and strain and atrophy have carved my figure
Disproportionate. Chest and belly, hips,
Loosely padded by black plaid, bulge relatively
Over the belt cinched to a custom circumference,
Newly punctured leather drawing
The waistline to bunch and fold.

To those unaware of the painstaking progress,
Were one to kick away my cane support, I might
Crumble forward, crooked knee and withered
Thigh unable to overpower the top-heavy
Gravity of seeming illness. I, who know
The time and pressure, see only the disillusion
Of forward momentum and the permanence of fate.

The shoes fit well enough. They hang
Like weights from broken pendulums.

Both Sides

2011-09-05T22:33:00.001-07:00

The Last One

I often feel regret when writing
These things, well, I mean a selfish
Twinge comes on like how many
Times can I say I've received a less
Than stellar shake of late meanwhile
His parents are living surrounded
By what is left and what was there
And why is this the present now.

They will step onto the scuffed linoleum
Aisle of the court and watch and wait
And wonder what this changes while
That man walks in and stands
And breathes and has the luxury
Of speaking when asked a question.

My knees burn with every measured
Step and will for likely a year or more.
I will spend a tedious hour twice a day,
Stretching and pulling on the floor
As my wife sits nearby tapping deftly
Along the laptop keys stockpiling when
I'm backs and just waits and remembers

While working for the both of us suggesting
Politely that maybe I could take the dog
Outside, it might be easier than the time
Last week. I straighten slowly more
And steady slowly moving forward,
Closer further from what happened.
August was the prognosis; it is
Now September still and all she's there
When the dog and I step in,
Keenly aware if we make love she
Will have to be on top.

In bed, though, his parents know
The morning will change only
The date and the distance from
When they found out it would always
Now be different. They sketch
Their pain and continue.
There is nothing but what is left
And what will be found in time.

In time this will all have happened
Long ago enough to be a time
That was, a flashing memory
Of the closeness of ambulance walls,
The solid strangeness of tubing
Hard at the back of my throat, the four
Of us at dinner, trying hard
To reminisce without trying
To bring him back.

For the moment, we are surrounded.
They together in the knowledge
Of coping in similar terms. We fortunate
To be able to complain about the length
Of my recovery. Fortunate all enough
To know it is not over.

Some Days Are Worse Than Others

2011-09-03T12:38:00.000-07:00

SOMETIMES

If I get angry enough
To smash my cane
Against the dresser
I might bend the cane
Beyond all utility.
Remember this.
Twenty dollars
Is a lot to pay twice
For an ugly piece
Of aluminum
With a dirty, rubber
Tip.

Still Up

2011-08-28T03:53:00.001-07:00

PART OF ME KNOWS

And still I sit, growing
Ever closer to knowing
I've stopped. Fearing
And knowing there is
No other to let me
Understand. There
Is no understanding,
There is only life. There
Is action and there is
Waiting. There is only
Arrogance in supposing
Another will wait beside,
That time is equal, that
Patience is not relative.
To sit and wonder is
A luxury saved for those
Not in emotional debt, those
Who can afford time lost
To temperament
And disposition. Philosophy
Is bred in those with
Nothing better to do
And no one waiting
For them to realize they
Do not qualify.
To move is what is
Needed, to head toward.
Even those philosopher
Bachelors were simply
Following their passions.
To drift is always only
Wasteful.

It's Weird to Think About

2011-08-28T03:03:00.001-07:00

MY REMINDER

Deep peach-pink and purple-blue,
Thick, like a vein raised to the surface of my skin--
The skin is taut, pulling into tiny wrinkles, pushed
By the gradually expanding roll of abdomen,
Finally remembering where it was before
This all started.
It widens and meanders, like a dried creek
Bed, the muddied path still traceable
Where it washed the banks, spilling
Over into my navel. Irregular, fading dots
Line the shore, remnants of the metal
That clutched sheets and clothing, a memento
Of the truth:
A man's hands held my insides ,
Feeling, inch by inch, the warmth.
Precision tools glinting ready
On sterile trays, the thin paper gown
Ripped and absorbent, the sound
And sensation familiar and routine,
Viscera and all open, exposed,
At mercy.
With eyes closed I see the room,
The gloves, the wound. A draught
Tickles the wall of my flesh, wet
And silent. Mask and skullcap
Bow, reveal the glowing, tri-part
Glare. From the wrist and up he is
There, framed by the crowded windows
Of the observation room full of eyes
And fingertips.
Like a hooded sweatshirt unzipped,
my stomach yawns wide. A team
Of white-scrubbed faces surrounds,
Watching, handling gently the blood-
Spotted scalpels, tight gloves matching
The gown seeping red. The intestine
Is longer than could ever tuck correctly
Back from where it came, coiled,
Covered and stapled.
The scar bulges and curves, smooth,
Like rubber. My fingers know it is
Now my skin. Hair returns, covering
The small patch of stomach that lost all
Feeling, forever changed and never
Leaving, never not a part
Of me now.

Still Thinking

2011-08-21T20:03:00.001-07:00

UPON OBSERVING AN IDIOT IN A BROWN VAN ON THE HIGHWAY

A turn of the wheel
A second too late
Just the right time
Just one more drink
Just a decision
Something one does
Nothing surprising
Just one more drive

Another connection
A name in a phone
One more discovered
One fewer alone
Another chance taken
A passage of time
Just something that happened
One more name on file

A song pulled from nothing
A chord timely struck
A deficit noticed
When progress is made
A memory colored
A doubt given fuel
A friend fully known
When he cannot be seen.

Harumph

2011-08-15T09:02:00.000-07:00

THIS IS HOW IT IS NOW

It is
his
fault
I feel
guilty
for
surviving.

How It Is

2011-08-04T19:12:00.000-07:00

I KNOW PEOPLE UNDERSTAND THAT I CAN'T DO EVERYTHING, YET

It's not
The knowledge
Of disappointing
Others;
It's the fear
Of disappointing
myself.

A Thing About Crutches

2011-08-01T14:52:00.001-07:00

THREE LEGS TO FOUR

When one is young enough still
To only crawl, standing seems a miracle.
Knee replaces hand replaces knee,
Easy and correct, the wide world
Stretches accessible, kinetic
And carpeted.

Progress belittles comfort, belies
Complacence. One must take
The hand as offered, dig heels downward,
And push, palm to sofa, skyward-
Feet and ankles, now, hips and knees.
Inches and endurance eclipse
Pace.

Reeducation, joint by joint, wobbling
Tension to cross the room, the yearning
To reach where one's already been,
Now slightly higher, now closer
To normal.

Movement now is struggle. The process
is the goal. When one is able, one
Must move forward. When one falls,
One must adapt.

A Bit of a Mess, This One

2011-07-31T15:42:00.000-07:00

This is something that quickly became something else...it might become different things later, but now stands as weird, stream of consciousness diatribe thought mass...enjoy.

NOW

Then, it was over. I couldn't do anything.
He would not be visiting beside my bed
With the others. Outside the trauma ward,
He was gone. He was surrounded by
Those that were not there, were there
For him after. Everything now is
After. The phone is blank. The bottle
Is full. In bed, I could not remember
The drive, the ebb and rise in my bones
Flashed only the rushing, screeching end,
The burn and shock, the cold, surreal
And lonely truth. This is something
That happens. There is a script and a
Cast of characters--the grieving,
The injured, the dead, the uninvolved,
The ones that saw it all. To find oneself
A player, center stage, spotlit
On the pavement, alive inside a line
In the online news, opens and closes
The other, outer world at once. This is fodder
For late-afternoon morality plays-
He was a good friend, a good guy,
A loving son, another number, a lesson,
A reminder, a real, goddamn person.
Fuck, he's gone. Three months of late
Night nurses, blood and urine, tiny, plastic
Cups and nervous, smiling optimism. Hundreds
Of people, of papers, of shuffle-hop steps
Hunched hard against the dingy foam
Wrapped and duct-taped to the walker handle.
His family, my wife, my family and friends
Sat and waited, listened for a call, straining
To explain another way, another reason.
He lay, strapped, above me, the textured plastic
Of the truck's center console crisp and present,
The upholstery just as it had been.
His eyes were closed, his hands still thick
And capable. I left him there, scraping against
The broken glass, hitting the air, figuring it out.
A stranger cradled me in her lap as I shivered.
"You have to call my wife."
"I don't have insurance."
Her friend went to help mine. I never saw
Him after. At dinner in rehab every day
The news plastered flat, primary-colored
Graphics, bright starburst marking the latest
Collision, someone died or someone didn't,
Injured, on the run, traffic will delay,
A minor obstacle for the commute.
God, his parents can't call him. The lawyer
Won't bring him back. The D.A. will not
Turn back time and be there to stop it.
That first night is three months gone,
But three months doesn't buffer twenty-six
Years. Fifteen minutes erase it.
It is erased from my life.
It is erased from all.
No more music, no more news without
dimension.

An Attempt to Explain

2011-07-29T17:57:00.000-07:00

DILAUDID

Pain-has an Element of Blank
It cannot recollect
When it begun--or if there were
A time when it was not--
--Emily Dickinson

Pain slides, drip by drip, away.
Tubing, monitors, white walls,
Windows prism, swirl, and pulse.
Slowly, surely stacked and building,
Brain becomes eye and vision,
Dreaming. Still the patient burning

Coils, burrowing deep the marrow, tensing
Steady, tensing steady,
Opiatic casing easing, sensing respite,
Smolder growing. Steady blur and
Senses smoky, morning glows in
Milky iridescence, the close grid
Of screen flowing quiet against
The sun bleeding bright and blue
At the window edge. Tremendous

Swells the knowing, waking hard
And finally clear, sweat and pressure
Proving real the second shock,
The second waking--the vivid, strange
And concrete truth of just before,
a postscript dream, not dream--parallel
Reality playing out in the space
Of conscious dawning, the bridge
Between this fantasy and hallucination.

The patient burning sinks fang
Snap, uncoiled. The marrow tenses.
The dull venom courses quickly,
Fading from puncture, prairie fire
Ooze, spreading concentrated,
White, hot from potential motion
Unleashed. The narrow crook

Of thumb depressed, the silent
Flow, transparent, clouds and covers,
Creeping over, cooling to embers,
Closing in. The patient burning coils,
Waiting. Casing surface ripples gently
Steady, stoking breeze the embers
Waxing smolder. Time slides, drip

By drip, away. Tubing, monitors,
White halls, windows prism, swirl,
And pulse. Slowly, surely stacked
And building, brain becomes eye
And vision, dreaming.

A Tribute

2011-07-26T01:02:00.001-07:00

A WORD ON LOVE AND HOSPITALS

You know you've found someone special
When a week's worth of laxatives kick in,
The nurse can't be called in time,
You can't walk or stand,
All you have are two shallow, plastic
Bedpans and a package of wet naps,
And she is without hesitation,
Smiling so you know she knows
How awful this all is.

A Weird One

2011-07-24T18:47:00.001-07:00

LIFE

Tremendous pressure, life.
More than anything else
It breathes steady, sure
Of each pulse, and
More than willing to
Keep right on going.
We strain to appease,
To remain worthy,
To walk in favor of such
Wisdom without time.
Am I doing it right?
The Mountains refuse
To say, but maintain always
That majestic smirk,
High above we breathers
Of air, smug in the knowledge-
Such speed as theirs precludes
Concern of how much longer
And this is bound to work.
Stoic and eternal in the rearview
Mirror, they stretch, confident and
Without need, immobile and
Complete.

Within the hollow of an ancient
Tree, catching rain water as
It drips from spiders' webs,
Huddled and secure, the moss
Forms against my skin as I
Sit, free to wonder among the
Insects rich in protein.
Outside the ground rolls
Smooth with each steady breath.
My own chest expands
In synch. I work to understand
And continue as I am,
Confident and without need,
Alone and without pressure,
Living and breathing, sure
Of each pulse, sure
Of only that.

Angry Today

2011-07-24T00:07:00.000-07:00

HE WALKS

It is he and he alone.
Standing, enclosed by muted oak,
Facing front, betraying no recognition,
He waits his consequence. His hands
Folded in front, cuffed, resigned to inaction.
His back is straight, his hair closely cropped,
Nearly orange in the reflected florescent hum
Of the court. His jumpsuit blazes to match.

I sit, in tie and shirt, wheels locked, at the back
Of the aisle, one leg resting taut in elevation,
Ankle crooked, dangling on the edge of
A homemade extension. An accident
Of my height was not expected.
I was not prepared.

He decided. It was he. He did not know
My friend, did not know his ambition,
His confidence. My friend will not
Know him. He knew. He did not bother
To wait.

I sit, in tie and shirt, hands folded in front,
resigned to inaction. He stands, tall
And firm within his wooden box.
He walks out of court, back into holding.
I watch him walk.
He does not know me.

Prolific...Hopefully Not Overkill

2011-07-22T02:27:00.001-07:00

PROBABLY

Understand
There
Might
Be
Nothing
Else.
It
Is
Entirely
Possible
That
Is
The
Case.
If
That
Is
True,
Does
That
Make
Those
Things
One
Finds
So
Damn
Fascinating
Less
So,
Or
More?
It
Is
Hard
To
Say.
The
Unique
Smell
Of
Fresh
Eucalyptus
On
A
Hill
Overlooking
The
Thick
Growth
Of
The
Forest
Might
Provide
A
Clue.

Another, Because I Still Can't Sleep

2011-07-22T02:19:00.000-07:00

SIT AND THINK

Too many of what should be fewer,
Less than should be more,
There's nothing I imagine's worse
Than life that is a bore.
But what should happen more than less
To stave off this great fear?
Is the answer coming in a day,
A week, a month, a year?

I admit I'm growing tired of
Acknowledging the truth
That aspects of my life would aggravate
The me of youth.
I'm waiting for the key, to know
How too many reduce.
Before I live as I had liked
I have to find the root.

The thinking less of what is more
Than what I'd like to see
Must, in the end, result in progress
Right? Eventually?
For how can one be sure that steps
Toward won't find regret?
I'll sit and wait to think it out
To be sure to not misstep.

Can't Sleep

2011-07-22T02:01:00.000-07:00

THE SOUND

I hear the sound
in the darkness,
captive to flashes
interrupting the
consistent hum of
the bedroom fan.
Consciousness
rushes into vivid,
blaring focus, the
explosion pulled
back in a dizzying
blink, a mushroom
cloud, the gradual
deadly mist settling
in silence, broken
only by that sudden,
desperate choke,
that wet, knowing
gurgle. His eyes
were closed. His
body did not yet
realize it was
paralyzed.

The Ones Who Were Not There

2011-07-17T22:36:00.000-07:00

You wonder whether
maybe if
only just could
would it.
You hover over
shards of glass
plastic clothing pavement
metal screeching roll
and crumble
into nothing.
You watch them
knowing what will
knowing when and how
much always
after.
You hear what
you know in blackness
never synching
aware only it was
horror
twisted and irretrievable
irreplaceable
insurmountable
unforgettable.
You sit.
You try to
feel it.
Know.
This is now
no more ever
will only.
You are still.
You are.
Maybe nothing only
every simple
else
together
still.

Sleepless and Writing

2011-06-28T01:57:00.000-07:00

Note the time...

How long is long enough?
They say it never goes away.
It gets better.
When?
When is overdone?
Is it ever wrong?
Can I control my mind?
Some people control their dreams,
I've heard.
Can they stop it when they want?
When they close their eyes,
Do they see only what they would like to
At that moment?
Or, does it come unbidden
To be driven away?
Is it always there,
Just outside
the corner of one's eye,
Waiting?
Must guards be forever up,
Huddled at the gate,
Watchful and without
Rest?

Bored and Writing II

2011-06-27T15:45:00.000-07:00

Another thing I wrote then put on the blog:

In service of something else I
Throw myself headlong
Into the gray.
Analysis stands too close,
One must step back,
See the full expanse
all the way to the frame.
Far enough to notice
There are frames lining every wall
in the building;
and there are buildings
as far as the eye can see.

In service of myself
I write.
Hoping thoughts will one day
Teach me how to paint.
Pens and brushes bunched in
A mug on the desk, behind
The computer where
I sit and type
Lines on how I would
Like to do
Something.

Bored and Writing

2011-06-25T17:51:00.000-07:00

In lieu of action, today brings spontaneous and random typing...this was the most interesting of my many brief spurts of thought:

In the end they will tally the winners and losers. Each column will stretch beyond what anyone thought was distance. One will count, judging quietly and marking the score. One will know the final tally. Centuries from now, when all calculations are made, the list will be published. Then all will understand how each individual measures up. Those left will know of those before, and those yet to come will set themselves against this universal benchmark. Will those that have passed see where they had stood? Will it alter the memory of those still living? The losers will have died unaware that they are so. The winners, too, will remain deceased.

hmmmm...

I Have Not Posted in a While...

2011-06-24T12:37:00.000-07:00

Nissa needed the car that night, so I had asked Alex for a ride back to Richmond after practice. He needed to drop Brian off at the new place out by the Coliseum so Brian could practice with his other band, but said he would return to Richmond that night because he had received some mail from the IRS that he wanted to check out. After dropping off Brian, we headed back on 880. There wasn't anything remarkable about the drive. We talked a little, but were both fairly tired after practice. I was to help pack that night and wake up early for a camping trip with friends the next day, so I was thinking about that. I remember the sound of the impact very well. I don't believe either of us saw it coming. It happened so suddenly that I did not even realize what had happened until we started to slide sideways. Neither Alex nor I said or did anything. Before Alex could react, we were completely sideways. I remember the truck tilting and hitting the pavement. There is a scraping sound and sparks. That is when I blacked out.
I came to with my eyes still closed. I remember screaming for help in the darkness because I could not at first move my head. I slowly opened my eyes and tried to move. I was scared and unsure of what was happening. Only then did I realize where I was, and that I could not move because the seat belt still held me down. I struggled to reach the buckle and managed to remove the belt. We were sideways, somewhere out of traffic. I saw Alex. His eyes were closed. I called for help. Alex moved his head and made a noise as he attempted to gasp for breath. I realized that I could not do anything for him. I called for help again, but understood that either no one was there, or no one could hear me. The windshield had broken, and I thought that I could slide out to find assistance. As I began to work my way out, I noticed that my legs were in incredible pain. Broken glass was everywhere, but I needed to get outside. Finally, I was on the pavement. I tried to stand, but could not. I screamed for help. Shortly, a woman rushed up to me. She explained that she was an EMT that has just happened to be driving behind us. She asked where it hurt and did my best to comfort me. I told her about Alex. She said her friend, also an EMT was helping him. I asked her to call Nissa. She said there would time for that later. I heard her friend say that she needed gloves and asking where the ambulance was. It was very cold there on the road. I told her that I did not have insurance. She said not to worry. I asked about Alex. She told me they were going to help him.
When the ambulance arrived, things got somewhat chaotic. There were questions and people running around. The EMT helping me explained what was happening. I heard her friend explain to someone what was happening with Alex. They began to cut me out of my clothes. I remember my pants were sticking to the wound on my leg. My whole body was shaking and in pain. They put me on a stretcher and held my head still. I asked about Alex. They said they were helping him. I remember being lifted into the ambulance and seeing a swarm of people around the truck. They put an oxygen mask on me and shut the doors.
I did not hear about Alex until I was in the trauma ward. The CHP officer stood over me and told me what had happened. Covered in tubes and on anesthetic, I did not have time to really take in what was going on. I wish I had said something to Alex so that he knew I was there. I wish I could have done more

.
a self portrait I sketched in rehab. I think it captures fairly well the unkempt madman look I had cultivated during my stay there.

