Jess and I went to Northampton for the Bonnie "Prince" Billy show at the Iron Horse.
I was still suffering from the back injury. It's much better, but still.
A back injury suddenly makes minor inconveniences -- waiting in lines, sitting on wooden bar stools -- into issues that revolve around critical health. I've been reading ChiRunning and know the drill. Rotate the knees inward. Align the chin and tuck the tailbone. Still, we waited for nearly an hour outside the club, in the drizzle. Once inside, my back hurt so much I asked the ticket taker if I could borrow a chair to rest for a moment. She asked some guy. "These chairs are going nowhere. No one is going to touch them." He looked at me like he was going to punch me. My back was stiff enough so that a knock down, drag out would have been better than simply standing there, but he was also a shrimp and had a bad goatee.
*
After the first song, I wondered if BPB was the best show I was ever going to see. He has a particular ability to take a song, bring it to a certain level of pleasure, and then just elevate once again. The harmonies. The dissonance. The sense of imperative.
He played "Holly Home" and "Work Hard/Play Hard" and "Hello/Goodbye" and other songs, some of which I recognized. I like his music, but I'm not the type to know the name of every damn song.
Eventually, my lumbar vertebrae were collapsing like ancient columns in the desert and I needed a rest. We luckily found a few chairs upstairs, just as they were being given up. Still, the day, with the long ride and the walk, had taken their toll and we left before he stopped playing. I'm only somewhat regretful. What started as potentially the best show over continued, and was good. But it would have sounded just as good, if not better, in headphones.
The rain had started falling. I ran to find the car. I didn't know the area, and got lost. I found it, eventually, by a fruit market. I drove back to find Jess and she jumped into the car, handing me a slice of pizza, telling me it was the best she'd ever eaten. She had ordered a slice of meat pizza for me, but they gave her mushroom. Fine by me. The crust was crisp and the heat even.
Once they rung her up, she realized that the two slices, with no drinks, cost fifteen dollars.
A day later, the fifteen would cause a long conversation about America, Europe, food, and the grid.
Soaked, we drove back to the hotel. There was a whirlpool hot tub in our room. I've never had this luxury before. I got inside, and it made my heart race, so I got out, covered with bubbles.
The lights were out, but our room as lit by the distant streetlamps.
*
I'm beginning to understand what's gone wrong with my back and how it connects with the month's long knee problems, and I'm narrowing it down: weak core muscles, tight hip flexors, and pronation when I walk. To remedy, I've started doing lots of sit up and core exercises, and I don't think this weekend would even have been possible without having done them this past week.
I've also developed a set of hip openers that brought me from crippled to concerned in a short period. Still, I've lost a tremendous amount of flexibility in my hips in a few short months.
*
I've continued to write, daily, mostly fiction. But now I'm disciplining myself to send out submissions to literary journals. I kept a log, and sent out five stories and one poem last week. I've already received my first rejection letter. Most journals aren't even taking submissions this time of year. But still, I hold to the promise: every day, another piece goes out.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
MTEL
I took the MTEL exam today, which tried my bones more than my mind. With the back injury, I can only sit up straight for a short period before I need to lie down -- I needed to sit up for hours today.
The worst came during the second half of the day, when I not only was breaking pencils in my hands I was so tense, but the guy behind me kept breathing oddly through his nose while I was trying to read Wordsworth. Fortunately, he finished and left early, and I finished in peace.
*
During lunch break, I noticed people lying in the grass, holding books. This made me happy.
The worst came during the second half of the day, when I not only was breaking pencils in my hands I was so tense, but the guy behind me kept breathing oddly through his nose while I was trying to read Wordsworth. Fortunately, he finished and left early, and I finished in peace.
*
During lunch break, I noticed people lying in the grass, holding books. This made me happy.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
First Nice Weekend
Yesterday morning, Jess convinced me to go to the ER. My brother had optained some script level painkillers and we drove all the way to Nashua to pick them up. He had already left, I could barely stand up or sit down. We had the dog with us so we drove to my mother's house. She loves that dog, and I think that her chance to dogsit offset the normal mom-anxieties.
The doctor at Lowell General was great: talked about JFK, core strength, and climbing Mt. Rainier. Turns out it wasn't a herniated disc, but just a serious muscle strain that I reinjured this week. By Friday, I could barely eat or sleep because I felt so uncomfortable. Those who know me ought to be shocked. At my worst, I don't lose my appetite.