Page Six

2011-02-13T13:21:00.000-08:00

Lawrence's left leg was growing numb. The hard, wooden slats of the train station bench pressed persistently against his thigh and back, reminding him how long he had been waiting, and how much he wished he were somewhere else. Sammy is a sadistic son of a bitch. That was the only explanation. June didn't want to see Lawrence at all, let alone first thing after a long train ride to some mystery job.
The bulge in his pocket seemed heavy and obvious. He could feel each indentation of the barrel brush his thigh as he shifted on the bench. She was late by nearly an hour and Lawrence was not a man with an abundance of time to wait. Sammy knew all this. Sammy was half the reason he was so busy. What the hell was that business in the restaurant the other day? Good vibes on this job were not ample to start with, now they were almost nonexistent.
Lawrence knew he couldn't run from Sammy. A big part of him wouldn't want to if he could. He would wait, like always, and pick up the cards as they landed.
Lawrence looked down at his hands, meaty, hard, experienced. Something in him hoped June was wearing gloves. He didn't want to feel her skin again. He hoped Sammy knew that, too.

When he hung up the phone five days earlier, Lawrence had noticed an unnerving quality in Sammy's voice. Sammy always spoke with a sort of calm, organized confidence. No emotion, no equivocation, no uncertainty and no room for questions. Sammy knew a job, knew how to get it done and did it, with everyone else following Sammy's instructions to the letter. This time, for the first time, it seemed like Sammy needed this job to happen. It was the way he had paused before, "I think we'll ask June along for this one." Every job they had done since she left could have used June, but this was the first time she'd been mentioned as necessary in seven years. Sammy's voice had been calm, as always, but it seemed like the plan was not fully formed. That chilled Lawrence to the marrow. If Sammy wasn't sure, nothing was. Every job they pulled had been a hair's-width from chaos. Faith in Sammy was the only certainty and the only way out without a reserved seat under an electric hat.
Lawrence had seen men's eyes bulge, red-rimmed, that film of involuntary tears catching the light as the sockets tightened. He had heard stories of what happens under that hood, what happens to the pressure in a man's head when they turn on the juice.

Lawrence rubbed his thumb over the scar on the back of his left hand. He looked up from the bench at the sound of a train huffing its way into place in front of a crowd of wives and children and business partners. Each passenger appeared at the doorway, squinted into the sun, scanned the crowd. Eyes glinting when the hand they were seeking shot up from the mass of those who wait. A subtle nod from the fedora and briefcase who found his driver. A squeal and a tear from a fiancee. Lawrence caught a flash of rich, brunette as it moved quickly in and out of view. He focused on the feet of the throng of loud reunions and quiet porters. There. A pair of pin striped legs nudged a battered sample case forward. Those green heels. He followed them up past black nylons, stretched tight around long, sinewy calves, past a thick, tweed jacket to June, her still, nameless complexion framed in coffee-colored waves, as always. She stepped free of the crowd and met Lawrence's eye, a burning spark of recognition fading quickly to obvious determination. As she approached the bench where Lawrence now stood, she removed a glove and extended her hand. Lawrence's own drew slowly across the heavy object in his pocket, felt the crisp, autumn air, then the smoothness of June's familiar, fragile skin.

I Love These Guys

2011-01-27T17:04:00.001-08:00

In recent weeks, both Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert have produced segments that really crystallize what I love about what they do and who they are. Enjoy. (I apologize if there is a commercial before the clip...I had to copy these from the Comedy Central website.)

Jon on the Arizona Shootings, 1/10/11:

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

Arizona Shootings Reaction

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show Full Episodes

Political Humor & Satire Blog

The Daily Show on Facebook

Stephen on what "Mika Brzezinski" thinks of Sarah Palin, 1/18/11:

The Colbert Report

Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

Mika Brzezinski Experiences Palin Fatigue

www.colbertnation.com

Colbert Report Full Episodes

Political Humor & Satire Blog

Video Archive

Both of these clips represent exactly what I admire about each host's respective styles and talents. For Jon, his uncanny ability to put into words with laser precision and disarming eloquence the thoughts many of us were, are and will be thinking about actions and events too large and affecting to fully fathom. He does so seemingly off the cuff, and with complete sincerity and genuine humanity. His intelligence is clear, his mind is quick, and his optimism is ever present in even the most cynical of situations.

For Stephen, his unflinching daring and flawless delivery. The word choice in this clip is perfect, and remarkably insightful. Like Jon, he takes the intangible thoughts one is experiencing and hones it to a razor sharp, dead-on string of undeniable truths. The utterly convincing delivery does not betray for a second that he his speaking his own mind. That is the key to the genius of his character. He give the audience the information from the point of view of one who is oblivious, and allows them to figure out what is true and where they stand.

The ease and skill with which both Jon and Stephen skewer modern politics and commentary to its absolute core could easily lead some to cry for their entrance into the political or professional news arena, but that is rash. Their purpose is to translate and decode what's laying between the lines, and reassure the public that they are not alone. Were they to join and try to change the world they comment upon, they would lose their effectiveness, and we desperately need them to stay where they are. These moments of clarity and humor are important, and help me to realize things are not nearly as bad, nor as impenetrable as they may sometimes seem.

Nov 30th Again, Again

2010-12-05T21:05:00.000-08:00

My birthday happened, and now I'm 29. So far, it is much like 28, but it's early in the year. For the last few years I have tried to mark my birthday by doing something that we may not normally do without the added justification of it being a special day. We've been to the opera, mini golfing, to the Academy of Sciences and, this year to Alcatraz. I try to choose something fun, possibly educational and that gives me a bit of a childlike buzz. I'm not someone who often exerts his preferences or choices on others, for good or ill, but on my birthday, I guess it's the one time I feel like I can choose something and express myself. We've seen some cool stuff on my birthday, and had some fun times with friends.

A side effect of this, is that my "it's my day" justification sometimes meshes with my compulsion for records and other media...I often get gift certificates and sometimes some money, and, try as I might (thought not terribly hard)...I usually wind up redeeming and spending what I've been given within a few days from my birthday. While I did use some of the money to get a hair cut, most of it went to this:

Two of these were acquired with a gift certificate from Mod Lang Records in El Cerrito (thanks Josh), the others from Amoeba. I hate shopping and rarely don't feel guilty after spending money...even sometimes with redeeming gift certificates...but, there is a great power when you stride in to a record store with the ability to walk out with the things you usually can't. Electric Ladyland by the Jimi Hendrix Experience (lower left) falls in to this category. It's the best Hendrix album, and I really wanted to hear it on vinyl. It's a new pressing, but it's almost impossible to find originals in listenable condition for anything resembling affordable. There's something amazing in hearing one's favorite songs on vinyl for the first time, there's a richness and a fullness, and a warmth that you just don't get from a CD or an mp3 (unless you have a crazy stereo system). That was certainly the case with The Patsy Cline story, a two album collection filled with some of Nissa and my favorite Cline songs that we found in perfect condition for a ridiculously low price at Amoeba. At the sound of the first, faintly crackling strains of "She's Got You" Nissa and I shared a glance and a smile. We've both listened to our Patsy Cline 12 Greatest Hits CD more times than we can probably count, but we had never heard her like that. It was like discovering what we love about her all over again, not bad for $4.99.

I was going to write about all the albums and all the stuff, but that last point was really where I was headed. I'll round out this post with a poem I've always liked, but which was recently brought back to mind by Nissa using it for a school project. It's by Richard Brautigan, from his collection, The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster. I stumbled upon this collection in a volume along with his Trout F ishing in America and In Watermelon Sugar in a bookstore in Madison, WI. I picked it at random and opened it to find this:

Widow's Lament

It's not quite cold enough
to go borrow some firewood
from the neighbors.

The economy and power of those words were enough to make me pick it up and take it home (later, I discovered my parents had had his books on the shelf when I was a kid, so maybe there was some subconscious direction there). Anyway, I suggest him to everyone. This is the poem I was referring to:

Star Hole

I sit here
on the perfect end
of a star,

watching light
pour itself toward
me.

The light pours
itself through
a small hole
in the sky.

I'm not very happy,
but I can see
how things are
faraway.

-------------------------------------------

That's just about it.

Take care,
David

Nov 30, Again

2010-11-30T08:36:00.000-08:00

Today, I am 29. Please enjoy this with my compliments.

It never fails to make me smile.

Last Weekend (a long post)

2010-11-06T13:26:00.000-07:00

The rally crowd (above) Our group for the rally (with friends from Wisconsin Chris and Sara)

Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Yusef (formerly Cat Stevens), Ozzy Osbourne, The O'Jays, Mavis Staples, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, R2D2, Sheryl Crow, Kid Rock, The Roots, Tony Bennett, 250,000 people, and one shared purpose, these are the ingredients for a fairly amazing weekend. Last Friday, Nissa and I (with the a
id of my good friend from college, Aditya) flew to Washington D.C. to attend the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear. While I'm a huge fan of both the Daily Show and the Colbert Report, the real motivation to embark on such a spontaneous trek was the message of the event, essentially that America could stand to take it down a notch, not in terms of political policy or passion, but in the bizarre and unnecessary inflamed rhetoric that the media and certain fringe groups to explain, rationalize, and critique policies and politicians...think Hitler mustaches on pictures of Obama, devil horns on George W. Bush, the popular thinking that disagreement with traditionally held positions is unpatriotic, or that defense of those positions is, at best religiously motivated ignorance, and at worst blind evil. Fear is used as political and ratings-gaining capital in this country to a point that nearly all meaningful debate is lost in the politicians' and pundits' need to either defend against gross exaggerations and unreasonable accusations, or engage in similar tactics in order to deflect the criticism and be heard above the noise to ensure reelection and repeat viewing just in case the lunatic fringe really does represent the American viewpoint at the polls. Admittedly, the majority of rally attendees would probably identify themselves as democrats, the idea that saner, more reasonable methods of communicating one's opinions would lead to a more rational national debate, perhaps even lead to the possibility of an environment in which compromise is not only considered, but encouraged, is neither a liberal nor conservative one. The incredible diversity and sheer, unexpected size of the crowd suggests this is an opinion held by many, and the fact that so many were willing to fly all the way to D.C. for an afternoon without any details of who would be there or what would occur, proves the immediacy and importance of the message. I've never been a part of a crowd that large, and I've never seen a crowd of any size as polite, kind, and calm as that at the rally, I witnessed no pushing, no complaining, and people even picked up litter as they left the mall after the event. I only experienced a small section of a massive body of people, so it's possible that things were less rosy elsewhere, but the amount of completely reasonable people I witnessed was significant nonetheless.
Nissa, our friends, and I were not able to get close enough to see the stage first-hand, but we had a great view of the second row of Jumbotrons and could easily hear the proceedings (after an initial, low-volume first half hour due, I assume, to the fact that no one at the rally expected a crowd the size of the one that showed up). The show was filled with comedy that ranged from subtly insightful intelligence, to silly and surreal, to occasionally juvenille, along with a host of surprising guest stars, musical numbers, (see the above list) and stage show gimmicks. At one point Jon Stewart brought out Yusef (Cat Stevens) to sing "Peace Train", only to have Stephen Colbert rush on stage mid-verse and stop him, shouting that he wants no part of that train, and has his own, the conductor of which has a message for the crowd. Then, from off-stage, we hear "ALL ABOARD!! HA HA HA HA!" and Ozzy Osbourne walks onstage as the Roots (who opened the show and acted as backing band to all the musical guests) launch into "Crazy Train". After a verse, Jon Stewart stops Ozzy and brings back Yusef to continue his song. The two go back and forth, back and forth, eventually both singing their songs at the same time, until both are fed up and walk off the stage. Jon and Stephen then argued about who's fault it was, shouting that some kind of train was needed. In between host gripes, a voice off stage was heard singing "People around the world." Eventually, Jon realizes who it is, and both he and Stephen could agree that a Love Train was something they could both get behind, Jon because it's a positive and reasonable thing to want, and Stephen, who spent the event trying to convince the crowd that irrational fear was a positive thing, agreed because love can result in STDs and heartbreak. Then, onto the stage rushes the O'Jays to perform their hit, "Love Train" in full! The show was filled with bizarre and unexpected moments like that. When Jon and Stephen were debating the virtues of reason over fear, Kareem Abdul Jabbar was brought on stage to prove to Stephen that, while some Muslims are indeed extremists, not all are to be feared...then R2D2 in order to prove that not all robots were evil either. At another point, Colbert brought out "Fearzilla", a giant puppet of himself, and battled against Stewart's pleas for reason with montages of reporters and politicians engaging in pointless and hyperbolic fear-mongering. When Stephen declared he had killed Jon with his argument, John Oliver came onstage dressed as Peter Pan, instructing that the crowd could revive Stewart with chanting. Stewart awarded medals of reasonableness and Colbert medals of fear, one of which went to a 7 year old girl that was brought on stage because she had more courage than the surprising number of news organizations that would not allow their employees to attend the rally so as not to appear biased (ahem), including NPR, Associated Press, CBS, ABC, and HLN among others (in fact, Fox News was one of the few networks that covered the rally, and from what I've heard, portrayed it in a fairly reasonable light), and another to Anderson Cooper's tight black t-shirt, because if you see that t-shirt, it means something horrible has just happened where you live.
The rally ended with Stewart's "moment of sincerity", in which he effectively and logically outlined the reasons for the event and the importance of the crowd:

"So. Here we are.

We had some really incredible music performances here today. I hope you enjoyed them. We’ve had what some would classify as comedy as well. But now I thought we might have a moment, however brief, for some sincerity; if that’s ok, I know there are boundaries for a comedian pundit talker guy, and I’m sure I’ll find out tomorrow how I have violated them.

I’m really happy you guys are here. Even if none of us are really quite sure why we are here. Some of you may have seen today as an clarion call for action. Or some of the hipper more ironic cats as a “clarion call for action.” Clearly some of you wanted to see the Air and Space Museum and got royally screwed. And I’m sure a lot of you are just here to have a nice time, and I hope you did.

I know many of you made a great deal of effort to be here today, and I want you to know that everyone involved with this project worked incredibly hard to make sure the we honored the effort that you put in, and gave you the best show that we could possibly do. We know your time’s valuable, and we didn’t want to waste it. And we are all extremely honored to have had a chance to perform on this beautiful space, on the mall in Washington D.C.

So uhhh, what exactly was this?

I can’t control what people think this was. I can only tell you my intentions.

This was not a Rally to ridicule people of faith, or people of activism, or to look down our noses at the heartland, or passionate argument; or to suggest that times are not difficult, and that we have nothing to fear-they are and we do! But we live now in hard times, not end times. And we can have animus and not be enemies. But unfortunately, one our main tools in delineating the two…broke.

The country’s 24-hour politico pundit perpetual panic conflictinator did not cause our problems; but its existence makes solving them that much harder. The press can hold its magnifying glass up to our problems, bringing them into focus, illuminating issues here to for unseen. Or they can use that magnifying glass to light ants on fire, and then, perhaps, host a week of shows on the sudden unexpected dangerous flaming ant epidemic. If we amplify everything, we hear nothing.

There are terrorists, and racists, and Stalinists, and theocrats-but those are titles that must be earned; you must have the resume. Not being able to distinguish between real racists, and tea partiers; or real bigots and Juan Williams or Rick Sanchez is an insult! Not only to those people, but to the racists themselves who have put in the exhausting effort it takes to hate. Just as the inability to distinguish terrorists from Muslims makes us less safe, not more.

The press is our immune system, if it overreacts to everything, we actually get sicker, and perhaps eczema.

And yet with that being said, I feel good; strangely calmly good. Because the image of Americans that is reflected back to us by our political and media process is false. It is us through a fun house mirror. And not the good kind that makes you look slim in the waist and maybe taller. But the kind where you have a giant forehead, and an ass shaped like a month old pumpkin, and one eye ball.

So why would we work together? Why would you reach across the aisle to a pumpkin-assed forehead eyeball monster? If the picture of us were true, of course our inability to solve problems would actually be quite sane and reasonable. Why would you work with Marxists actively subverting our Constitution? Or racists and homophobes who see no one else’s humanity but their own?

We hear every damn day about how fragile our country is, on the brink of catastrophe, torn by polarizing hate, and how its a shame how we can’t work together to get things done.

But the truth is, we do. We work together to get things done every damn day! The only place we don’t is here [the capital building], or on cable TV. But Americans don’t live here [the capital building] or on cable TV. Where we live our values and principles form the foundation that sustains us while we get things done. Not the barriers that prevent us from getting things done. Most Americans don’t live their lives solely as democrats, republicans, liberals, or conservatives. Americans live their lives more as people that are just a little bit late for something they have to do. Often something they do not want to do, but they do it. Impossible things everyday that are only made possible through the little reasonable compromises we all make.

Look on the screen, (a video of cars merging into one lane begins) this is where we are, this is who we are, these cars. That’s a school teacher that probably thinks his taxes are too high, he’s going to work. There’s another car, a woman with two small kids, really can’t think about anything else right now. There’s another car, swinging, I don’t even know if you can see it. The lady’s in the NRA and loves Oprah. There’s another car, an investment banker, gay, also likes Oprah. Another car is a Latino carpenter, another car, a fundamentalist vacuum salesman, atheist obstretician, Mormon Jay Z fan. But this is us! Every one of the cars that you see is filled with individuals of strong belief and principles they hold dear. Often principles and beliefs in direct opposition to their fellow travelers. And yet these millions of cars somehow find a way to squeeze one-by-one into a mile-long, 30-foot wide tunnel carved underneath a mighty river. Carved by people, by the way, who I’m sure had their differences.

And they do it. Concession by concession; you go, then I’ll go, you go, then I’ll go, you go, then I’ll go. Oh my god! Is that an NRA sticker on your car!? Is that an Obama sticker on your car!? Ah-well, that’s okay, you go, then I’ll go. And sure, at some point there will be a selfish jerk who zips up the shoulder and cuts in at the last minute, but that individual is rare, and he is scorned, and not hired as an analyst. Because we know, instinctively as a people, that if we are to get through the darkness, and back into the light, we have to work together. And the truth is, there will always be darkness, and sometimes the light at the end of a tunnel isn’t the promise land; sometimes its just New Jersey. But we do it anyway-together.

If you want to know why I’m here, and what I want from you, I can only assure you this. You have already given it to me; your presence was what I wanted. Sanity will always be, and has always been, in the eye of the beholder. And to see you here today, and the kind of people that you are, has restored mine.

Thank you!"

I read several articles about the rally after getting home. Some flatly reported the goings on, some editorialized, nearly all that did tended to miss the point. The rally was criticized for being muddled, for not taking a position and for not being more overtly political (for instance, encouraging young people to vote, or encouraging certain positions). The point was not about policy or process, it was about the way citizens and the media discuss them in public. It was a statement for calm, and reason and, most importantly, good-natured humor at our own expense. I don't intend to blow it out of proportion as an earth shaking, nation-changing event, but I can say that being in that crowd, and knowing that there were so many that were on the same page as I, was a comforting and illuminating experience, not gained from knowing that because some others agree with me and that means I'm right, but from truly feeling that differing opinions, backgrounds, and preferences do not need to prevent open and mutually beneficial discussion and compromise. That may be naive and overly optimistic, but standing in that crowd, it was wonderful to believe that quite a few people think the same. And, yes, there were a few overly snarky signs, and a few that missed the point and demonized the GOP and such, but the majority of what I experienced exemplified the spirit, motivation and humor of the day.

The next day, we got up "early" and walked around the National Mall area. We visited the Washington, WWII, Vietnam and Lincoln Memorials. I have been to D.C. twice before, once in 2nd grade, once in 7th) and I've seen these spots before, but I have to say that revisiting them as an adult was entirely different experience. The Lincoln Memorial has special impact. Seeing his face and reading his words was deeply affecting at this point in my life, having gained more knowledge of US and World history, and having a greater context for the true meaning of the events than I did in 7th grade surrounded by 60 other kids who just wanted to get to lunch. One really thinks about what are country was built on and what it stands for. Admitted problems withstanding, it is a unique and special place. Not a bad way to spend the weekend. (Not to mention that we got to hang out with old friends in a cool hotel, and we flew business class on the way there. I could cross my legs on an airplane!!!!)

A Thing We Did

2010-10-13T21:52:00.000-07:00

Hello,

The other night, my wife and I were bored. After a few failed plans and missed communications, she suggested that we make a movie. (She recently purchased a point and shoot camera that shoots HD video). I was playing the album In Sonic Bullets: 13 from the Hip by the surf-rock group The Bambi Molesters (terrible name, I know, but they make some great surf music) on my computer as we thought about what we could record, then I saw our dog, Hank's pumpkin chew toy and my wife's leopard- print high heels...the rest just sort of fell into place....

...with a special appearance by Hank himself...

(I apologize for the stretched out aspect ratio...the blog will only accept videos under a certain size, and I don't have any software that will compress the video to the right size and maintain the ratio)

No real reason, just because.

Page Five

2010-09-07T01:44:00.000-07:00

June sat, her body still, spine straight and away from the back of the seat, in her train compartment. The trees shot past as a small circle of fog formed on the window. Her breath was measured, slow, but forceful, tamed. Suppression came easy to June, and often. One is not born with an ease so skillful. It comes with practice, with opportunity. One must earn it. Her eyes stared back at her, floating translucent over the blurred hills, shaking in unison with the roughly laid track. A few hours and she would arrive. She wondered about Lawrence. She remembered his hand, the rough skin and the faint scratch against her cheek from the hangnail on his thumb, his fingers resting firm at the back of her neck. It would be a caress, were it not for the pressure, his palm against her throat, warm with the tightening. She remembered his left eye, the only thing in focus. It was strangely sad. He knew. He knew it was wrong, that it was without point, that he was helpless against it.
Her gloved finger crossed the widening patch of condensation on the glass. She felt the cold through the window and wetness on her fingertip. Autumn had been their season, their era alone. Her eyes watched her in the compartment, drifting through the yelloworange and brown, noting her thick, tweed jacket, blinking in the crisp sunlight. As the glass grew darker, June felt the weight in her jacket pocket, knew the shape and color, the energy. As she slipped her hand in, the moist tip of her finger felt the dull warmth of the revolver's handle, the worn texture familiar as the first smoldering shades of autumn. The eyes outside the window grew sharp and solid in relief against the slow seep of evening. They did not blink.

Page Four Part Two

2010-08-03T21:55:00.000-07:00

Sammy did not answer. He lowered his arm to his side with a sigh that almost covered the sound of the hammer clicking safely back into place. The figure in the mirror stared, its eyes locked on Sammy's. Sammy wondered if the dreams would return that night, if the figure knew, if it mattered, if there was anything he could do. He listened for the short, sharp staccato of the morning's bird. The figure cocked its ear, mocking him. The revolver landed on the carpet with a muffled, but resounding percussion. Sammy turned from the mirror. The figure's shoulders shook gently, miming derisive laughter, as it walked away and out of the room.

June's letter held no more answers than it had this morning or the night before. June had no answers. She was coming for a job. She was coming expecting Sammy to be Sammy with Lawrence as Lawrence just behind them. This was not the time. There was never a time for this. This had nothing to do with time. Time was not interested.
The clock told Sammy it was time to find out if the dreams were coming back. He creased the letter along the familiar and well worn folds, slipped it inside its envelope and laid it in the drawer of the desk. He slid the drawer closed, locking it with a small key that he had removed from a tack that stuck out from the side of the left leg of the desk, one and a half feet from the top and one and a half feet from the floor. Sammy returned the key to its tack and turned toward the bedroom. He turned out the light before entering, finding his way carefully to bed, lifting the blanket, and slipping in without removing his clothes.
It was warm that night. The sounds of the street below his window hissed like steam in the blackness of his room. His eyes shut. He imagined what the night sounded like inside the mirror. The mirror did not tell him.

Page Four

2010-07-25T11:52:00.000-07:00

Sammy sat hunched at the foot of the bed, barefoot, feeling the weight and balance of the revolver resting quietly across his open palm. The barrel was cold against his skin. He knew this gun, knew its presence and gravity. The hard chill at the base of his skull placed itself again with that same steady certainty, fresh like yesterday. He jumped suddenly to his feet as the the deliberate creak and click of the hammer drew itself across his memory like a strand of spider's web, the rounded snap filling his ears to a point near deafness. His fingers now clutched tightly around the fraying surgical tape of the grip, his thumb conformed firmly to the shallow valley of the hammer, cocked and ready. A bead of sweat caught his eyelash and blinked his lid, breaking his momentary reverie. Sammy looked down at his thumb on the hammer, his index finger snug against the trigger's curve. He turned his head toward the mirror above the bureau. The figure that faced him stooped forward, one hand clutched protectively behind its neck, the other steadily rising on the full length of an unflinching arm. Half of the figure's grayish face was now blocked by the widening barrel of an old revolver. Sammy stared into the lifeless black of the hole at the end.

"And why not?" the figure mouthed, its one sapphire eye cold and logical.

Page Three

2010-05-31T10:57:00.000-07:00

"What in Christ happened to you?"
"Nothing. Nevermind. Did you bring it?"
"Nothing my ass. I know you."
"Did you bring it?"
"Of course I did. What's it for?"
"For launching projectiles at great speed. Can I see it?"
"What's it for?"

Lawrence Tolan was impatient at the best of times. The thick fingers of his left hand twitched conspicuously on the knee of his neatly pressed white slacks, his right hand plunged deep in the pocket of his tailored sport coat, clearly wrapped around some intensely coveted object. He hadn't seen Sammy in over three years and Sammy's behavior was doing nothing to stem his suspicions about the unexpected call he received two weeks ago. The fact that Sammy had asked him to bring the pistol Lawrence used to kill Joe Timms was not helping.

"I have other guns you know." Lawrence knew Sammy was watching his pocket. "What's going on?"
Sammy took tentative sip from his coffee. He knew he looked shaken. That was not his plan. He was supposed to be the steady one. Today was not the day for this. Lawrence had whispered something about his gun, but the rest was hazy. Sammy knew this was a mistake, but she was already on her way and Lawrence would not forget.
"What's with you? Sammy?" Lawrence slammed his open palm on the table, forcing a fork to ricochet off of his plate and onto the carpet of the cafe. Heads turned and Lawrence noticed. He resented Sammy for putting him in this situation.
Sammy pierced Lawrence with a frozen stare, shakiness gone. He slowly placed his cup of coffee on the table, stood, and bent to retrieve the fork that lay gleaming on the carpet. He let the tines of the fork fall to the table with soft thud then slid it noiselessly forward to rest beside his plate. He stepped behind Lawrence's chair and laid his hands gently on his broad shoulders, feeling them instinctively tense. Sammy slipped a finger inside the collar of Lawrence's sport coat and began to pull, calmly, reassuring. Lawrence knew better than to resist and hunched imperceptibly forward in his chair. Sammy peeled back the jacket and slipped it past Lawrence's loosening elbow. Lawrence unclenched his right hand and let Sammy slide the coat from, behind his back, fold it confidently over his arm, and turn away from the table. The familiar double jingle of the bell over the cafe door told Lawrence their conversation had reached an end. He heard whispers to his left and silently fumed, the fingernails of his right hand digging deeply into his palm.

-------------------------------------------------------
No song today...i'm sick and lightheaded and in no mood for thought.

Page Two

2010-04-17T18:01:00.000-07:00

Sammy had the kind of looks only a certain few would find handsome. His mother was one. June was the other.
He was incredibly fit, but one wouldn't know it by sight. His stubbled chin sloped below his thin lips, tucking close to his neck, and his cheeks drooped just enough to make his mouth a slight, perpetual frown. His shoulders were broad, but stooped forward, caving in his thick chest and compressing a flat, toned stomach out into an incongruous paunch, his knees forced forward to support this serpentine posture. He would strike a pathetic figure were it not for his eyes. Pale sapphires set beneath thick, black brows, they carried an awareness not suggested by his face and physique. His eyes pierced, but were kind about it; they made him appear both vulnerable and cold, a tender predator.
Sammy was graced with the element of surprise. Strangers lulled by his shuffling form did not expect his agile ferocity and sharp, calculating instincts; nor did those familiar with his physical abilities suspect his capacity for warmth. A double nature proved invaluable in his field of interest, and those who knew him well knew enough not to enlighten those acquainted with only one side of Sammy Cranston.
No one knew about the dreams. Sammy didn't know what to think about them. He only knew that he woke up terrified. Over the last year, the skin beneath his eyes had become almost translucent, veins prominent, deep lines carving across the top of his cheek. He rarely slept more than three hours a night and it seemed to be getting worse. If the job he was planning was going to work, he needed to focus, and that was nearly impossible; his nerves were so frayed he could barely concentrate.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Out of the corner of his eye, Sammy caught a glimpse of something. He couldn't make it out. Tight against the curb, huffing the stale, recirculated air, he looked back. Nothing there. No one there, but an elderly couple in the park across the street, staring at him. He rolled down the window, the acrid stink of hot rubber still hovering above the corner met his nostrils. What had he seen? He checked his eyes in the mirror, the pupils wide, the whites streaked with red. Nothing there. He was tired. It was two thirty on Friday. Two days to go. Lawrence was waiting at the hotel and Sammy was late.
That morning he had slept through the alarm. No dreams. That shook him even more. Now he didn't know what to expect. His pillow smelled of sweat, but was dry. His muscles weren't sore, no clenching through the night. A bird was singing, that was what woke him. It was a very particular song. He could still hear it. Two short chirps followed by a longer, two-note tone. The pitch bent upward between notes, ending in a high, piercing whistle. For a full ten minutes, Sammy laid there listening; the bird repeating its call, never altering the pattern, never wavering off-pitch. No more than two seconds between the fading the high whistle and the next clipped, squeaking chirp.
As he sat hunched over the wheel, still drawing air in large, intermittent gulps, Sammy saw a small bird, brown and speckled-gray casually hopping out from behind the feet of the elderly couple. He waited for the discreet cone of its beak to open, to hear those two short chirps. The bird pecked at the concrete, quick bobs, its movements almost imperceptible. Sammy waited. The elderly couple rose gingerly from their bench. The woman gradually slipped her withered hand into the folds of well-worn plaid at the crook of the man's elbow. The speckled bird stopped its bobbing and cocked its head, regarding the couple for three seconds before hopping into the boulevard grass and taking to the air.
Sammy was late. He needed to talk to Lawrence. Lawrence would be waiting for him at the hotel. Sammy needed to put the car in drive and get there.

--------------------------------------------------------------
"Hear You Me" by Jimmy Eat Word, from Bleed American. I'm not going to say too much about this one. It's always connected very deeply with me and I don't know exactly why. My voice trembles a little when I sing it and I always think of my grandma who passed away...not sure why. Just give it a listen and enjoy a well-crafted song.
.
(click pic--the Internet has let me down on this one...can't find the album version, so here's the band live in the studio...it doesn't have the right harmonies or piano part, if you're curious, let me know and I will find a way to get you the original)

First Page

2010-04-10T12:55:00.000-07:00

Sammy woke, sweating again. He didn't remember closing his eyes, but two hours had passed. This one was much worse than usual. He didn't remember how it started, but the end had jolted him badly.
It was Thursday and Sammy still had three days. She would come in on the afternoon train and she would be ready. She was always ready, that's why Sammy invited her. He knew it wouldn't be easy, it might not even have been smart, but he needed her and she was willing. She was coming, in any case.
The letter came Monday; it had taken her a month to respond. Her reply had left Sammy unsettled. There was something unnerving in her confidence:

Sammy, Pick me up at three. I'm taking the train. Tell Lawrence I want to see him, but don't bring him with you. I take your offer to be a promise. Three o'clock, Sunday.
-June

It had been six years since he last saw her, seven since she had seen him.
By the time Sammy got the letter, Lawrence had already called. He wasn't happy, but Sammy knew he could handle him. June wanted to see Lawrence and Sammy needed them both.

-------------------------------------------------
"Be My Baby"-The Ronettes, ...this is another one that has no specific album, but the image below is from The Best of the Ronettes. For years I've been thinking about what to say about this song, but haven't attempted a description for fear of erring on the side of either pretentious critical hyperbole or overly sentimental nostalgia for an era I never experienced. The reasons behind both of those potential outcomes are the reasons I love this song. It feels important. When stripped of its symphonic echoes and thundering percussion, it is essentially just another two-minute pop song about a girl and a guy, but its production elevates it to something exhilarating. This song catches you and fills you up. From that first genius snare/tambourine hit the momentum is set for the full on explosion of the chorus. It is the embodiment of young love, of youth in general...that feeling that what is happening now is more important than anything before and what comes next doesn't matter. Right now, this is amazing.
Phil Spector's "Wall of Sound", I am forced to admit (see Rosemary's Baby), does most of the work, but the song would be nowhere near as successful without Ronnie Spector's vocals. She has the greatest voice in rock n' roll--attitude and exuberance and fun and abandon. Everything that rock n' roll is and should be.
I often lament the fact that my generation has not had its own music revelation. I will never know the full sensation felt by kids in the 50s and 60s when they first heard rock n' roll and no one had heard it before them. The feeling I get from this song is as close as I'm likely to get to that experience. Rock n' roll in the summertime in love.

(click the pic)

Typing at Work

2010-03-21T13:07:00.000-07:00

Today is a sponge resting on the edge of the sink. It sits, slowly but steadily leaking. It smells a bit, but can still be used. This is the first thing that came to my head to write, thinking that writing might be something productive and productivity might be something that keeps my mind off of that sponge. There is definitely something in the act of creating that distracts one from prevailing thoughts. The conundrum of this being that often what one creates is based on those thoughts. If ones finds something of merit in the writing, it is saved, only to be found again later, perhaps when one is in a better mood, to serve as a reminder. Depending on a number of factors, like what one has been thinking about that day or plans to do later, or what someone else has said, that discovery can be either a wistful reminder of how bad things seem without perspective or the first step to losing that perspective and heading downward.
What then, head off the spiral by avoiding creation in the first place? If the bad times are the one thing keeping one down, but are also the one thing that is seemingly unchangeable, doing everything possible to prevent being reminded of that fact would appear to be a plausible solution. There is also a risk inherent to creation, that being the possibility that one will lose interest, ambition, or satisfying ideas before finishing, leading to disappointment. That disappointment quickly becomes a symbol for all past failure, rational or no.
It's happening right now. I'm halfway through, thinking about how I will end this and what I'm trying to say, but stumbling on the words, giving myself time to allow ideas to creep in. What does my personal philosophy, or for that matter, my personal struggle, matter? Does this questioning get me anywhere? Will it matter a week from now when I'm so crippled by lack of motivation that allowing myself to let my mind go blank and vegetate within movies and old tv shows seems like a show of strength on my part? As I write this, I am chatting with my wife online about the looming health care decision. We are both disappointed by our lack of knowledge on the subject and beset equally by the desire for those in need to get help and the unwillingness to accept that progress comes at the price of insidious appeasement of the powers of influence. Mine is a temperament ever teetering on the brink of cynicism when it comes to world affairs, but I am, perhaps naively, more often optimistic about individuals. The distance between these two often leads to, at best, indecision and blissful ignorance, or, at worst, complete loss of confidence in myself and a cynical disillusion drifting steadily towards lack of hope.
ENOUGH! DISTRACTIONS! This is not what I set down to write...well, I didn't set down to write anything in particular, but this was not where I was headed. I'm sure there is much fodder for discussion to be found in my inability to change the world because I'm dealing with my own little problems and I'm sure it will dog me as I walk to BART tonight, but that is not where I was headed. Disappointment, that is where I was. Is the potential for disappointment sufficient reason not to engage in what may become disappointing? If this were aimed at someone else or destined for wide publication I would say no, but I am writing this for myself, and to myself, though it breaks my heart, I say that there is no answer. That is a question that can only be answered by the individual that asks it. When in my depressive state I wait. I wait for an answer, or a reaction, or an affirmation, or a push; I wait for a definitive reason and clear, final, solution. While writing this I think of what might happen if I post it on my blog, some might seek to comfort me, some might say they really think I should be a writer, some might offer advice and some might privately admonish my cavalier assessment of myself and theorize upon my motives. There is no answer. I wrote because I felt like writing it and I post it because I wanted someone to read it. I don't have any expectations beyond that. That comes later in the day, or tomorrow, or a week from now. Is it necessary? Is it worthwhile? Is it meaningful? I don't know. I will not speculate. I know that I have spent the last two hours doing this instead of wondering what to do with my time and I know that I am still at work and have eight hours to go. I know that I deleted several words and sentences because they did not effectively or efficiently express what I meant and I know that I did not plan to write this until I started.
There was a time and now it has passed, there will be more time later. Who knows what somethings are the right ones and whether or not it matters. I imagine no one or someone very quiet and unassuming. He or she shuffles down the street, nodding to those that pass, ever ready for the day that she will reach out and grab the elbow of the one for whom he has been waiting. Then she will whisper in to that ear what he knows. I could wonder about each hand that ever so slightly rises when I pass; or I could keep looking ahead, answering my own questions until I hear an answer that makes me comfortable with the possibility of more of them. A sphere, but a large one.