A shot and a painkiller still left me hardly able to walk, so I gave in and gobbled a handful of the pills. I'd been putting off taking anything, even refusing the spare percocents offered by a friend, but, at this point, I no longer cared.
An hour after the fistful of pharmaceutics, I could walk, bent but free. In relation to my struggles earlier in the day, I was flying, weightless. After spending three days lying down, being able to walk without pain counted as one of my life's great joys.
Late last night, Jess got up to go to bed, and, while feeding the dog, slipped in the water around the dish and banged her head. She became dizzy, mumbled incoherently, and showed signs of a concussion. I was still under the effects of the drugs, but was aware enough to make sure she was okay, even if I couldn't do much about it either way. This morning, she woke up and started vomiting, so it was back to the ER, this time in Groton.
The stay there was even longer: the doctor was sharp -- I overheard him talking knowingly on the phone about neologisms and aphasia, just where the writer and the doctor are closest -- but it was a small hospital and the staff were hit by a string of emergencies after our arrival. Sitting, first next to Jess on the gurney, and then in a chair, caused a lot of stress on my spine, and, by the time we left hours later, not only were we hungry having not eaten all day, but I was back to walking with my body bent like a cheese curl.
Having not eaten all day, but having been kept right across from the nurses's station, where chips and bon bons and cake and sandwiches and sodas were nearly constantly consumed by the team, Jess was famished despite the day's difficulties and we loaded up on subs, chips, nuts, and sodas as soon as we got back on 119. The sun was starting to set. We had to go pick up the Dufflebag. First nice weekend of the year, and we saw it pass us by through hospital windows.
*
Thankfully, living in the horizontal world gives me plenty of time to read and watch movies: finished Yates, started Geoff Dyer; saw Mongol, Bourne Ultimatum, The Changeling, and four of the recent South Park episodes. Enjoyed all, except for Bourne -- spy thrillers don't have much of a pull on me. I'll leave it to others to figure out why.
I have been reading Sherlock Holmes stories recently, but that is different, because, in Doyle, crime is incidental to a probing of the nature of reason, and questions about the perfectability of thought, about the nature of cognition, of aesthetics, and of intellectual freedom. Side note: Holmes dispatches his great adversary Moriarty with a modified judo throw -- Holmes practiced a British self-defense style called bartitsu, a mix of judo, jiu-jitsu, wrestling, and stick fighting. Another side note: I remembered that Holmes did cocaine, but never realized how much. A final side note: the passages on Holmes's love of music are beautiful and profound. Holmes is a musician and a love of music, and he seems to use music to deliberately offset the parts of himself drawn to a too-mechanical objectivity and to isolation.
The doctor at Lowell General was great: talked about JFK, core strength, and climbing Mt. Rainier. Turns out it wasn't a herniated disc, but just a serious muscle strain that I reinjured this week. By Friday, I could barely eat or sleep because I felt so uncomfortable. Those who know me ought to be shocked. At my worst, I don't lose my appetite.
A shot and a painkiller still left me hardly able to walk, so I gave in and gobbled a handful of the pills. I'd been putting off taking anything, even refusing the spare percocents offered by a friend, but, at this point, I no longer cared.
An hour after the fistful of pharmaceutics, I could walk, bent but free. In relation to my struggles earlier in the day, I was flying, weightless. After spending three days lying down, being able to walk without pain counted as one of my life's great joys.
Late last night, Jess got up to go to bed, and, while feeding the dog, slipped in the water around the dish and banged her head. She became dizzy, mumbled incoherently, and showed signs of a concussion. I was still under the effects of the drugs, but was aware enough to make sure she was okay, even if I couldn't do much about it either way. This morning, she woke up and started vomiting, so it was back to the ER, this time in Groton.
The stay there was even longer: the doctor was sharp -- I overheard him talking knowingly on the phone about neologisms and aphasia, just where the writer and the doctor are closest -- but it was a small hospital and the staff were hit by a string of emergencies after our arrival. Sitting, first next to Jess on the gurney, and then in a chair, caused a lot of stress on my spine, and, by the time we left hours later, not only were we hungry having not eaten all day, but I was back to walking with my body bent like a cheese curl.
Having not eaten all day, but having been kept right across from the nurses's station, where chips and bon bons and cake and sandwiches and sodas were nearly constantly consumed by the team, Jess was famished despite the day's difficulties and we loaded up on subs, chips, nuts, and sodas as soon as we got back on 119. The sun was starting to set. We had to go pick up the Dufflebag. First nice weekend of the year, and we saw it pass us by through hospital windows.
*
Thankfully, living in the horizontal world gives me plenty of time to read and watch movies: finished Yates, started Geoff Dyer; saw Mongol, Bourne Ultimatum, The Changeling, and four of the recent South Park episodes. Enjoyed all, except for Bourne -- spy thrillers don't have much of a pull on me. I'll leave it to others to figure out why.
I have been reading Sherlock Holmes stories recently, but that is different, because, in Doyle, crime is incidental to a probing of the nature of reason, and questions about the perfectability of thought, about the nature of cognition, of aesthetics, and of intellectual freedom. Side note: Holmes dispatches his great adversary Moriarty with a modified judo throw -- Holmes practiced a British self-defense style called bartitsu, a mix of judo, jiu-jitsu, wrestling, and stick fighting. Another side note: I remembered that Holmes did cocaine, but never realized how much. A final side note: the passages on Holmes's love of music are beautiful and profound. Holmes is a musician and a love of music, and he seems to use music to deliberately offset the parts of himself drawn to a too-mechanical objectivity and to isolation.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Brokeback Cat Toy
Earlier this week, it seemed as though my back was nearly healed. I went on a hike over the weekend and taught bjj on Monday night. However, after a 45 minute hike on Tuesday, I felt the brief hitch that seems to signal doom. It is worse now than after the original injury -- yesterday I had to slowly crawl through the house if I needed to use the toilet.
I couldn't walk up the stairs last night to bed, so I slept on the couch, which meant I didn't sleep much because each of the three animals took it in turn to take advantage of my situation. I was jumped on, rubbed against, licked, and patted. This might sound like a kickass porn vid, but it left me cursing the dawn.
*
That's the bad news. The good news is that I set myself a task on Monday: to write every day. On Monday and Tuesday I produced drafts of two short stories. Then, after getting a facebook message from a local filmmaker, I was inspired to work on a script. I lifted a core idea from my second short story and used that to sculpt a basic story. I went online and read webpages about how to build scripts, and I read through a handful of samples.
As the story grew, I began to see it as a dark comedy about a young teenager. I decided it would be mature and without condescension, while at the same time avoiding profanity. This came from my difficulties finding movies to watch with the Dufflebag -- he has a sense that kid's films are somehow beneath him, but the amount of stuff aimed for teens that doesn't involve super duper villains or the ghosts of Porky's is slim. So that's the starting point. I stayed up until three in the morning doing an outline, diagramming conflict, obstacles, characters, all the classic film stuff, just to have a sense of where I was going before I settle in and hope the words write themselves.
I couldn't walk up the stairs last night to bed, so I slept on the couch, which meant I didn't sleep much because each of the three animals took it in turn to take advantage of my situation. I was jumped on, rubbed against, licked, and patted. This might sound like a kickass porn vid, but it left me cursing the dawn.
*
That's the bad news. The good news is that I set myself a task on Monday: to write every day. On Monday and Tuesday I produced drafts of two short stories. Then, after getting a facebook message from a local filmmaker, I was inspired to work on a script. I lifted a core idea from my second short story and used that to sculpt a basic story. I went online and read webpages about how to build scripts, and I read through a handful of samples.
As the story grew, I began to see it as a dark comedy about a young teenager. I decided it would be mature and without condescension, while at the same time avoiding profanity. This came from my difficulties finding movies to watch with the Dufflebag -- he has a sense that kid's films are somehow beneath him, but the amount of stuff aimed for teens that doesn't involve super duper villains or the ghosts of Porky's is slim. So that's the starting point. I stayed up until three in the morning doing an outline, diagramming conflict, obstacles, characters, all the classic film stuff, just to have a sense of where I was going before I settle in and hope the words write themselves.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
For the Bland Mexican
Writing my review of Felipe's Taqueria left me thinking how much I could go for food with a little heart right now.