Nissa takes photos

2010-03-09T16:45:00.001-08:00

Tilden Park in Berkeley, CA. I have never seen such blurry clouds. Not wispy or thin, just blurry. Neat.

blog

2010-03-07T16:57:00.000-08:00

Because posting a blog feels vaguely like an achievement and because the personal blog I have in my head is a bit bleak for the public, here is an assortment of movie reviews past and recent featuring some favorites and some lesser known.

Encounters at the End of the World

This film is amazing in many ways. It is not a documentary about Antarctica, it is a documentary about life that happens to talk place in Antarctica. Herzog marvels at the oddities and beauties of existence and portrays them lovingly while never losing sight of their reality. He takes as much time showing the way bubbles or shards of glass flow against the ice as he does with the bizarre underwater creatures of the area. One element that takes a bit of patience is Herzog's narration...he often tells us things we could easily have figured out ourselves, but that is what makes it a Herzog film. It is very personal to him...he made it because he had questions he wanted answered. The most amazing part of this film is that there are so many stories that are discovered...any one of which would easily make it's own fascinating documentary. This film shows us that there are tiny, amazing lives and details going on everywhere at every moment whether they are known to the rest of the world or not and that fact alone is really the answer to most of our questions. Along with the ideas, the visuals and music are absolutely wonderful. Another fantastic Herzog film. The conversation with Jonathan Demme on disc 2 is definitely worth a watch for fans as well.

The Last Detail

If youre going in to this expecting a comedy, dont come looking for Meet the Parents or even Harold and Maude. This is funny in the same way Jim Jarmusch films are funny...which is to say, its funny because its true and well-observed. The humor in this film comes in its similarity to real life...the only real joke comes at the very end at the expense of the Navy and even that is fairly restrained considering the time period and the director. The Last Detail maintains a very slow and quiet pace. This is a bit worrying in the first 10 minutes or so, but after about an hour your realize that this is how more (not all) movies should be, it allows the viewer to watch a character develop in almost real time, bringing the audience along for every detail of the journey, so that, by the end, we have seen a genuine slice of these very realized characters. Its almost redundant to say that Jack Nicholson is great in his role as Navy badass. He creates a complete and fairly engrossing persona that never rings short of true. It was also nice to see Randy Quaid in an almost uncomfortably restrained performance as opposed to his over the top later years. It takes some work to watch, but definitely worth it by the time it ends.

Jason and the Argonauts

The dialog is stilted and the performances wooden, but the fact that this 1963 film's special effects are more impressive, cohesive, and non-distracting than a lot of today's most expensive popcorn-fare makes it worth watching and, indeed, a classic. You don't get much better than Harryhausen...he had not only the creativity, bu also the extreme patience and dedication. Watch the subtle movements and textures of the monsters (especially the giant Talos statue) that the Argonauts encounter..and even the camera tricks like forced perspective and the like are spot on and not remotely silly looking. That's a feat. I also love how the gods talk to each other. They are so casual and even petty about their all-powerful wills...which is how the Greek myths portray them, but it's nice that an effects film took the time to actually create characters for the gods rather than just have them barking orders from the clouds. This film knows it's working with fantasy and does it with all sincerity. Not as bad as its first ten minutes would suggest!

Brief Encounter

This film lands firmly in the "they don't make them like this anymore" category, and that's probably okay. Brief Encounter could only exist successfully in the period from which it came. One can only accept the constant narration (basically reading the short story on which the film is based) of the main character in a classic romance...otherwise it would seem bizarrely obvious and a little lazy. And that's not to say that it doesn't at times feel that way, but if you are able to put on a "this is an older movie from a different time" lens, the stellar acting from Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard and the absolutely beautiful direction by David Lean matched with gorgeous cinematography (the lighting is perfect) more than make up for any dated awkwardness. It's not earth shattering or life-changing, but its a completely solid, great little movie that shows much of what it takes to make a successful and effective film...an intriguing story, an intriguing twist on the way the story is told, a reason for that twist, and acting and direction that does nothing but aid the story. It also shows that David Lean knows his way around a story...whether it be subtle and quiet or giant and expansive (Dr. Zhivago, Lawrence of Arabia)...the characters are what matter. Highly recommended for film lovers and romantics.

Quick Change

Without Bill Murray this would be a nice, quirky, manic little comedy about New York and its eccentricities, but Murray gives the film its real anchor. He plays his bank robber with his usual understated, sardonic glee and it's immense fun to see him spend the first 15 minutes of the film in a clown suit. Quick Change is great at confounding one's expectations and is very rarely predictable. The great cast and quick pacing allow it to switch from a heist caper to a train-wreck "one crazy day" to a surprisingly real and never sappy love story. Randy Quaid gets on my nerves from time to time, but his goofishness is downplayed by the general good nature of the film that never lets stupidity become mocking or pitiable. If you like Bill Murray you'll love this and, it's a great early 90s comedy to boot. Its a cliche and I know it is, but they do not make movies like this anymore. It's not mean, it's not gross, it's not dirty...it's funny and exciting and silly without ever losing its maturity.

Fast, Cheap & Out of Control

Once again I'm left unsure of who write synopses for this video mailing company (I am not allowed to use the name)...this is listed as a story about the "fine line between madness and genius" and I suppose one could say it is, but the genius being put under scrutiny is not the film's subjects, but it's director. This is not a story about four guys who are experts. This is a look at what it means to control life and what exactly is controlling us looked at through the eyes of four individuals. Not for one second is it about the subjects. Their personal experiences merely form the lens and evidence from which the audience draws its own conclusion. It is not an easy watch simply because of the constant cut-ins and jumping back and forth (you really don't know what's going on until at least 10 minutes in), but if you just hang on and go with it the viewer soon realizes that everything is very much connected and slowly painting a very cohesive and, really quite amazing, picture of life and the larger questions of existence. Morris brilliantly (for the most part) juxtaposes the film and audio to really lead the viewer through his idea of what this all means. Its an incredibly exciting way to tell a story and it's flattering to see a flimmaker that allows the viewer to make up its own mind. The title is a bit misleading, but I think any title would be arbitrary when asked to represent all that is stuffed into this film. Less a documentary then an experiment in visual stimulation and universal consciousness, this is highly recommended for anyone who wants a little challenge and a lot of thought in their movie-watching.

The Call of Cthulhu

If you're an H.P. Lovecraft you must see this. It is an incredibly faithful and loving adaptation that has the good sense to realize that most of what goes on in a Lovecraft novel would sound ridiculous when translated into traditional movie dialogue and modern movie pacing. So, they made a 1930s silent film...incredibly well. The casual strangeness and horror of Lovecraft is perfectly captured in the clever use of camera tricks and the occasional stop-motion sequence. One master-stroke was the decision to use more modern-day realistic and subtle acting, rather than the theatrical over-the-top style of the early silent films...it makes sure that the film never seems like a parody and serves to further heighten the anachronistic unease that is present in Lovecraft's work. Also, much like the giddy thrill one received the first time one saw Ian McKellan as the embodiment of a real, living Gandalf (in spite of the rest of the movie...), it is exciting to have a visual representation (a very close one I might add) of the creatures and idols one could only imagine while reading. Highly recommended for anyone that loves film and essential for anyone that loves Lovecraft.

Delirious

Its true that there are some definitely comic moments in this film, but there is in pretty much every film if its any good. An exaggerated situation and over the top characters does not necessarily equal a comedy and I think those that feel the need to label genre titles probably dont understand the films themselves. That said, this film has an interesting premise and some great acting. No one plays an a##hole that doesnt know he is one like Steve Buscemi, but he also has the pathos and skill to make the character a believable human being. Also, Michael Pitt finds in his role a good fit for his usual doe-eyed, hyper-sensitive, but not spineless persona (see HEDWIG and the ANGRY INCH)and serves as something of an angelic moral touchstone that the other characters sort of compare themselves to. Its an ambitious project to be sure...any one of the main characters stories could be a movie unto itself and the film does at times feel a bit overstuffed, but the writing is strong enough to not lose its way and the actors (for the most part) are able to hold the interest when the writing lags. Delirious tries to talk a little about fame and exploitation and the idea of what success really means and it does pretty well for the most part...the Alison Lohman character falls a bit flat because there isnt time to establish her story as well as Pitts or Buscemi, but she doesn't bog anything down enough to hurt the film too badly. I think the most intriguing thing about it is how Pitts character never really changes, but he forces others to reexamine themselves and adapt to his overwhelming sense of self actualization. Its a nice little movie and a nice use of talent. Also one of the few films in recent years with some genuinely sappy moments that really makes you think in the long run. Not all movies that make you laugh are comedies and not all movies that make you think have to be serious.

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"Why Can't He Be You" by Patsy Cline from many places, but I have it from Patsy Cline's 12 Greatest Hits. Patsy Cline is one of the greatest vocalists all time. When I first discovered her I wondered if she had had a horrifically depressing love life because all her songs sound so incredibly personal. I have since learned that she only wrote a very few of her own songs and those she did are not the most famous tunes. This is a testament to her talent. She feels every moment of every song and transfers that to the listener...case in point: "Why Can't He Be You". This is one of the saddest songs I've ever heard. Most of the tragedy comes from the lyrics, but Patsy Cline sells it in a way that makes it sound like autobiography. It is also one of the rare (as far as I know) songs in which the heartbreak does not belong to the singer. Patsy relates the story of the perfect guy. He's a gentleman, he's thoughtful, he's romantic, and he's kind, but all she can think of is the selfish jerk she can't help being in love with. How awful is that for the nice guy? He's doing everything he was always told a woman wants and befits a man and it doesn't matter...Patsy Cline really sells the situation by not sounding as though she has pity for the man, it isn't about him, this is her chastising herself for not being able to forget a man that treats her wrong. She wants the perfect guy to be all that he is in the body of the jerk she loves...of course, the most tragic thing of all is that the nice guy doesn't know any of this is going on... Credit to Hank Cochran who wrote the track.

list

2010-01-07T10:15:00.000-08:00

My wife, inspired by others in her field, recently made a list of the 100 hundred things she'd like to accomplish in the next three years. I decided I would try it myself, but was doubtful about reaching 100. Many of my goals are a little less specific than others' and address some more basic issues...issues that, once they become clearer, will most likely lead to more specific goals. Anyway, I got about 30...(not necessarily in order of importance)

1. Consider myself happy more often
2. Do not confuse lucky with happy
3. Stand up for my preferences
4. Have preferences
5. Take Nissa to Spain
6. Take Nissa to New Orleans
7. Find a job unlike my current one
8. Read something by William Faulkner
9. Write more
10. Finish the Borstal Holiday record
11. Put some of my rap songs in a more presentable state
12. Rip my records and make them available on the internet
13. Develop my new band
14. Be more forgiving
15. Talk more when I have the urge
16. Take my almost constant urge to draw more seriously
17. Allow situations to be uncomfortable if honesty leads to that
18. Make more friends
19. Play the drums more
20. Learn more about the drums
21. Work on improving
22. Make more decisions
23. Watch less t.v. after work
24. Read something by Flaubert
25. Read something by James Joyce
26. Pay more attention to local issues and scenery
27. Avoid dwelling on things beyond my control
28. Identify those things beyond my control
29. Spend more time outdoors
30. Go camping
31. Figure out what it is I am doing
32. Figure out what it is I want to do

It's an interesting exercise. We'll see what happens.

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Untitled 3 (samskeyti) by Sigur Ros from the album ( ) (yes, that's the name...they're from Iceland): I was introduced to this band by a friend in college who knew about such things. I had agreed to see them live without having heard them (it was a thing to do) and was given a burned copy of this album in order to bone up before the show. The vocals are all in either Icelandic, a made up gibberish language, or a hybrid of both (reportedly, I don't know what he is saying at all), but it hardly makes a difference. They create one of the most unique impressions on first listen of any group in recent memory. Needless to say, I was intrigued to say the least before the show...I was also intrigued by a warning on the internet that it was not a great idea to smoke pot or do heavier drugs at the show because the effect of their music is so calming that people sometimes pass out (not that I had planned to, but it is an unusual, if not unheard of, thing to suggest to mostly college-aged fans!) The show was amazing...it still ranks as the greatest non-punk show I've ever been to (not favorite, best)...the combination of the music, lights, and projected images the band used created what felt like nothing else but the physical embodiment of what it feels like to be in love (I'm not kidding or exaggerating). I cannot guarantee that effect by listening to this track in mp3 form, but notice how appropriate it is for the quieter moments in your life, and how, in more chaotic ones, it adds a little tranquility. My college roommate used to suggest I try to meditate when I got really worked up...this is the song I always played. It is simple, but brilliant. Incredibly deep, yet nothing more than it needs to be.

Here are a couple different video versions (you can hear the audio only version by clicking the pic) to show how affecting it is even in different settings:
The first is the band playing at a school in Europe's morning assembly

And this, from their amazing DVD Heima (Home in Icelandic)...incidentally one of the greatest music DVDs I've seen. I'd like to see Iceland someday.

p.s. apparently "samskeyti" means "attachment" in Icelandic...no wonder...

Another Year Over

2010-01-01T11:33:00.000-08:00

The wife and I on New Year's Eve

It's been a decade since someone last said "it's been a decade since..." and many things have happened since then. Theoretically, many more things will happen before someone again mentions that it was ten years ago today that we were talking about the end of the last decade. Let's see, In 2000 I graduated from High School. Since then, I have
played in 7 different bands; made two short films (and one documentary short); traveled to Spain, England, Italy, New Orleans, Florida, New York, Washington, Wisconsin, Iowa, Texas, and, on the way to moving to California, traveled through Nebraska, Utah, Nevada, and Wyoming, and Oregon on the Washington for a weekend visit to Seattle. I started classes at UW Madison in 2000 and finished about four years later, meeting many people that I still talk to on the way. I moved to California with some of those people, one of whom I married a year after I proposed to her after a Green Day/Jimmy Eat World/Flogging Molly concert at AT&T Park in San Francisco, which, incidentally, is directly across the street from where I started working in 2005, Current TV. I'm still working there. In the last decade I saw more movies than I can count (reasonably close to a thousand, probably...I don't know, maybe not...but a lot.), saw tons of live music, played tons of live music, went to several plays, two operas, and was even in a few plays myself (two, for sure, maybe more...I'm fuzzy on years sometimes). I was in two car accidents, had one surgery (unrelated), visited 7 therapists, took five different behavioral medications (not all at once; at one time three at once, but that was short-lived and ill-advised) and have since stopped taking all of them. I lost someone very important to me and was not there to say goodbye, I began to try and become a computer animator and then thought better of it, and I thought better also of beginning to try and become a teacher. I've drunk a lot and smoked a little and have since stopped both...for the most part...I love a good stout and a glass of whiskey now and then. I've read a few hundred books, wrote a good number of poems and a slightly larger number of song lyrics. I've downloaded and listened to thousands of albums, bought and burned hundreds of CDs and amassed a relatively small, but valuable (to me) collection of records. I became a vegetarian, an uncle (twice), and a pet owner (three fish, five rats, and, most recently, a dog named Hank). I've been to art museums in three states and three countries and made a fair amount of what some could (I suppose) call art myself. I released a very short-lived comic book that I handed out to local bookstores to give away for free. I've seen redwoods, mountains, oceans, and olive groves. I've seen cypress trees bent and gnarled in the fog and oak trees alive with color in the crisp air of autumn. I've seen monuments and mosques and I've walked the same path to work for four years straight. I was in love twice, thought I was in love many more times, and was lucky enough to find someone that loved me as well and wanted to spend the rest of her life with me and I was able to see clearly long enough to know that what I really wanted was to spend my life with her. I thought a lot about love and death and time and futures and souls and purpose and destiny and meaning and food and movies and music and art and poetry and war and hate and power and friendship and knowledge and ignorance and compromise and belief and family and suicide and fear and nature and beauty and corruption and decisions and dreams and penguins and myself and what I can say is that what one has done in a decade can be listed in fairly random order on a web page that people may or may not read and can mean whatever one would like it to. I have lived for ten more years and so have many others. Together, many of us will live for ten more. I hope that I am among that group and that my loved ones are as well. It is likely that some of them will not be.
Here's to ten more years of striving to live gracefully among the fabulous eccentricities of this world. Enjoy yourself and help others to do the same.
love,
David