Elementary Particles
I took Jess to Mt. Auburn hospital yesterday for surgery. I figured it would be a good time to visit one of my favorite cheap eats restaurants for the column, but had to leave the car in the hospital garage. Along the way, I needed to deposit a check for Jess that she didn't have time to herself.
I walked all the way to the International Buddhist Progress Society, nearly all the way to Central Square, and found that it was closed on Mondays. Perhaps because my herniated disc forced me to walk awkwardly, I developed large blisters on my feet. I had only enough money for lunch -- I sold a video game at Newbury Comics so I would have enough. No taxi. I walked back, very slowly, all while circling around and looking for a Bank of America. Not an ATM. But a bank.
Finding none, I made it back to the hospital after stopping at an inexpensive but awful little burrito shop in Harvard Square.
I still needed to find a bank, so I got the car out of the garage and started driving. Luckily, I found one in Watertown, and made the deposit, although it required the intervention of the manager. By this point, I couldn't stand up straight because of my back. I was supposed to be lying down but had done nothing but walk or sit since six that morning, when I drove to pick up my mother to babysit the Dufflebag.
I made it back to the hospital and started a series of check-ins on Jess's condition. They continually added more hours to the projected recovery time, so I was worried about her. Despite this, the time moved very quickly. I payed for a large coffee with my remaining change and sat in the hospital lobby. The cleanliness of Mt. Auburn, and the friendliness of its staff, is almost comical. At one point I considered asking the woman at the information desk for a back massage.
The main lobby was nearly deserted, and most people there maintained a respectful silence. This was broken only briefly by the sort of loud mouthed invalid I was expecting to deal with all day, but his ride thankfully showed up and he was on his way without much fuss. I read nearly half of Michel Houellebecq's The Elementary Particles. I've had it lying around for a while and I'm not sure why I picked it up but I can't imagine a more engaging read under the circumstances. It's a book that makes me want to write. With that book, the hours in the lobby passed with none of the normal waiting room feelings of restriction and frustration.
Jess came out tired but in good health, and the surgery went well. The drive home normally takes about an hour, but this took over two, partly because of two accidents on route two, and partly because of delays at CVS: we had to wait inside to file for her pain medications, wait fifteen in the car, wait in the drive through for another ten, find out the meds weren't ready yet, queue up again in the drive through, one more time for good measure when it still wasn't ready, and then finally head off to home.
My mother has the dog under her sweater and was watching Fox news.
I drove her home, printed out some copies of my resume, since we don't have a printer, and ate two nearly raw sausages. I hadn't eaten since my bad burrito eaten eight hours previously and was hungry enough to get them down.
After making another failed attempt to find my R. Crumb's history of the blues book, I drove back home for the final time, where Jess and I started Let the Right One In and got halfway through before falling asleep. Both of us wanted to finish the film -- we were getting wrapped up in it -- but between the drugs and day, there was too much weariness and we couldn't hold off.
I took a razor to my blisters, one of which was filled with so much fluid that it shot, in a stream, three feet across the room. I lay down and my back began to spasm uncontrollably. This didn't hurt, the rapid firing of the muscles, but I had to wait for it to subside before giving in and letting go. Five hours later, I was woken up by repeated attacks on my toes by the cats. Jess was in pain and couldn't sleep, and had moved downstairs to watch the Sex and the City dvds Mac and Ana lent us this weekend.
Back upstairs, one cat would claw at the door, come in, attack the drapes, and leave. Then the other would come in, jump on the bed and start going for the feet.
If I locked them out, they would cry at the door to be let in.
Finally, I just gave in and started reading essays about Michel Houellebecq on the Internet.
Today is for coffee and retreat. That seems fair.
I walked all the way to the International Buddhist Progress Society, nearly all the way to Central Square, and found that it was closed on Mondays. Perhaps because my herniated disc forced me to walk awkwardly, I developed large blisters on my feet. I had only enough money for lunch -- I sold a video game at Newbury Comics so I would have enough. No taxi. I walked back, very slowly, all while circling around and looking for a Bank of America. Not an ATM. But a bank.
Finding none, I made it back to the hospital after stopping at an inexpensive but awful little burrito shop in Harvard Square.