So this is Christmas

2009-12-25T12:27:00.000-08:00

Two nights ago my wife and I set up and decorated our Christmas tree. It's skinny and sparse artificial number my wife got for $12 at a post-holiday sale at Target. After we were done stringing the lights and hanging the ornaments, I put on the soundtrack to Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown and sat on the couch with my wife and our dog and stared at the tree. This is a favorite past time of mine. For as long as I can remember I have spent many an evening during the holidays sitting or laying on a couch and gazing intently at the Christmas tree. More often than not my mom and hot chocolate would be involved, but there was always something about it that was more than just a familial appreciation of the holiday. I could really lose myself in in the deep green and radial halos of pink and orange and blue and yellow. Staring at the lights even brought a tinge of pain, like looking directly at a flashlight, but not so immediate and not so bright. Just a tiny, far off reminder that this is not something one should do for very long; but I honestly think I would have done it forever if I could have. At that moment, nothing was more important or more desired.
The nutcracker, hung in the same place every year from its thin thread of gold, spun a quarter turn toward the wall, stolid and smiling, floats frozen near the end of its branch. Motionless, but seemingly alive in the pink-red glow reflecting off of the ornament's waxy sheen, it hangs before the yawning cavern of dark and green, alone in the space between the branches.
The times in front of the tree I remember most are from my years in high school and when coming back from college. Those were times in which my identity was slipping and my future was nothing if not unclear. The tree was home and innocence and knowing, or, at least, not needing to know anything else. Those are the nights I felt like I could never move. If the outside world had stopped moving and needing, I would be happy to stay in the warm glow of the lights and the branches. I would live with the nutcracker and the macaroni angel just above, bathed in sharp spokes of softly burning orange.
So then, to the present, with me and my wife and our dog in front of our beloved anemic artificial tree. I stare at the lights, all white this time, and watch the halos rest on holiday baubles, some nostalgic, some just pretty. The music add another level of memories, but, as always, it is the tree that holds my attention. I find myself thinking, what is it about this tree that makes me feel this way? By and large, Christmas trees are probably a waste of electricity and, to be honest, trees, why should I be so moved? The answer, of course, is the memory. The tree represents the holidays and it represents family. And it is this answer that leads me to what I've been thinking about today. Christmas.
I'm at work this Christmas, my wife is at a friend's house enjoying their family's celebration and the members of my extended family are all in other states. The person I'm working with today is of Jewish heritage so today doesn't mean much...other than it is a day in which he must deal with most around him talking about Christmas, for him and many others this is a Friday. And to be matter of fact, it is a Friday. Neither I nor my wife are Christian so our celebration of Christmas is mostly the recreation of the holiday traditions of our childhood. And even for those who are Christian, Christmas is what it is because of tradition. No one really knows when Jesus was born. So, what makes Dec. 25th Christmas? Well, like I said before, tradition. This is the first year since moving to California that my wife and I are not celebrating with our families and I realized that, when it is just my wife and I, we alone are responsible for our Christmas. This might sound obvious, but it comes as a bit of a shock. If we had not chosen to set up a tree and give gifts, I would not have seen a Christmas tree this year. Walking to work this morning I thought about the many thousands of people who have never celebrated Christmas...they wouldn't feel anything special about this day anymore than someone born in March would feel special on my birthday. Easter, Valentine's Day, these days mean little to nothing to me as an adult. These too are days arbitrarily regarded as special because of long-standing tradition. So why do I feel like I should feel differently about Christmas? It's about family, and eating, and gathering people together in one place and enjoying the fact that we've all lived our lives for one more year and are here again to remember all the other years we've done this. It's about remembering that you have a family and that, even if its something some feel they are supposed to do, many people, all at once, feel that being friendly and giving to others is something worth doing.
Writing from work it is always easy to slip in to the more depressed and introspective as I am left to wonder why on earth I am here on this or any day, but cynicism and confusion can't stop the fact that I love hearing John Denver sing with the Muppets because that's what my family and I always did and I wish to whatever it is that has say in these things that I could do that today.

John Lennon once wrote "So, this is Christmas, and what have you done?" I would like to alter this quote to "It's Christmas, what are you doing?" The answer may be nothing or eating or watching two dogs meet a new one. It doesn't matter what day it is, just do what makes you feel right and what you think is right. I feel very grateful that I can spend the holidays with my wife and our dog and hope that everyone has someone with which to spend a special day, whenever that day may be.

Merry Christmas and all the best in the new year.

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"Alfie the Christmas Tree" from John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together. I've never been entirely convinced that he short "Alfie" monologue delivered by Denver makes complete sense. It's either a pantheistic plea for the recognition of brotherhood amongst all people and nature or a tree worried that non-Christians don't know about love...I'm pretty sure it's the first one, but it's worded in a fairly confusing manner to keep its poetic flow...but the monologue is not the part that I care about, it's the song tacked on to the end. As far as I can tell it's titled "It's in Every One of Us". I haven't been able to find definitively who wrote or sang this song first, but I've heard it in various places. The first though, was on the Muppets record. It was and is my family's favorite holiday album. I grew up singing along with this song and it still means a great deal to me. My mom used to say how much she loved it nearly every time I sang it. This year, while I was washing the dishes on Christmas Eve and listening to A Christmas Together, this song came on and I cried.

(sorry for the kind of creepy close up video of John Denver...I couldn't find an audio only version...just close your eyes)

the stuff I write IV

2009-12-02T17:59:00.001-08:00

So here's another one of those rap-like things I've been writing lately...this one seems a bit bleak at first, but there's a message in there somewhere...

VICARIOUS

There's a certain something
Something in your soul.
sole and lonely element that keeps you in control.
Controlling your reaction
acting as a brake in tension
tensing when your brain relaxes
and relaxing when the pressure comes.
Compressing, burning in a vise
The certain thing advises and
the turning slows the crank-to fit
the flow the banks are shored up
to protect against the same old story.
Next time when it starts, the stress
the stress starts to affect you less
the less you feel effects of stress
the more the stress will matter less
Unless the pressure's new and
Newly molded in the present
Tenses rise again and gaining
Weighting, straining, cranking tighter.
Tight as may be maybe might a
mitre box be building higher
high and deep it blocks the sun
And sunny days are gone for longer
Long enough to make you wonder
Where's the saw and who's the cutter
But your previous experience
Imperative the consequences
quench the desperation
ration depression to manageable.
Managed by that certain thing
The sting is smaller than imagined
Images are merely mental and
Your pain remains a rental.

(beat) I wish I could say that was me
I can see it in your eyes as we pass on the street
From beneath my cloud I can tell that you figured it out
How to keep yourself from my particular type of hell.
And I know you can see into me as well
And that you say your thanks and think of the time you almost fell.
I'll continue on walking and wishing
that you know what you have and you keep on living.

And then some days it's more like...

There's a woman that I've seen for three years.
Every single day she's there surrounded by tiers
of broken down boxes. Cardboard coveting a cart of
cans and clamshells crusted with last night's chicken marsala.
She sleeps stuffed in a greasy parka packed smack against
the side of the men's suit emporium bored with sideways imploring
glances. Can't she come up with some more appropriate life?
Like they know, but can't help and I can't help either. I see her
Daily and don't stop but know she'll be there, for three years
I've wondered what one wandering conversation might bring her.
Maybe nothing...probably. Probably tension or resentment when
the talking ends, the walking begins again and distance saunters in.
I can spare the change, but I don't have any on me and my quarters can't
conjure the change that she needs. I can smell her, me alone again
Approaching towards my home again where I can choose to sit and wonder
what I'd like to eat and then I might decide to sit or maybe watch
or maybe write and maybe read a bit before I cuddle up and flip the light
and watch my wife beside me knowing that I'll see her there tomorrow.
And I'll see her too and keep on walking wondering what sorrow will befall
or has befallen and I look at the creases of her eyes and he puddle that
trickled to the street and I fully know that I'm lucky to be me.

Days come and days go
whether or not we know
what they're moving toward
they will not slow
Days come and days go
whether or not we know
what they're moving toward
they will not slow
Days come and days go
whether or not we know
what they're moving toward
they will not slow.

...let me know what you think...

This time for real

2009-11-30T18:26:00.000-08:00

Today I am 28. Up until a few months ago I had been telling people I was already 28 by accident (it isn't that I couldn't do the math, I just forgot to), but now I am actually that age. I can't say it makes a whole lot of difference...27 to 28 doesn't change much...at least not by itself...I suppose any change that occurs will be up to me. So, there it is. 28. And on to December.

Thankful

2009-11-29T12:26:00.001-08:00

A few days late, but here it is...the obligatory thanksgiving post. In some ways (a lot of ways actually) it's a shame that we wait for a made up holiday that resulted in the centuries long ignoring of an entire race of people to say these things, but tradition is tradition and everyone celebrates in their own way so, pilgrims aside, this is Thanksgiving.

I was fortunate enough to be able to fly back to Minnesota to see my parents' new condo in Minneapolis. It was nicer and less strange than I expected (nine years of living away from them have dulled my childhood outrage at the selling of the family home) and it's good to see them living in a place they enjoy that's close to the things they like to do (good food, museums, theater, movies, etc...). We were also able to drive to South Dakota to see my sister's new house (their first that they've owned) and I even got to see where my niece goes to preschool. It's a part of the college campus in Brookings so the teachers are all education students, which results in what seems like a very progressive, nurturing, and individually-minded atmosphere, which is great and very refreshing. On Thanksgiving day my wife's dad and stepmom, my sister and her familiy, and my mom's sister's family all ate a characteristically great meal at the condo. My birthday is close so there was also a tiny impromptu birthday interlude in which I was given presents and cards because I was there.

Anyway, the meat of this comes in with the actual giving of thanks...whatever the reason it was all started, it's not a terrible idea to pause and reflect a bit on those things...do it in July if you feel like it, just do it at some point. I'm thankful that I have a job...no, it's not my ideal career and yes, I hope I'm not there forever, but I'm incredibly thankful that I have it and that it affords me many opportunities both meaningful (money, health care) and not so much (endless downloading potential, access to all sorts of media manipulation, recording, and duplication, nice people to talk to about random stuff).
I am also thankful for music and the bizarre situation of today that allows me to listen to just about anything at anytime without little to no effort.
I am thankful of my position in life, by which I mean, I'm thankful that I live where I do, when I do, and with the things I have...that sounds a bit superficial perhaps, but this isn't about justice, it's about giving thanks, and I thank whatever it is that is responsible for these things that I live where I do because there are millions of people that I would not change places with for all the money or music in existence. That's not to say I don't have sympathy and won't strive to help those others...but I'm glad and very thankful that I have the luxury to say such things while sitting in a relatively comfortable location.

I am thankful for my family. My parents are intelligent, funny, talented, caring, and patient people and they've done what I imagine is everything in their power to provide me with a good life. They've been supportive with what is probably not an easy situation and I've never once gotten the feeling that I bother them as much I think I probably do which, especially when compared to other families I know and have heard of, is a rarity and something to be treasured. I don't imagine I will ever be able to properly put all of what I owe them in words (let alone deeds) and that is the immense price of parenthood. Knowing that, I appreciate what they've done even more.

I am also thankful for my sister and her family. Growing up, I was always a bit perplexed by tv shows and movies that depicted families because mine was not at all similar (I never dreaded seeing my grandparents)...my sister and I did not fight much (everyone does a little) and we also weren't big on emotional sharing, but we were (and are) very close and will always be linked in a creative and intellectual sense. I'm glad she and her husband (who is my age and already owns a house and has two kids) are doing so well in life and with their ridiculously intelligent and adorable children. I hope to be able to spend more time with them at some point (more than once or twice a year). She is a great, talented, loving and (again) patient person and I am thankful that I know her.

I am thankful for my wife's family. They have had their problems in the past and there are many more difficulties yet to come, but they are good and loving people and they made my wife what she is. I am especially thankful for my wife's step mom who, in a time of tumult for my wife, took her in as a daughter, as did the rest of her family. She and my wife's dad have built a wonderful life for themselves and that happiness and intelligence is a great thing to reflect on when thinking about the past.

I am thankful for my wife. She loves me through all my crap and is even relatively patient with my curmudgeonly gloomy episodes. She wants me to be happier and wants to be with me. She is incredibly talented, incredibly beautiful and very loving. She makes me happier than she can probably tell and I love her for everything she is.

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"Land of 1,000 Dances" by Wilson Pickett from The Exciting Wilson Pickett. This statement is not meant in any way to belittle the above sentiments, but I am thankful for Wilson Pickett. This is one of my absolute favorite songs of all time. Pickett's recording isn't the original, but it is far and away the best. From the almost gospel wail of the horns in the intro to the perfect harmony on the second round of "na na na na na's" in the chorus to the deceptively simple and incredibly tight drums, there is nothing wrong with this song. If I could have my greatest musical wishes, I would be like Wilson Pickett in a band...that energy and soul and joy is just about the best thing ever. I am physically incapable of not dancing to this song no matter where I here it, be that driving or doing this dishes. Strangely enough, this song was also one of my favorites to play in high school pep band, but our version was definitely not this. I dare you not to smile when this plays. Listen to it, then go out and find everything by Pickett you can.

Conundrum

2009-11-11T12:45:00.000-08:00

80 people got laid off from my place of employment, the director of programming among them, which is a good thing, and, along with him several of the worst shows were canceled, which is also good. However, people I knew and liked were a part of making those programs and they had nothing to do with how horrible they were (those people still have jobs for the most part)...so, is it good that these shows are gone even though it means the loss of jobs of people I care about? If they kept their jobs, poor programming would continue (through no fault of their own, largely), but now they are unemployed. And, is it better that they are no longer a part of creating sub-par products or would they rather have the paycheck? Meanwhile, I will continue to see the product until something new comes along, so nothing for me changes, just the scenery when I look out from the glass walls of my little box. I don't know if anyone is on the other end, but I'm still putting it out there. Because I'm getting paid and I need the insurance.

--------------------------------------------
"Catholic Sex Confession" by Citizen Fish from Thirst. Keeping with today's theme is a song from a band that likes to question the status quo. Formed from members of Subhumans, Citizen Fish is a lot like that band, but with a beat you can dance to. This has always been my favorite song of theirs, not only because it touches on a lot of issues I question myself (namely the strict religion/human living their life situation) but is also a beautifully designed piece of music. There is no chorus, nor verse really. It is just a story, that kind of rhymes and just constantly builds until the climax of the tale. It's about a nun that apparently has a hard day and winds up having sex with someone and then she goes to the priest to confess. "Did you use contraception/You didn't? that's good/The pope doesn't use it/No reason you should"...that pretty much some it up, but they go further...with the nun ultimately confronting the priest (before, in the booth, he was anonymous and his prescription was "Hail Mary times 10/Don't do it again") with "This body is mine, not a baby machine/In the eyes of the church I am trash" Anyway, I'm sure a lot of people won't like this one, but I think it's brilliant...and I don't always agree with them entirely, but its hard to deny the craft that went in to this "punk" song.

(hmmm, youtube has failed me on this one...sorry...if you know me and are interested in hearing this track, let me know and I'll get you a copy...all I could find was a sample on Amazon..click the pic)

An Intriguing but Irrelevant Faux Rant About Nothing.

2009-11-08T10:46:00.000-08:00

Hello,

The other night, while discussing vague politics during a friend's birthday celebration, someone in the party observed trenchantly, "It's all about red and blue", referring to the color-coded division of interests in America along mostly party based lines. Because I had nothing of value to add, stemming from my lack of desire to engage in a political debate at a large round table in a bar with a group of people who are all essentially on the same page in terms of viewpoint but like to say similar things in different ways; I chimed in with the observation that 3-D glasses, then, are the perfect metaphor for National unity. One red square and one blue square work together (though still separate) to create something fresh, forcing the crowd to look at things from a different point of view. But, immediately after uttering this, I realized that when one goes to a 3-D movie these days one is not handed a pair of cardboard frames with one lens each of red and blue cellophane. No, instead one is asked to select from a large barrel a pair of sleek, plastic frames, each individually wrapped in a plastic bag, fitted with sheik, gray, almost-actual sun-glasses-or-at-least-those-flimsy-UV-protective-film-shades-one-gets-from-the-optometrist-after-glaucoma-testing-esqe, polarized lenses. (see below)

Why does this matter you ask, doesn't it create the same effect? Yes, it does. In fact, the new glasses produce a much clearer and easier to watch effect than the old red and blues. However, if the cooperative meeting of colored plastic is a metaphor for healing the long-standing divisions of our nation by showing us that each side can remain separate, but work together to create a more progressive whole, then what are these new-fangled Ray-Bans gone awry meant to teach us? I posit that these polarized 3-D shades are nothing less than an attempt by corporations to seduce the peoples of the world by using what seems like an improved and fascinating technology to lull us in to a state of benign complacency in the guise of progression like so much Huxleyan Soma. I know some might see this as a stretch, but let's look at the facts:

1) Most 3-D movies are released by either Disney or on behalf of films designed to educate and
inspire the public with sweeping aerial vistas, but that aren't in any way enhanced by being
viewed in 3-D.

2) The majority of the new 3-D releases are that were not filmed with the intention of being in
3-D, thus there is nothing in the movie that takes advantage of the technology...it just looks
sort of embossed. (i.e. The Nightmare Before Christmas, Toy Story)

3) Most modern 3-D releases are geared towards children, thus indoctrinating the youth at an
early age to accept current methods and technology.

4) After watching a 3-D movie these days, there is a giant barrel in the theater hallway in which
one is asked to toss one's glasses. This gives the public the impression that the new point of
view is temporary and disposable and not meant for holding on to.

5) Plastic glasses individually wrapped in plastic bags that are used once and then thrown away
at the service of giant, faceless corporations that spend countless millions of dollars in the
production of something that will be seen for 90 minutes at a time for about two months and
then not seen again in that state by anyone until ten years later when the anniversary print is
re-released in theaters is a target for environmentalists and those offended by gross, needless
waste and rampant corporate spending. Thus, concerned citizens will begin to decry 3-D as a
sham and the intellectual class will abandon it...unwittingly also abandoning the promise
that red and blue 3-D has for those who enjoy ultimately meaningless but impressive
sounding metaphors laden with pseudo-political possibilities.

6) Gray is the international symbol for in-between. This tells the public that taking a stance is
not necessary to create a wondrous new prospective. Thus, the public is lured in to
complacency. No longer challenged by the difficult to focus on juxtaposition of red and blue,
we are left to simply stare through a haze of gray, feeling no motivation for change or
wider analysis.

There are some that may cry shenanigans on this treatise and suggest that I am simply wasting the public's time as I sit at work trying desperately to stave of a mindless stupor. To those people I say this: I recently spent several hours watching a group of individuals who are paid to represent the views of the american people pontificate on the fact that a certain suggested policy will create the unfathomable horror of taxpayers having to fund abortions and birth control if it passes in order to convince the rest of said body that there should be a stipulation against said problem despite the fact that, seemingly unbeknownst to those in charge of the keeping of our nation's laws, taxpayers money currently goes towards such things already. I ask you...which is more pointless? I do my work pro bono.
Ah, progress.