I still needed to find a bank, so I got the car out of the garage and started driving. Luckily, I found one in Watertown, and made the deposit, although it required the intervention of the manager. By this point, I couldn't stand up straight because of my back. I was supposed to be lying down but had done nothing but walk or sit since six that morning, when I drove to pick up my mother to babysit the Dufflebag.
I made it back to the hospital and started a series of check-ins on Jess's condition. They continually added more hours to the projected recovery time, so I was worried about her. Despite this, the time moved very quickly. I payed for a large coffee with my remaining change and sat in the hospital lobby. The cleanliness of Mt. Auburn, and the friendliness of its staff, is almost comical. At one point I considered asking the woman at the information desk for a back massage.
The main lobby was nearly deserted, and most people there maintained a respectful silence. This was broken only briefly by the sort of loud mouthed invalid I was expecting to deal with all day, but his ride thankfully showed up and he was on his way without much fuss. I read nearly half of Michel Houellebecq's The Elementary Particles. I've had it lying around for a while and I'm not sure why I picked it up but I can't imagine a more engaging read under the circumstances. It's a book that makes me want to write. With that book, the hours in the lobby passed with none of the normal waiting room feelings of restriction and frustration.
Jess came out tired but in good health, and the surgery went well. The drive home normally takes about an hour, but this took over two, partly because of two accidents on route two, and partly because of delays at CVS: we had to wait inside to file for her pain medications, wait fifteen in the car, wait in the drive through for another ten, find out the meds weren't ready yet, queue up again in the drive through, one more time for good measure when it still wasn't ready, and then finally head off to home.
My mother has the dog under her sweater and was watching Fox news.
I drove her home, printed out some copies of my resume, since we don't have a printer, and ate two nearly raw sausages. I hadn't eaten since my bad burrito eaten eight hours previously and was hungry enough to get them down.
After making another failed attempt to find my R. Crumb's history of the blues book, I drove back home for the final time, where Jess and I started Let the Right One In and got halfway through before falling asleep. Both of us wanted to finish the film -- we were getting wrapped up in it -- but between the drugs and day, there was too much weariness and we couldn't hold off.
I took a razor to my blisters, one of which was filled with so much fluid that it shot, in a stream, three feet across the room. I lay down and my back began to spasm uncontrollably. This didn't hurt, the rapid firing of the muscles, but I had to wait for it to subside before giving in and letting go. Five hours later, I was woken up by repeated attacks on my toes by the cats. Jess was in pain and couldn't sleep, and had moved downstairs to watch the Sex and the City dvds Mac and Ana lent us this weekend.
Back upstairs, one cat would claw at the door, come in, attack the drapes, and leave. Then the other would come in, jump on the bed and start going for the feet.
If I locked them out, they would cry at the door to be let in.
Finally, I just gave in and started reading essays about Michel Houellebecq on the Internet.
Today is for coffee and retreat. That seems fair.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
And, Finally, We Move
Today, I got hired as the area Cheap Eats writer for the Examiner.com. Would you kindly send me information about your favorite inexpensive places in the Boston area? Anyone willing to take me to such places will have favors returned in kind when I start getting comped.
*
Other news: amazon.com has quite a few sampler albums available for free download as mp3s, including those put out by Anti and Sub Pop. Take advantage while you can. With a little searching around, I was able to add a few tunes to the library I'd been looking for, and discovered some interesting new music in the process.
*
Today's New Yorker arrived. That's all for now. Time to read!
*
Other news: amazon.com has quite a few sampler albums available for free download as mp3s, including those put out by Anti and Sub Pop. Take advantage while you can. With a little searching around, I was able to add a few tunes to the library I'd been looking for, and discovered some interesting new music in the process.
*
Today's New Yorker arrived. That's all for now. Time to read!
Clawing the Corridors
The herniated disc continues to offer hidden blessings: I spent a lot of time prepping for the MTEL exam again today. Not that the test seems particularly hard, but I still have a nerdy teenager's revulsion at getting a single answer wrong. So I'm doing exercises in my head: name as many conjunctions as you can; define abjure; list rules of capitalization relating to geography. Good, clean fun.
*
Go through a murky, impressionistic part of The Hamlet and am back into what I like most: Balzacian realism, or so the critics call it. The murk made me want to give up, once again, on the old mudmaster, but I'm glad I decided to trudge on and find the jewels that lay beyond: Protestant love confusion, heat, and shady dealings in Frenchman's Bend.