Coming soon: "The New Polarized 3-D Glasses: A Beacon of Lasting Peace"

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"Mayonnaise" by Smashing Pumpkins from Siamese Dream. Liking Smashing Pumpkins is not easy. There is a lot of you have to have a great deal of patience with...Billy Corgan is an almost insufferably egotistical and pompous jackass, their last three albums have been almost entirely forgettable, and the always seemed to hold themselves in much higher esteem than anyone else, and, even their great albums force you to wade through a fair amount of artistic pretenstion...but, that said, every time I hear this song, I am reminded of why I put in the effort.
There is a fair amount of right time, right place with this track as it served to encapsulate my thoughts and feelings at that time with alarming succinctness. That said, there isn't a lot to analyze. The lyrics are true without being sappy and the perfectly-honed squeal of feedback in the chorus make it a strong and emotive almost ballad that expertly bridges the rare gap of honest and heavy. An unforgettable track from a stellar album. This song is my adolescence.

Last night

2009-11-01T08:52:00.000-08:00

(if you click the pics you can get a larger view and better detail of the makeup.)

Well, it wasn't the most graceful costume, but I did it in 10 minutes in the bathroom at work with some black and white creme makeup and a little fake blood. It got me some great looks on BART from the college kids dressed up like referees and pimps and "people from the 80's". It suited my purpose fine.

When Nissa picked me up from BART she didn't notice me at first then was a bit shocked, to which I told her
"I got hit by a car."
Nissa: "WHAT??!!"
"No, I know, it's crazy...I thought I'd be dead, but after like five minutes I got right back up again..."

Note, the joke didn't exactly land because Nissa had been too initially shocked by the car hitting part...it's hard to play jokes on your wife because she's too emotionally invested...

I love Halloween. There's something immensely satisfying about walking down the street in costume, especially if you act like there's nothing unusual about your appearance. One of the high points of my evening was leaning against a pole with my feet crossed waiting for the BART reading The Metamorphoses by Ovid in zombie makeup. That had to be funny to someone.

For as long as I can remember I've been fascinated with being other people...it's actually where I'm most comfortable. I've always loved acting, but I've also always enjoyed pretending I'm someone else and then thinking of things that person/character might say...
I was hoping someone would ask me what I was last night, I imagine the conversation would go something like this.

person:"What are you supposed to be?"
me: "What do you mean?...Oh, no, I just got hit by a car.
p:"Oh..."
m:"Yeah, I figured I'd be dead, but like five minutes later I just got up and was fine....I'm incredibly hungry though."
p:"For people?"
m:"What?! No, no, not at all. Zombies have gotten a pretty bad rap in the media. I've got dinner waiting at home."

And part of me starts thinking of the possibility of a film or story in which zombies are just a misunderstood minority that can get a long with regular people...kind of like My Best Friend is a Vampire (sorry, no trailer on youtube...the broad strokes of it are that vampires aren't pure evil like most people think, they are a misunderstood group of people that happen to live forever and drink blood (bought from butchers' shops), any fan of House should watch it, if only to find out how far Robert Sean Leonard has come (See Tape)), but for zombies...but I also realize that what makes a zombie a zombie is a certain mindless quality...of course there's always the caveat that the way movies portray things isn't necessarily accurate, but that's a pretty big hurdle to jump.

A large part of me would like to wear some different disguise every night when I walk home just for the hell of it...and I realize there's nothing technically keeping me from doing this...but there's also something that wants to wait for special occasions...

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"Holiday in Cambodia" by Dead Kennedys from Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables. This is one of those rare punk tracks that is not only subversive and shocking and fast, but also surprisingly well constructed and thoughtfully composed. As a long time fan of music that has been labeled punk, one puts up with a lot of simple, repetitive instrumentation and less than thought out songwriting, but that's all part of it and kind of the point....with this track that thought is necessary. From the semi-psychedelic guitar intro to the frenetic 2 and 4 almost disco hi-hat in the verse, "Holiday in Cambodia" has all the loud, brash hallmarks of classic punk, but is also very inventive and unpredictable in its structure. Then, of course, there are the lyrics...an almost entirely coherent screed against Western complacency and Eastern brutality and totalitarianism that shows how, along with the shock for shock's sake elements, Jello Biafra was and is an intelligent and thoughtful songwriter. This is another song it seems silly to analyze (that's why I will more than likely never make the leap from amateur suggester to professional critic...I don't fully believe in it) so I'll just say, give it a listen, or, as is more than likely the case, listen again.

(P.S--extra East Bay credit, the picture for this album cover comes from the riots that ensued after Dan White, the city supervisor that killed Harvey Milk and George Moscone, got a suspiciously light sentence.)

Oct. 31

2009-10-31T10:30:00.000-07:00

Hello,

I know I've already used this image, but I haven't had time to draw anything else. In any case, have a good halloween. I will refrain from some kind of rant about costumes or commercialism as I'm not really the ranting type...more of an inner-rant-then-talk-myself-down-before-speaking type...so I will merely say, watch or do something a little macabre (for hints see here) and have fun! It's surprising how little one needs to make an effective costume...

If You Want to Sing Out...

2009-10-26T14:53:00.000-07:00

Upon seeing the film Harold and Maude for the first time, I remember telling my dad how much I loved it and how refreshing Maude's viewpoint was (it really appealed to me at the beginning of my "what am i doing and why?" phase) to which he replied "Yeah, but it was kind of selfish of her to act that way in the end" (I won't spoil the end for those who may not have seen it. But I suggest to anyone that they see it.) That was the first time that I can remember that I realized I had a bit of a different take on things than some or most people.
This fact also came up when Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind came out. I thought it was a romantic story, but everyone else shouted me down saying it was horribly and irrevocably depressing.

My first college video project told the story of a man who kills himself and then find himself in a strange limbo/afterlife in which he is stuck forever in the same surroundings, while others who died naturally or by accident get to see what would happen to them or see how their significant others are getting on. Almost everyone took it to be incredibly depressing, but I had meant it to have a positive message...namely, don't kill yourself because you never know what's going to happen. Admittedly there's a lot of dark to sift through before you find that, but I never intended for it to be depressing...I think a lot of my family had a hard time with it because there were certain similarities between my surroundings and the main character's (most of which were due to the fact that I had no budget and used what I could). But, anyway, you get the idea.

Flash forward to 2003 or 2004 when I saw the film American Splendor at the UW theater. It's a biopic based on the life of Harvey Pekar, author of the underground comic series by the same name. Harvey is a staunch pessimist and is almost constantly grumbling, but he had the overwhelming yearning to do something with his life and so started writing comic stories about himself, his life, and those around him. He couldn't draw to save his life so he would lay out the text with stick figures and then convince artists he knew or found to illustrate the panels for him. This film and the character appealed to me on many levels. I love cartoons, music, writing, reading, and pay most attention to the small, seemingly mundane details of existence...I also tend to be somewhat depressed. Anyway, the movie led me to start reading the comics, which are also fantastic. Something about them that is always fascinating to me is, whenever Harvey mentions/complains about mainstream exposure or a wider audience, he's always saying how people tell him that people don't want to be depressed or be reminded of their troubles. But, if you read the comics you'll find that in nearly every story Harvey ends his four page depressive worry-filled thought bubble monologue with a phrase like "oh well, it could be worse. It's not like I'm in Calcutta or anything." or "at least I got a job." or "If I can just keep thinking ahead and not focus so much on myself I'm doin' alright". And, for every story about how neurotic or depressed or frustrated he is, there's a quick 1-3 pager about a bus driver that likes to pull over on slow days and figure out what kind of trees are on which boulevard. That to me is the definition of optimism...Harvey may not be optimistic about himself, but he is optimistic, or at least appreciative, about life.
I often walk away from reading American Splendor feeling fairly jealous because, in spite of his attitude, Harvey Pekar has fairly large group of acquaintances that he talks with in a very friendly manner, he writes jazz music reviews and is a free lance writer, and he's incredibly intelligent. He has an instinct of self-preservation that can definitely lead him to selfishness and egotism, but it also drives him to put himself out there and really dedicate himself to his passions.

Without getting to much in to myself, I do not often possess that trait. There are many things I love and am even obsessed with, but I'm never pushed to that "I want to do that all the time" level that really requires sustained and focused effort.

I have been drawing all my life. I was horrible at it and well-known to be so until around sixth grade when, for one reason or another, I found my style...cartoons. Since that point I've never stopped drawing but also never really developed technically. Around 2006 or so I began drawing a cohesive series of odd cartoon portraits entitled Slice Of. After finishing the first few I had the unusual perception that this was something that could be something bigger and so I collected ten or so of them and xeroxed thirty or so handmade booklets and left them around local bookstores to be picked up for free. I never got any feed back about it other than from friends and co-workers (which was uniformly positive), but for whatever reason my motivation faded once again.

The point of my writing this today is that, when depressed it's good to keep yourself busy and I have been drawing again quite a bit...the problem with drawing just to keep yourself occupied is that you're rarely working toward a cohesive whole and so planning or drawing something on purpose is somewhat out the window. My sister asked if I would draw some things for my niece and nephew's wall, but I have yet to begin that as that would require some planning...Anyway, this post is beginning to emit the sickly scent of soul-baring so I'll cut it short with this...keep busy until it leads to something more productive.

Here's some of the stuff I've been drawing lately.

I found this one interesting because it started out as completely formless doodles, but, about half-way through, I realized it had some kind of structure and purpose. I then continued drawing with intention...meaning that each subsequent mark I added with reason and precision...which was odd and a fairly rare experience as far as abstract doodles go...when I was done I had a feeling almost akin to pride about it so now it hangs in a cheap plastic frame in the office.

This one is pretty self-explanatory...it's bigger than this actually, but our scanner is not.

This guy I think technically falls under the Slice Of category as he follows the format...although it's bit stranger than most of them...He's saying "If they get within fifteen feet they're in trouble."
and his name is Jack Timber aka The Naval Stump. I think I was originally trying to create a superhero of some sort, but it evolved in to what it is.

This is, apparently, a demon or monster of some sort taking a bath...I'm as confused as you are...

This I just did last night...I'm really proud of how realistic his shoes are. I can see him being a recurring character in a strip-like capacity were it not for my inability/lack of desire to continue to draw the same character over in different positions....

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"Solitude" by Duke Ellington from Monkey Jungle (with Charles Mingus and Max Roach) from 1962. No one does-or did-elegance with soul like Duke Ellington and this is one my favorite examples. While I realize the chronology makes no sense, I think of Duke Ellington as the intellectual link between Jelly Roll Morton and George Gershwin. I love this CD because it shows off Duke sans big band (and because I'm a huge Max Roach fan). This track is a little slower and more melancholy than the rest from the session but it is wonderful. It could be the soundtrack to a walk in the fall in Southeast Minnesota, or, like it often is to a ride on BART. It's simple enough to be relaxing, but also has enough depth to be intellectually stimulating. It's hard to analyze really, just a wonderful song by a talented group of men.

(as always, click the pic for a listen)

Everything Fairly Negative

2009-10-23T10:44:00.001-07:00

Hello,

In retaliation against the current situation that created this post's title (and the previous post) I was planning to share a bunch of video clips that never fail to at least make me smile, if not laugh out loud every time. As bizarrely fantastic as YouTube is, my eclectic and specific taste have stymied this quest, but I still found a few to share with you all.

The first time I watched this movie I was in a particularly dark place and this scene made me feel so good that I can now just think of it and it makes me smile...I hate to admit it, Woody Allen had a rare and insightful talent, and made things funny at the same time (for more on the my inner struggle with Allen, see here)

a scene from Hannah and her Sisters (sorry for just the link, but I don't have the software at home required to put the clip in yet...)

Following the same pattern, there are a million Marx Bros clips I could put up here, but I had a hard time finding the one I wanted...but this one is a great example of why, upon first seeing him when I was younger with my dad, Groucho Marx became a major influence on my life...

A scene from A Day at the Races

Also, Bill Murray...there are very few things he does that don't make me smile.

Meatballs

also, check out YouTube's bizarrely complete collection of Murray on David Letterman clips...they're all hilarious.

Finally, I would have liked to link to my favorite clip from The Simpsons (the audio was all I could find), but, alas, Fox is stingy with it's copyright...so, here's one I found on Hulu that also never fails to make me smile SIMPSONS

There are many more I could find and post, and I very well may in the future, but for now this was enough to go back and look at and make me smile a bit. Hopefully you did the same.

indeed...

2009-10-18T08:43:00.000-07:00

"Brain zaps" and "electric shock sensations"

Symptoms described as "brain zaps", "brain shocks," "brain shivers" or "head shocks" are a withdrawal symptom experienced during discontinuation (or reduction of dose) of antidepressant drugs.^[6]^[7] The symptoms are widely variable in description and of unknown etiology;^[7] common descriptions include dizziness, electric shock-like sensations, sweating, nausea, insomnia, tremor, confusion, and vertigo.^[6]^[7] The MedDRA "preferred term" for coding these types of symptoms in adverse drug reaction reports (for use in pharmacovigilance databases such as under the Yellow Card Scheme), is paraesthesia.^[8]^[9]

In a 1997 survey, a "sizable minority" of medical professionals were not confidently aware of the existence of antidepressant withdrawal symptoms.^[10] A 2005 review of adverse event reporting showed that descriptions of "electric shocks" from patients on paroxetine had been reported more frequently than some other symptoms.^[8]

Not cool whatever it is that controls us...not cool.

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"Nothin'" by Reel Big Fish from Turn the Radio Off. This is one of those songs I've loved since I first heard it (thanks to my sister and her boy friend at the time (one of the many groups handed down to me by her in her first year at College). Its fast, it's funny, it's sarcastic and incredibly fun to sing at almost any time (maybe not directly after a funeral or something like that.) Also, it contains what I still consider to be the greatest and most satisfying ending chorus lyrics ever recorded. This song is best enjoyed in the car with a group friends that also know the words..

*the links in the article aren't mine...i just copied this from a wiki. I know it's accurate, I just chose the wiki because it was more detailed and concise.

'Tis the Season...

2009-10-17T11:02:00.000-07:00

...of the witch. That's right, Halloween is soon upon us (by the way, if you have a hard time remembering when holidays happen, go to a craft store...they generally begin to put stuff out around three months in advance of the actual date of the holiday so you can use that to calculate) and I thought I'd do a little something in the spirit of what I've found the purpose of Halloween to be. It's not about scaring people, nor is it about candy. It's more about acknowledging and celebrating those darker and more macabre elements of human history that have been intertwined with the rest of it for as long as anyone can remember. To that end I've compiled a list of movies that are good to watch on or around Halloween... (click on the pic or links for a trailer or a clip)

The Corpse Bride/Coraline/The Nightmare Before Christmas
-The slashes here don't necessarily mean "or", by all means watch all of them, but I didn't want to use up three whole spots on Burton-esque animation...Also, Nightmare needs to be watched on Halloween because you can't really watch it on Christmas (ironically, I've always found Edward Scissorhands to be a Christmas movie)

It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown
-Because Halloween will always be dominated by childhood nostalgia. (This is less about the spirit of Halloween and more about how the actual night feels when you're young)

Rosemary's Baby
-The ultimate achievement in casual demon cinema. What makes this movie great, and ultimately, creepier, is how it all happens completely within the bounds of genial neighborhood relationships (I love Ruth Gordon.) SIDE NOTE: It's always bugged me that I love this movie so much, simply because Roman Polanski, the director, is such a raging asshole...his work is filed along with Peter Sellers's, Phil Spector's, and, to slightly lesser extent, Woody Allen's in the "people I whose work I wish I didn't respect so much because they are/were not good people" and is a constant aggravation and conscience questioner for me.

Halloween
-THIS APPLIES ONLY TO THE ORIGINAL John Carpenter film from 1978, in no way does it come close to suggesting the Rob Zombie remake or any of the sequels. I don't usually like slasher films, but this is one of the few. Carpenter knows enough about horror and suspense to know what works and what doesn't and he successfully eschews the failings of most other entries in this genre by using actual suspense and terror, not just shocks and gore. Few things are creepier than a guy that can't be stopped but also never seems to need to walk faster to catch up with his victims.

Evil Dead II
-There aren't a lot of genuine scares in this movie, but it fits squarely in the celebrating the absurdities of horror as it applies to real life category. It's cheesy and low budget and few films have been more successful at aping a genre while also becoming a genuine entry in it. Part Lovecraft, part Romero, and part "teens in the woods alone", I recommend this one over the first Evil Dead because this one corrects a lot of needless vulgarity and Army of Darkness is just silly (not bad, just silly)

Night of the Living Dead
-If you're curious about zombies, but don't like gore this is the one for you. I can't say it has aged entirely gracefully, but this is the real beginning of this now rampant genre and reminds you of why these movies started...(hint: it's not just about zombies...there's a message) Also, upon watching this movie, thousands of references and parodies will suddenly make sense.

Shaun of the Dead
-Continuing the zombie movie for a reason theme this movie is nearly perfect. It nails the combination of funny and creepy in a consummate celebration of the genre, but is not just an homage...it also has a reason to exist in and of itself (please pay attention to that last bit, Hollywood (if for some reason you're reading this)). It's actually a completely convincing romantic comedy at the same time which is no easy feat. Throw in the so far without any hint of failing writing/directing/acting team of Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright (see Hot Fuzz and Spaced for further proof) and there is no reason not to see this (unless you are against gore..then see above....but Night of the Living Dead is not funny.)

The Shining
-Stanley Kubrick revels in the details of why people react the way the do to things like few others have or can. This movie expertly tweaks your emotions and senses to create an all-encompassing feeling of dread, but, at the same time, is so solidly and effectively constructed in a cinematic that one finds themselves one the edge of their seat but loving every minute of it...or at least I do. Plus, Jack Nicholson gives such a deliriously menacing performance as the possessed father that he more than makes up for any of the less effective moments from Shelley Duvall, and really makes Danny's terror justified and genuine. Another one that explains a lot of parodies and references.

The Haunting (again, the ORIGINAL...no one should ever see the remake with Liam Neeson)
-I don't like making "favorites" lists because I have a hard time separating things out like that (that's why this list is not a ranking), but The Haunting easily makes my list of favorite movies of all time without hesitation. The first time I saw it on TCM by myself (in the afternoon, no less) when I was younger it terrified me (at the time, the first black and white film to do so) and it made a huge impression on me from that day forward. The greatness of this film lies in the fact that you never, ever see anything. All suspense comes solely from noises and weirdness and the characters' reactions to it. Everyone who ever has it in their head that they want to make a horror film should see this movie first. I don't know that it's ever been done better or more effectively. This is the pinnacle of a film knowing why we are scared of the unknown and that momentary shocks scare us but do not last.

Drag Me to Hell
-I have yet to watch this on DVD yet (that's for Halloween!) so I don't know if it will be as effective on the small screen, but seeing this movie in the theater was one of the best cinematic experiences of 2009 for me. Sam Raimi mixes the zealous love for horror and ichor of his early work (see Evil Dead II) with his genuine talent for storytelling and character (see A Simple Plan) and the higher production values and effects of his last few the films (the Spiderman Trilogy) to create a movie far greater and more effective than any of his previous efforts (equal credit in this an his previous films must also be given to his brother and long-time writing partner, Ivan Raimi). This film combines the creepy joy of demons and seances, the subtle terror of the unknown through sound and light, and the out and out shocks that let you never quite know what's coming next...in other words, this movie combines the best parts of the other nine film in this list. Its great fun and completely embodies the spirit of Halloween...creepy, sometimes scary, sometimes gross, but always fun.

Enjoy.

no song this time...the blog took a long time to put together and is essentially all just commenting on media...don't want to overload.

Fever Dreams and Feeling Weird

2009-10-16T19:16:00.000-07:00

Again, my life is somewhat unbloggable as of late, so I will instead begin to post choice Netflix reviews to entertain and inform my friends and family.

Who Can Kill a Child?

This is an excellently crafted horror film. Not horror in the slasher/ghoul/monster sense, but in the intellectual, truly horrific sense, which, in my opinion, is what makes a horror film effective. My rating is bumped up to a full five stars simply because this movie succeeds for all the reasons most more modern horror films fail. It understands what makes things scary and how to exploit expectation and suspense. There are only two really visually gruesome scenes and those are used quite successfully just to show the audience that the film is capable of showing us those things and so we are afraid it will do so again. Not showing us then ratchets up the suspense each time. There is nothing more frightening that what you know is happening but are not allowed to see. What makes this film a great movie (not just an effective horror) is that it has a reason to exist...its reason is not just to scare the audience but to scare us in order to drive its point home. Many critics have given the psychology behind the slasher film, but they are for the most part an excuse to show blood and boobs with a motive kind of tacked on. A complete film has both effective skills and a potent reason. The cinematography is spot on, the horror is genuine, and the payoff is deserved. Not an easy watch by any means, but definitely worth it if you like that kind of thing.

Lust, Caution

Ang Lee and his team have such a thorough and confident grasp of all things cinematic that it almost goes without saying that this film is beautiful to watch. As far as direction, staging, framing, and filming goes the film is near perfect. But, simply being beautiful does not a 5 star review make. What really makes Lust, Caution worthwhile and important to watch is its incredible and unwavering control of characterization and story. Wei Tang is absolutely transfixing in the lead role. What is under examination here is the effect conflict has on our most basic human emotions. Trust, love, and pride clash with patriotism and duty and both Tang and Tony Leung Chiu Wai, Mr Yee, are masterful in their ability to both show passion suppressed. Some might question the need for the NC-17 level sex, but the graphic nature of the sex scenes holds the key to the entire film. The violence and unabashed passion of the act simultaneously shows us the absolute, and entirely contrasting, heights of each character's emotional truth. It also made me want to know more about what was going on in China during WWII. Highly recommended.

Scarface

I know this is one of those movies that you're supposed to like...but I really don't. Brian DePalma has always been disappointing to me when I get around to seeing his stuff (Untouchables, Black Dahlia) and this was no different. I can't buy Al Pacino as a latin guy because he doesn't sound like one at all. Its slow, badly paced, and very dated. If you want a great gangster flick check out the original Scarface with Paul Muni (from 1932 I believe) Its got the story, the emotion and the action with none of the self-indulgent nonsense.

The Naked City

This was a nice surprise. One of the "See more like it" suggestions. If you like Noir or older movies or even detective movies in general there will be nothing to not enjoy here. One of the first "on location" shoots allows the film to really embrace its New York surroundings. Its also unique of the crime genre in that it takes the time to show procedural steps, not just twists and action like many of today's entries. Barry Fitzgerald is especially fun as the lead detective in what could easily be a stereotype (the Irish cop), but that he creates something very authentic and multi-dimensional. The only drawback is the incessant narration by the producer of the film, setting the stage in the beginning (and bragging about the on location facet), but also in nearly every non-dialogue scene...this severely dates the movie and makes you long for what could have been had the producer kept his nose out of it, but still its a great artifact of the beginning of what has become a much-loved genre. Highly recommended for buffs and others not easily annoyed by antique film trappings.

...more of these later unless i find that people overwhelmingly dislike them...

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"Two-Headed Boy" by Neutral Milk Hotel from In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. I first heard this song as covered by the Dresden Dolls, but I have since found and come to love the original version. To say Neutral Milk Hotel was strange would be an understatement. I've heard that this album may or may not be about Anne Frank, but it's hard to get a lot of meaning out of most of it...that said, this song is perfect. The way the bizarre lyrics make complete sense in the context of the flowing melody and unpredictable rhythm makes this track somewhat hypnotic or, at the least, unforgettable. One of those songs I never get tired of hearing.

Also, everyone out there should see Drag Me to Hell on Halloween...cause its the best horror movie to come out in the last ten years.

p.s.

2009-10-11T15:35:00.001-07:00

all music posts have been updated...click on the picture below the description to hear the song!

Lost and Swirling

2009-10-11T12:03:00.000-07:00

Hello,

There isn't a lot going on lately that can be easily expressed through the written word so today I thought I would just post a bunch of songs that I have been thinking about including in the "one song each post" section I usually include. In an effort to not forget about wanting post these when and if I happen to think of something worth posting I will just put some up now cause I'm at work and I'm bored and, while I don't know if people out there like reading them, I like writing about music. Hopefully this does somebody some good.

"Red House" by Jimi Hendrix from Are You Experienced? I've loved Jimi Hendrix for most of my life and there are a lot of favorite songs to choose from (don't be surprised if this isn't the last one you see here), but this one has always stuck with me. It's not his most innovative or rocking track, but it shows better than any other that Hendrix was always first and foremost a blues guitarist. Albert King was once quoted as saying upon seeing Hendrix play "I could play everything he played tonight, but he could never play what I play" (or something like that) and it's true, Hendrix does not have the uniqueness or the oddly structured times and rhythms of the more traditional bluesmen, but no one married blues with a more easy to digest rock vibe better than he did. And "easy to digest" does no mean watered down, the real power of this track is Hendrix's complete and total control of melody, rhythm, lyric, and emotion. It is nearly impossible not to react to this song physically. I always find my face or body sliding and twitching to each masterful flick of Hendrix's wrist. My eyebrows raise at the high, piercing, squeals and my head rolls into my back with each slide back down the fretboard. What makes this song truly great though is that it isn't just fantastic guitar work; it's also clever lyrics, the trademark Hendrix humor (''that's ok, I still got my guitar"), and the rare successful classic blues song that is both traditional and fresh. There are many versions of this song but this is hands down my favorite, and the fact that it came off his debut album makes it all the more telling of his crazy talent. (There's little about that record that could not be featured on here, but I promised myself I would limit this to single songs)

"Simple Twist of Fate" by Bob Dylan from The Bootleg Series Vol. 5: Bob Dylan Live 1975, The Rolling Thunder Revue,. Yes, this song is originally from Blood on the Tracks and there's really not a lot of difference between the two versions (there is a slight lyric change in the last verse), but I prefer this version because it seems more personal and off the cuff. Along with Lennon/McCartney, Bob Dylan has one of the largest collections of songs that still touch you even though you are pretty sure you don't know what he's talking about. This song is one of his few relatively lyrically straight forward efforts and it's simplicity adds to it's effectiveness. Blood on the Tracks is probably my first experience with an album collectively making you FEEL something sort against your will, as opposed to feeling like an album really taps in to something you're feeling right now. It is nearly impossible to listen to that album all the way through without feeling heartbroken. I can't explain why that is, but it's true. Fortunately, when individual songs are heard outside of the whole they don't have as powerful an effect...well they are still affecting, but heartbreak isn't necessarily the result. Anyway, I guess this song is hard to write clearly about because there isn't a lot to it, but for what ever reason, I never get tired of hearing this track. It always makes me pause and feel and that's a very rare and welcome thing.

"Up on The Roof" by The Drifters...I don't know what album exactly to point you to on this one, I have it as a 45" vinyl single...I did find a greatest hits on Amazon that has it so I imagine that will work. Anyway, I was introduced to this song's existence by my mom, who taught me to slow dance to the James Taylor (bless you, YouTube) version. Fast forward a few years to when I owned my own record player and began trawling my parents' record collection for gems to take with me to college and I found The Drifters version. I have to admit I was a little disappointed that the original (well, not original, but older) was not my introduction to the tune, but anything that ends with me hearing the song is far better than nothing. It's probably a case of hearing this song at the exact right time, but I think it's perfect. It's peppy and concise, but speaks to some very true things...the idea that one can, and should, have a place to go to feel comfortable was something incredibly appealing to me at that time in my life-a place that one could escape to when things are overwhelming that can sometimes be just as fulfilling as going out with people ("At night the stars put on a show for free"). However, the real key to this song is the final verse "So if the world is getting you down/There's room enough for two"-making it known that our personal retreats become open to the one we love...and that's the real marker of love, I think, the desire to share the things that you did to feel safe and peaceful. There are a number of things that make me connect to this song, I love to look at the stars, I used to go out onto the roof of our old house, and I was always someone who sought out little places of my own (when I was younger I for one reason or another picked a step halfway up the stairs and stretched out lengthwise)...Add to that the great motown instrumentation and smooth, guy-group vocals and you have a classic all around. Emotional without being corny, and an oldie without sounding dated. I actually used the song as a centerpiece for one of my college video projects, One Night, as the soundtrack to the main character's romantic dream sequences.
(again, YouTube is amazing)

That's it for the moment because this is getting long...i'll probably do another one of these tomorrow or later in the week. Let me know what you think or what some of your favorites are.

Updated with picture from BART

2009-10-09T09:03:00.000-07:00

So, with my wife who's much better with techno stuff than I's help, here is the photo of the man I mentioned in my previous post. Tell me he doesn't look like the PIXAR character!

I feel a little weird about having taken this...he clearly can tell what 's going on, but I HAD to because none of you will ever be on BART with me when he happens to be riding. This is an important, yet still utterly mysterious, find.

no song this time..i have to go to work, maybe later.

Above it all, there are still cool things that happen

2009-10-07T15:02:00.000-07:00

Today while riding on BART I saw a man tear an article out of the newspaper. It only took him about two seconds, but he did it without folding or bending the page in any way what so ever and his finished product was an absolutely perfect rectangle. I'm serious, completely non-jagged edges and right angles all around. I've never seen anything like it.

A few days ago a woman sat front of me on BART and almost immediately started poking the air with her finger as though she were running through a fencing routine. She was very clean and dressed all in Nike athletic gear and did not really fit the profile of your typical BART "crazy person" (I don't like that terminology, but there are some passengers that are clearly plugged in to a different reality than the rest of the train). She in fact bore some resemblance to a woman we had profiled on Current that did the Olympic pentathlon at age 40-something, which included fencing so I thought it might be her. In a few minutes, however, she pulled out a sheaf of xeroxed pages stapled at the top with every fourth or so paragraph highlighted in yellow. In my surreptitious peeking (not so as not to be noticed, but so as not to become nauseated by annoying ever-present motion sickness) I could see that the lines that were highlighted were designated to Polonius. So, she was practicing her scenes from Hamlet...which raised a number of questions...is someone nearby putting on Hamlet? Is it just she that has a gender-reversed role or is the whole cast of opposite than usual gender? (I know that that's happened a few times as a play on the old "all women are played by men" way of doing things). After an exhaustive search through the internet I can't find any answers to my questions, but I'm a known failure in the realms of Google.

Also, I have also discovered, on the BART, what is at least the real-life inspiration for a PIXAR character (see photo) and is quite possibly at most me from the future for some reason always riding the BART on Sundays in the exact same car in the seat right behind where I always sit. When I figure out the necessary technology I will provide the photo I furtively took of him with my cell phone (I had to!), but until then just believe me that he looks exactly like this guy:
And, since PIXAR is located in nearby Emeryville it is far from far-fetched that he is the actual inspiration for this character...

Anyway, I write this blog today because it makes me happy to notice this stuff. I have the opportunity to notice it largely because I can't read on the BART, due to the fore-mentioned motion-sickness, and I notice things like that fairly often which leads me to believe these kinds of things are happening all the time and I just don't see all of them. It makes me happy to know that, no matter what is happening in my life or in the world at large, weird little things that are amazing to those notice are always happening and will always happen.
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"Stickshifts and Safety Belts" by Cake from Fashion Nugget. I'm not going to spend a lot of time analyzing this one suffice to say it has been a part of my life since the first time I heard riding in the car with my sister. This song has everything that makes a great Cake song great and also transcends to be just a great song. No one does that almost Sesame Street for adults without being cheesy or condescending like Cake. Fashion Nugget doesn't have a bad song on it and this one is the best on the record.

The Stuff I Write Part III

2009-09-30T19:07:00.000-07:00

This is the first of the "raps" I've been writing and, admittedly, it seems the least optimistic, but it was not meant to be depressing or pessimistic. I'm more just stating things I believe to be true and it's really up to the individual how they view each statement and whether its positive or negative or even true or false. It's more about planting ideas and questions rather than describing a personal philosophy. And, most importantly, understanding why you respond the way you do.

"THING I WROTE"
I can't begin to believe.
there's at least 900 more tricks up my sleeve
to put off what I know can't be stopped
like the truth when it drops in your lap
like an unexpected visitor. Inquisitive minds can only come so close
And the distance can't be gapped by nothing more than hope.
Moving the way of the polar bear and I'm more than a little scared.
The dark doesn't know who's there and the earth doesn't care
how many travel with it as the orbit plows its share
Only inches in the scale and it pales to the enormity of what
goes on inside the minds of all those carried
along forward always towards but without a stated reason or location
Just because and its always been a thing to do and why else do we breathe?
Its impossible to see. Its unlikely that we'll know and its up to us to choose how long we go. Thats responsibility, duty to uphold the truth we're allowed by
whatever put it here. Tears can't matter and revenge doesn't mean
what it seems. life lives with or without your dreams.

What does it matter all the bullshit that I sing
What's the weight of time or a vision or a ring?
There's more than you think though you think that you know
Life lives in the ways that it never lets show

Seven reasons to survive, that's arbitrary. Monkeys kick a six pack
across the floor of their cage only knowing it was left there
staged by the food bringers. That's how it goes you live for what you know,
If its not time to sleep then its time to pace the floor.
Naked instinct lingers beneath the options that you flip with your fingers.
Still 50 50 either way covered by the illusion of limitless visions of
endless revisions of praying for futures with fewer divisions.
Compared to the past we've progressed but its always much less
than we could should or can fan the flames in our chests. And still either way
some imagine we're blessed and its all just a section of the grand, fated
masochistic test. Rest easy if you feel like you might pass out there's time to
repent in the last second with or without midnight mass or forget
that I ever said a thing you don't need to dress a wound if you never feel
the sting just continue with what life brings you push through to next week when
rent's due sleep comes the same to a fuck-up and a king

What does it matter all the bullshit that I sing
What's the weight of time or a vision or a ring?
There's more than you think though you think that you know
Life lives in the ways that it never lets show

Grow taller fear smaller don't stall or ignore calls from opportunity knocking on the
walls or they all say no doubt you'll regret when the pallbearers crawl to the plot to the last known
spot that's a bumper sticker hanging next to one about how people like to smoke pot.
Good advice for a start Hearts in the right place not knowing what else is contained in space might as well be as happy as is possible no incontrovertible evidence to suggest the opposite.
Faith is a question of desired result some find it the answer some find it an insult some write to illuminate pagans
laid claim to the dates that Christians now celebrate some read to prove that free will is innate.
Does it matter? Probably not. The only truth is that we all get one shot.
One to do what we feel like or feel what we would like or give what we could find and stop what some can't fight
Or scream into the mic what others might feel like but don't want to waste time to speak what some find trite.
Just one to define life learn and ignore fright not do what some might and look for your own light
Sit and relax nights tear out the word right see through another's sight wait for the next flight.
Love only one eye, sleep under one sky, know that you might die,fear that you won't try
Teach so you don't forget know that you might regret find that you have to let somebody else suggest
Maybe there's more than this Maybe life's just a mess Maybe our hope is strong Maybe its just a song

What does it matter all the bullshit that I sing
What's the weight of time or a vision or a ring?
There's more than you think though you think that you know
Life lives in the ways that it never lets show.

As always, feel free to let me know what you think or if you think it doesn't make a lick of sense.
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"Death is This Communion" by High on Fire from the album of the same name. I thought I'd put this one in to show that not all of the songs I think of as near-perfect are slow and/or old. High on Fire is amazing. They are the band that made me realize I like metal a lot more than I thought I did, but they aren't cheesy or overly-dramatic. Their live show is incredible...I've seen them three times and not gotten tired of it yet. There are probably quite a few tracks by this band (from Oakland no less) that could qualify, but I chose this one because it really highlights their lyrical style (H.P. Lovecraft meets Black Sabbath) and their ability to hook the listener with that crushing, sludge-paced riff over and over again...but the innovative drums and odd time signatures make it fresh each verse. Heavy and brilliant and recommended to everyone who wants a little loud in their play list.

The Me in things

2009-09-29T22:32:00.001-07:00

hello,

When is it ok to stop being loyal in order to help yourself? Does one have to wait till the point of desperation before they move on or is it ok to make a move that is purely for you even if i means disappointing other people? You may have been able to tell this from reading my other posts, but I'll say that I have terrible trouble finding the "me" in situations. I am usually (nearly never) not the first priority that I have. I understand that can be an admirable quality, but I really take it too far...anyway, I love to play the drums and I have a very high threshold for annoyance and frustration...good for being in a band, but not necessarily good for personal progression.

p.s. I was in a band in high school called Quixotic, the definition of which is "chivalrous to an absurd degree"...