*
Now, I'm off to the store, gingerly. Yes, I know. I'm not supposed to be running around. But I'm under twin imperatives that go beyond hunger. I have to rest up, but I can't let the old carcass just rot either. And I quick trip to the produce section is about as mild an exercise as I might conceive. It's easier than taking a shower, surprisingly, physically, although more taxing in terms of feeling plain helpless. It's tough to go out into the world knowing I could be beaten up by your average eight year old. Damn back.
*
Go through a murky, impressionistic part of The Hamlet and am back into what I like most: Balzacian realism, or so the critics call it. The murk made me want to give up, once again, on the old mudmaster, but I'm glad I decided to trudge on and find the jewels that lay beyond: Protestant love confusion, heat, and shady dealings in Frenchman's Bend.
*
Now, I'm off to the store, gingerly. Yes, I know. I'm not supposed to be running around. But I'm under twin imperatives that go beyond hunger. I have to rest up, but I can't let the old carcass just rot either. And I quick trip to the produce section is about as mild an exercise as I might conceive. It's easier than taking a shower, surprisingly, physically, although more taxing in terms of feeling plain helpless. It's tough to go out into the world knowing I could be beaten up by your average eight year old. Damn back.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Couching It
Today, my back is worse, and it was a big struggle to get out of bed and get the Dufflebag to school. Lots of wallholding.
I stopped with the heating pad and opted for ice packs, which brought some relief: clear but temporary.
Since I've done nothing but lie around trying to heal up, I managed a trip to the store to buy a french press -- I've been using a decades old drip maker that seems to impart a certain unlikeable somethingness to the coffee that makes it hard to stomach. I bought a supercheap press earlier this year at a Chinese market, but the screen falls off the post with every use, making cleaning time last longer than drinking time.
So, I have a french press.
I took the first part of the MTEL practice exam today and am starting to focus on the licensing exam. If I could suffer this back problem at any time, now is it, since it makes it much easier for me to stem my curiosities and stick to the subjects at hand.
I stopped with the heating pad and opted for ice packs, which brought some relief: clear but temporary.
Since I've done nothing but lie around trying to heal up, I managed a trip to the store to buy a french press -- I've been using a decades old drip maker that seems to impart a certain unlikeable somethingness to the coffee that makes it hard to stomach. I bought a supercheap press earlier this year at a Chinese market, but the screen falls off the post with every use, making cleaning time last longer than drinking time.
So, I have a french press.
I took the first part of the MTEL practice exam today and am starting to focus on the licensing exam. If I could suffer this back problem at any time, now is it, since it makes it much easier for me to stem my curiosities and stick to the subjects at hand.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Spurs
It's been three weeks since I started training again. For one of those, I had to stop for a sinus infection. Now, I believe I herniated a disc and can do little more than lie down, shifting for more comfortable positions.
It bothers me, not being able to train, and not being able to go on a short hike yesterday. But even simple tasks like making coffee are difficult. A nuisance. I have considered relating the difficulties that come along with wiping my ass, but suffice to say it takes less time to simply take a shower.
It does give me time to study for the MTEL, which I'm taking in early May, and to read Faulkner's The Hamlet.
I remember struggling with Faulkner when I was younger, and telling Charlie that I just didn't get it. If I remember correctly, he suggested that was astute on my part, and suggested you needed to be from the South to truly "get" Faulkner.
As I read him now, I do get the sense that his writing is all the more vivid now that I spent a short period of time on a farm. The world he describes is still agricultural. Now that I know what "cutting to the quick" really means, a scene with a botched horse shoeing makes more sense. It also seems to accord well with the times: money, food, work. Confidence games. Aspiration. And all told in a prose that is dense and rich.
*
I watched both Monte Hellman's Cockfighter and the bonus Warren Oates biopic this weekend. I'll probably go through the commentary track today.
It is an impressive film, and deserves to be seen by more than just the cinema insiders who are drawn to it. In fact, it worked well alongside Faulkner, in terms of setting and tone, even if I suspect the Charles Willeford novel it is based on is unfaulknerian.
For those of you haven't seen it yet, Warren Oates plays a cockfighter who takes a vow of silence after a drunken, foolish bet makes him lose his chance for the coveted Cockfighter of the Year award, given out by the state Senator despite cockfighting being, at the time, illegal.