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"Jack-ass" by Beck from Odelay. I love Beck more than I probably should...probably more than he deserves...certainly my love for his early work allows for more than the benefit of the doubt on any of his semi-mediocre recent stuff. Regardless, I love this song. The lyrics on Odelay for the most part don't make a lick of sense (apparently they weren't even planned...they were mostly just placeholders while Beck was writing the songs and he and the producer just decided they sounded good and they left them), and these lyrics may very well be nonsense, but the way they blend with the tempo and the instrumentation makes it seem very meaningful. It's entirely possible that much of my love for this song stems from the time period and my age and all that, but it will always be relaxing and wonderful to me.

The Stuff I Write pt. II

2009-09-28T14:39:00.000-07:00

So, here's another song. This one's more or less about where I work and, more specifically, the industry to which where I work is connected...

NEXT BEST
Transcontinental transgressions aside there isn't all that much more
Than meets the eye. Ground breaking doesn't garner the press much
Unless the ground broken means a thing to the masses.
And mass is what counts its a question of tonnage.
The image that chalks up the grand badge of what's next.
The next best and textable buzz viral mandible
Please tell us your opinion like plankton through baleen we'll
get back to you boilerplate, gallons more than sated.
Waste piles higher the longer you let it,
by the time you start to sift through the stench makes it all seem like shit.
But the smell lets you know that the process is working
Which means there's a need to keep sticking more stuff in.
But what comes out? Where does it go?
Two birds with one stone, disposal and letting the citizens know
That our machine works and its fueled by you
Your thoughts and your wants and maybe a bit of your
stimulus checks too, but if you don't want to pay for it we can change.
Mission statements aren't bankable or even remotely tangible
Remember the mandible? Well whales swallow boxes of nails.
Without thinking just swimming not noticing the pain
It takes a while to get a message from the tail to the brain.
All intake, no notice. As long as we show that we swallow.
The press release might be ambitious but the actions all are hollow.
Not barren, but fallow. We break ground before, fail to forecast then follow.

Then we know the problem, it's obvious, it's well documented history
What to do about it is probably less of a mystery than most might think.
Honesty. That's a good place as any to start. With the customer that goes without saying but with the company too, from the company's heart-cause your part doesn't grow
because you think it should and size doesn't matter just how much of what you're packing produces the most good. Not the color of the chasis, but's what's under the hood. You could've, should've stood in support of the citizens that were standing up for what you were handing out-not pandering to what sales now suggest the scene might be about.
I remember a time when the content was king then what happens you're now bending backwards to pretend you're the vox of the populi when I bet you couldn't get yourself to let your old friends look you in the eye. Why not find your place and perch and pollinate
the minds only too happy to take in and branch out and germinate? I think you underestimate the power of the conscious few to take cues and extrapolate.
All things to all souls spreads the message to thin. Why not rally the restless and work toward the win? Then expand, then erupt and brainstorm and cut abrupt the other formulaic hacks.
But, remember before you can build up ramming steam you've got to lay the tracks.
Before it airs you've got to play it back, before you make a profit you've got to pay your dues,
Until you learn to think ahead you'll always be burned by the news.

The blowback
The backwash
The washed up
The last week
The lost chance
The change up
The same noise
The blame goes
The rush plan
The IV
The tourniquet, blue
The bed pan

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"Down in Mexico" by the Coasters. So, this is the second song taken from a Quentin Tarantino soundtrack and that's no coincidence...the man has impeccable taste in music. The track in question is the version used in the film Death Proof. The song compliments the scene its used in so well its ridiculous. That whole movie is a great example of marrying film to music, but this scene in particular is amazing. Apparently Tarantino released two versions of the soundtrack, one that contains the version of the song from the movie, and another that uses an older, vastly inferior rendition of the track....because Tarantino is a jerk and he likes stuff like that...
However, the opening blast of sax in this version blows away any others. The song is a perfect mix of funk, doo-wop, and soul with tension and dynamics and just all-out pitch perfect orchestration...it never gets old.

Hey, Weren't You Going to School?

2009-09-27T16:29:00.000-07:00

A year or so ago I was in a fairly bad place mentally as far as career and goals and "what will I do" goes and out of that place came the idea that maybe I should get a teaching certificate for high school English. This conclusion came from the facts that I don't really like my job (well, I like the people I work with and the access my job gives me to media retrieval, but I don't really like what I do or who I do it for) and, when pressed for criteria possible future plans, I really want my work to visibly and concretely help people (for the uninitiated, I currently work at a television station as a Master Control Operator...not particularly beneficial to society). I was not wholly convinced I could be a teacher, but decided that I could find out what I needed to do and make my decisions as they came.
Four tests, a background check, a tuberculosis screening, 45 hours volunteering at a high school in Berkeley, 3 letters of recommendation, and a year of near-constant uncertainty later I was enrolled at San Francisco State University in the teaching credential program and setting myself up to be a student teacher at Oakland School for the Arts. I have never been the most organized person on the planet (a ritual for me throughout junior high and high school would be to find my spotless school-provided assignment book at the very bottom of my locker at the end of the year), but I knew that I would need extreme organization if I was to successfully juggle a full time school schedule, two to three days a week of being at the high school, 40 hours a week at my job, and try and maintain my band, not to mention marriage. To this end I began scheduling my life as strictly as possible, utilizing a kitchen calendar and even a date book I purchased at Target (!) Organizing is actually made quite easy with a schedule like mine was because, basically, if you don't take every available minute to get things done you will fail. So as soon as I got home from work I would sequester myself in the office for school work until sleep and the same went for the days I didn't work but did have college and high school classes. Surprisingly I found that this constant activity was good for me, one of the main problems of my previous life (post college) was that I had a hard time motivating myself to do things for myself in my spare time. School eliminates this possibility by giving one a reason why one must be constantly busy. Interestingly it also stimulates productivity in other areas...for instance I found myself being creative again as far as writing and drawing are concerned, which is something that had fallen by the wayside in my doldrums period. Anyway, I was carried by this new momentum and my rediscovery of my love of learning and intellectual discussion and it seemed as though I had a made good choice. Still, I was never convinced that teaching was something I wanted to do.
This all came to a head when I began to think about what I'd have to do during the second semester. The second semester of the program is focused almost entirely on the student teaching and I would be required to be at the high school 5 days a week teaching at least one hour of class each day, plus college course on top. If working full time on the side during the first semester is strongly advised against in order to protect a student's personal sanity, then working full time during the second semester is impossible according to the laws of time and space. So, I would have to quit my job by December...which meant having to borrow money either from a bank or my parents (neither appealing for reasons of, respectively, suspicion and dumb midwestern stubbornness). Plus, it would most likely mean my wife (also working and going to school) would have to not go to school for a semester and just work. On top of this I would have no job after school and it would be at least three months before I could start a teaching job in the fall. After all of this crystallized in my mind during the fourth week of class I began to question...well, everything. I spent a fairly hellish weekend mulling this all over, my mind consumed with questions like "Do I really want to go through all this hassle for something that I don't know that I want to do?", "Shouldn't I just be doing this for the benefit of the kids?", "If I decide not to do it does that mean I'm just a lazy coward?", and "If I don't do this what will I do?" And on and on and on. I polled my wife and relatives, but ultimately, of course, they could only offer their perspective. The answers had to come from me.
In the end I figured out that I did indeed love the learning and discussion and even the schedule of school, but I honestly did not want to be a teacher. During the worst of the weekend thinking I was incredibly concerned about disappointing those that were so excited and proud of me for starting the program, but also realized that my life had become based on what others would feel about my decisions (this began an incredibly steep and slick slope which I won't go into here). Anyway, the long and short of it is...wanting to change careers and help people is not a good enough reason to become a teacher. I can always take classes at community college or adult education and there are plenty of other things I can do to help people.
The key now is to still stay busy...one might think that life without school would be easier, but I now have to come up with my own motivation to do things because there is no set plan so it's actually quite a bit harder, but, I believe healthier in the long run than embarking on an incredibly intense career that is not right for me.

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"La Vie en Rose" as performed by Louis Armstrong is the perfect song for today's post. From the light piano triplets and strings that begin the song to the crescendo screaming trumpet at the end this song is wonderful. It is actually what my wife and I walked down the aisle to. Mr. Armstrong's trademark growl is tender and buoyant and...well, there isn't much that needs to be said...it's perfect.

Highly recommended for romantic occasions or just to make you feel good.

Stuff I Write

2009-09-26T15:19:00.000-07:00

Hello,

The first few days of this blog will be pretty rapid fire because I have a lot of thoughts and writings that have trapped in my head and now, for one reason or another, I have decided to share them...

I have written song lyrics for about as long as I can remember, but lately for wholly inexplicable reasons all of them have been coming out as raps...to be honest I have freestyle rapped in my head for quite some time, but never in public and rarely in written form. Lately it seems the time has come to do something more formal with what I'm coming up with....Anyway, here's one of them. It's a little sad I suppose, but I try with my songs to pose a problem and then try and pose a solution so hopefully the optimism comes across:

"SELFISH"

Selfish, it's selfish and everyone knows it.
He blew it cause he knew that he couldn't do it.
That one moment's the one you have to guard against,
Hard against everything everyone you know has said or done.
One click of patience with yourself past gone is all it takes.
Make sure that click doesn't come. How? I wish I knew.
If I did I wouldn't know what he went through. Sometimes I have felt
selfish too. But that moment it isn't to you, it's just justice its just
the last straw pushing that one click past too much. Think once
of the rest of the pain in their chests and their thoughts of the best
they could muster must not have been nearly enough.
Tough it out they think everyone gets that way, laying the blame,
hating, then praying shame shouldn't come their come way.
They don't deserve that why didn't he ever observe that in all that time
didn't he learn to absorb and push past that?
That last bit is where it sticks. Yes he knew. He soaked it all up,
But that click brings something new. Just one thought floats slowly to the top.
Why does one live? Its to live one's own life. Living based on the feelings
of others is not nearly enough to suffice. So that click's when you realize
your life is not based on what they all visualize. You don't know what
to do next. And you don't think you have the strength to answer when pressed.
Less than that you don't seem to care and that scares you tears through your brain
snares your memory you can't maintain or see forward past one quick second of pain and no more worry no more more it won't even be blurry it won't be. You won't see their faces when flashlights find you on the floor.
And that's all you can think. If you're lucky there's still part of you that remembers those times before the brink and calls you out and pulls you back and knows its
hard but also can't lose track of all the times you've smiled about and starts to sift through what's piled up and knows that when you tell yourself your time is up that's a lie, it's all made up. But he didn't know that. That moment came. Click and this time that was it. I've had the same thoughts but we don't think the same. Its a shame. Its selfish to us. We with the luxury of watching when others fuck up.

Pay attention. Trust somebody.
I know sometimes its just time, but make sure.
I know its a disease, but even without a cure,
Wait for the moment to pass. Please.
Cautionary tales are easy to write,
but hard to repeat.

While the subject is open, let's talk about selfish. Its a relative term and quite simply subjective word of invective turn of phrase set to judge suggested societal norms. Normally I agree with the prescribed degree of help your fellow man and right the wrongs and set the ones wronged free, but it's hard to find the line. How big is the space between Gandhi and buying a box of Unicef valentines? Can I live between sparing a dime and getting the whole world to realize all the shit every day all the time? Rhymes could be seen as helpful to a few, but what's too few? Is it enough to do what you can do and hope the message will get through? And can is a big word; I can do a lot. I could give up my tv and and my DVDs and my car and feed a lot or block destruction with my body and stop a parking lot. I could shave my head and fly to Iraq or Iran or Afghanistan just to lighten the load of those that decided to take a stand. And no I don't believe in the reasons we're there but is it fair to let just some waste their seasons in defense of what they know isn't there? I can't say. I don't know. Is it right to progress without helping the rest to grow? No, I can't say it is. But I also can't say what defines doing nothing or what calls for live and let live. If you don't live can you help give life? And if you don't know your own direction do you have the right to turn others away from the edge of the knife? And who says and why not you and why not him and why doesn't someone else with more money make those peoples' light less dim. When you're in the dark yourself you're left to grope for the switch while shouting out to those around you that the shadow soon will lift, just a moment I know there's hope I think I can feel the switchplate with my fingertip. But you're just hoping too and can't even tell who you're talking to and if they knew what might that realization drive them to do? So you hold on to it, you soak it all in, you cling on to fate, and then comes the click, WAIT
( deep breaths, two bars)

Pay attention. Trust somebody.
I know sometimes its just time, but make sure.
I know its a disease, but even without a cure,
Wait for the moment to pass. Please.
Cautionary tales are easy to write,
but hard to repeat.

It might seem bleak and I guess that it is and I know that I can't say my thoughts are the same as his, but this is call out to all of you who think that its only your throat that feels like it can't shout. We all float when one boat rises and we all sink a little when we hear of hope dying. Together the level drops and climbs and if one's left alone we can all hear the crying. So cry louder or listen longer and do all you can to make all your links stronger. I'm not saying that everyone can have a hundred friends but try to keep one voice by when you feel near the end. One reminder, one teacher, one mirror. Not to solve all the sadness but just to make it that much clearer that selfish or no its up to you never is it too late to discover what you never knew and just because you didn't know doesn't mean it wasn't there and just because you can't feel it doesn't mean that the others don't care. Its scary I know its fucking terrifying but I guarantee you dark as it may be its better than dying and never knowing and never trying and and never understanding that what you do can stop someone else's crying. And really its just that one moment it doesn't last if you can hold on for that second thought I promised its past and it might come again but its always the same. It might know what you've been thinking but it doesn't know your name. It doesn't care, it doesn't feel, it doesn't breathe, it's jealous of what you have and it feeds off your grief, but it can't take hold if you see it for what it is it just takes one bold second past where the click is and then its gone then its done then its cold and there' still pain but your one step closer to taking hold, to holding off to moving on to pushing closer to the day you tell yourself that its been worse and you believe what you say.

Pay attention. Trust somebody.
I know sometimes its just time, but make sure.
I know its a disease, but even without a cure,
Wait for the moment to pass. Please.
Cautionary tales are easy to write,
but hard to repeat.

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So let me know what you think. Does it make any sense at all?

I will start a new practice with this post in that in this and every subsequent post I will tack on a song I consider fantastic in its content and/or production.

today's song: "Son of a Preacher Man" by Dusty Springfield. This track is just about perfect...and I used the phrase "just about" because I don't know if I could ever say something is "perfect"....just listen to the kick drum on this song, it's funky, loose, and tight all at the same time
.

The Proclaimers

2009-09-26T12:02:00.000-07:00

Hello,

This being my first blog post, I'll start out with something that touches on many of the more prominent elements of my personality. Last night I saw The Proclaimers! I know many of you out there (unless you're my immediate friends and family) probably only know the Proclaimers from their uber-feel-good early 90's hit "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" which was launched into the American consciousness through the Johnny Depp film Benny and Joon (check it out if you haven't seen it...it's better than you probably think it will be...if only for Depp's spot on homage to Buster Keaton...watch it on a Sunday afternoon). But, they have been putting out albums since 1988 and just released their 8th studio effort, Notes and Rhymes. Anyway, my sister bought their album Sunshine on Leith in order to get "I'm Gonna Be" in 1993 and we both soon fell in love with the record...well, cassette. It quickly became a permanent fixture on any car trip my family took lasting over a half an hour and my sister and I memorized and sang (I in a pseudo-Scotch accent) every word and noise. Listen to the song "Oh, Jean" and imagine my sister and I singing at the top of our capacity in the backseat of a Ford Taurus as the beigey-green landscape of Minnesota as it fades in to Iowa blurs past the window and you will understand why these are memories that will never leave me! Anyway, I remember my sister getting the Proclaimers' next album for Christmas one year (Hit the Highway) and not really getting into it (it was not a time of my life where I was poised to jump into folky Scottish pub rock n roll).
Flash to 2003 and I found myself in London, England on a four month study abroad program with UW Madison. Looking through Time Out one evening I noticed that the Proclaimers were playing the next night in a small club. I was incredibly excited and ran around telling the others in my flat, but was met with "I bet not one of us could name one other song besides their famous one". To which I immediately responded "I can name two albums worth!" But, alas no one wanted to spend the time and money to risk the show based solely on my assurance so I wound up not going. However, I was reminded how much I loved Sunshine on Leith and I started reading up about the band and find out about their other albums. Since that point I had gotten my hands on only one other of their releases (the great Persevere)...it's actually harder than one might think to find their stuff (pre my involvement with Amazon)...Anyway, this is getting long so I'll just say that on two other occasions I tried and failed to see the Proclaimers.
Then, last week I happened to see in the paper that they were coming to Bottom of the Hill. Having just freed myself of a situation that would have made entertaining free time nearly impossible (perhaps I'll get in to that more later), I called up my wife and bought the tickets.

The Proclaimers are the last logical extension of Buddy Holly and Jerry Lee Lewis and they are Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band without the corny arena grandeur. They have the emotion and cleverness of singer songwriters and a pitch-perfect sense of what's beautiful and unifying about balls-out rock n' roll. They say in the new song "Notes and Rhymes": "I love rock n' roll. It took my hand and it touched my soul" and it's clear that they mean it. The combination of the brothers Reid's incredibly powerful voices and their top notch backing band created an irresistible atmosphere of positive energy. There were songs of loss and oppression mixed in with the more raucous, full bore pub-rock, but sad doesn't mean quiet and their treatment of such subject matter always results in a collective strength as opposed to one of grief. The audience was fully behind the band's every move and it didn't require anything fancy to hold our attention, just incredibly solid, well-honed rock n' roll music.
The set list drew from their entire career with special attention being paid to Sunshine on Leith (which made me very happy). Each song was dedicated to a friend or relative which just cemented the feeling that this was family on stage and we were all momentarily a part of it.
I realize as I ramble on about this that it's hard to describe accurately without sounding like a pretentious music critic so I will wrap it up by saying that The Proclaimers show why rock n' roll is what it is and how effective it can still be. It is the infectious joy but with a little more thought behind the lyrics. They play with soul and draw from Chuck Berry and Roger Miller (they closed the show with their rendition of "King of the Road") adding their wisdom and experience to rock music's collective history.

In other words, it was one hell of a rock n' roll show.

David.