It is a basic story: a man torn between love and vocation, but it is also entirely fucked up. His vocation, after all, is disreputable and his ability to maintain meaningful relationships is stunted.
Hellman, at his best, works with simple stories but focuses on the sort of casual but meaningful details that other directors ignore. Watch the movie carefully and you could probably put short spurs on a game cock yourself.
It bothers me, not being able to train, and not being able to go on a short hike yesterday. But even simple tasks like making coffee are difficult. A nuisance. I have considered relating the difficulties that come along with wiping my ass, but suffice to say it takes less time to simply take a shower.
It does give me time to study for the MTEL, which I'm taking in early May, and to read Faulkner's The Hamlet.
I remember struggling with Faulkner when I was younger, and telling Charlie that I just didn't get it. If I remember correctly, he suggested that was astute on my part, and suggested you needed to be from the South to truly "get" Faulkner.
As I read him now, I do get the sense that his writing is all the more vivid now that I spent a short period of time on a farm. The world he describes is still agricultural. Now that I know what "cutting to the quick" really means, a scene with a botched horse shoeing makes more sense. It also seems to accord well with the times: money, food, work. Confidence games. Aspiration. And all told in a prose that is dense and rich.
*
I watched both Monte Hellman's Cockfighter and the bonus Warren Oates biopic this weekend. I'll probably go through the commentary track today.
It is an impressive film, and deserves to be seen by more than just the cinema insiders who are drawn to it. In fact, it worked well alongside Faulkner, in terms of setting and tone, even if I suspect the Charles Willeford novel it is based on is unfaulknerian.
For those of you haven't seen it yet, Warren Oates plays a cockfighter who takes a vow of silence after a drunken, foolish bet makes him lose his chance for the coveted Cockfighter of the Year award, given out by the state Senator despite cockfighting being, at the time, illegal.
It is a basic story: a man torn between love and vocation, but it is also entirely fucked up. His vocation, after all, is disreputable and his ability to maintain meaningful relationships is stunted.
Hellman, at his best, works with simple stories but focuses on the sort of casual but meaningful details that other directors ignore. Watch the movie carefully and you could probably put short spurs on a game cock yourself.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Loose Knots
Apologies to regular readers. I haven't been on here much.
I started training bjj again regularly, but was sidelined last week with a persistent sinus infection. It has finally loosened its grasp on me, and I took a brief hike this morning in the local state park. It was an easy trail, but one of the most beautiful nature trails I've seen. It runs smack against various streams. There are plenty of bridges and beaver dams and sudden, unexpected, open fields. I wore my knee brace and brought walking poles with me, and my knee hardly seems to have been affected.
*
I finished Charles Portis's True Grit. An old Boston Globe review called it a perfect novel, and I agree. It is precise, warm, witty, and violent. There are enough slight digressions to make it feel human, while the pacing is brisk. Portis really knows how to work the language, how to make the words themselves a source of pleasure. He knows equally well how to give characters nuance and color.
Here's the breathless first paragraph:
"People do not give it credence that a fourteen-year-old girl could leave home and go off in the wintertime to avente her father's blood but it did not seem so strange then, although I will say it did not happen every day. I was just fourteen years of age when a coward going by the name of Tom Chaney shot my father down in Forth Smith, Arkansas, and robbed him of his life and his horse and $150 in cash money plus two California gold pieces that he carred in his trouser band."
This isn't music, so much. But the tension between the sounds of the words is masterful. A reading out loud will help reveal how dense the language is, given its simplicity.
I found myself laughing a lot while reading it. I tried to find some passages to read out loud to Jess so that she might understand, but all that I could find, when read out loud, sounded gruesome.
As Portis might put it, it is that kind of book.
*
My main goals now are to get back in shape and to get my teaching license so that I can start teaching high school English this fall. I am embracing the focus.
Additionally, homelife has been particularly good to me these past few weeks. I am a lucky man.
A walk around the house today reminded me of why we were drawn here. With a little heat and sunlight, the surrounding woods seem to hum. Already, this seems less the drab and dying place of an overlong winter, but a place of color and energy.
At the local state park, I stood alone in a vast field, with a bridge crossed stream on my right side on the mountains on my left. I lay down in the grass and let my sunstarved skin rest in the heat for a few minutes. I didn't feel, as I have recently, like a knot of sore joints. I felt ambitious, and eager to get back to the work of reading and writing.
*
For lunch, I made another various on Mark Bittman's anti-ramen soup, this time adding seaweed. Yesterday, I made it with carrots, celery, galanga paste, lemongrass, and fish sauce, along with the ingredients given in the recipe. It is a quick, easy, tasty lunch, and lends itself to leftovers or, in my case, veggies gone nearly bad.
I started training bjj again regularly, but was sidelined last week with a persistent sinus infection. It has finally loosened its grasp on me, and I took a brief hike this morning in the local state park. It was an easy trail, but one of the most beautiful nature trails I've seen. It runs smack against various streams. There are plenty of bridges and beaver dams and sudden, unexpected, open fields. I wore my knee brace and brought walking poles with me, and my knee hardly seems to have been affected.
*
I finished Charles Portis's True Grit. An old Boston Globe review called it a perfect novel, and I agree. It is precise, warm, witty, and violent. There are enough slight digressions to make it feel human, while the pacing is brisk. Portis really knows how to work the language, how to make the words themselves a source of pleasure. He knows equally well how to give characters nuance and color.
Here's the breathless first paragraph:
"People do not give it credence that a fourteen-year-old girl could leave home and go off in the wintertime to avente her father's blood but it did not seem so strange then, although I will say it did not happen every day. I was just fourteen years of age when a coward going by the name of Tom Chaney shot my father down in Forth Smith, Arkansas, and robbed him of his life and his horse and $150 in cash money plus two California gold pieces that he carred in his trouser band."
This isn't music, so much. But the tension between the sounds of the words is masterful. A reading out loud will help reveal how dense the language is, given its simplicity.
I found myself laughing a lot while reading it. I tried to find some passages to read out loud to Jess so that she might understand, but all that I could find, when read out loud, sounded gruesome.
As Portis might put it, it is that kind of book.
*
My main goals now are to get back in shape and to get my teaching license so that I can start teaching high school English this fall. I am embracing the focus.
Additionally, homelife has been particularly good to me these past few weeks. I am a lucky man.
A walk around the house today reminded me of why we were drawn here. With a little heat and sunlight, the surrounding woods seem to hum. Already, this seems less the drab and dying place of an overlong winter, but a place of color and energy.
At the local state park, I stood alone in a vast field, with a bridge crossed stream on my right side on the mountains on my left. I lay down in the grass and let my sunstarved skin rest in the heat for a few minutes. I didn't feel, as I have recently, like a knot of sore joints. I felt ambitious, and eager to get back to the work of reading and writing.
*
For lunch, I made another various on Mark Bittman's anti-ramen soup, this time adding seaweed. Yesterday, I made it with carrots, celery, galanga paste, lemongrass, and fish sauce, along with the ingredients given in the recipe. It is a quick, easy, tasty lunch, and lends itself to leftovers or, in my case, veggies gone nearly bad.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
From Greensides into Darker: A Review of Bonnie "Prince" Billy's Beware
1. Bonnie “Prince” Billy’s new cd, Beware, was released on Tuesday and is perhaps the most anticipated recording of Will Oldham’s career. For those of you new to his music, I’ll give you the history in short. Oldham was a child actor and continues to occasionally appear in films. He took the photograph for the cover of Slint’s Spiderland album. He started recording under various Palace monikers – Palace Brothers, Palace Music, Palace Songs and, simply, Palace. He records under his own name, as well as under the name Bonnie “Prince” Billy. Famously reluctant to give interviews, Oldham was unexpectedly candid in a recent New Yorker profile. Oldham loves to visit hot springs and reportedly organizes his tours around them. This seems incidental, but if you were to attempt to explain his music to someone who hasn’t heard it before, the feeling of lying in a hot spring might be a good place to start. The music is circular and often spare. His voice is warbly and high, although when you hear him sing with other musicians, its clarity and resonance become apparent. Oldham is known for making his recordings with some of the band members unrehearsed. Sometimes, the musicians don’t hear the songs for the first time until they are actually being recorded.2. I read something recently that suggested BPB isn’t driving music. When I used to drive a truck for a living, I often found myself hitting fast forward during his songs, even though I very much like them. There have a languid quality that makes the ride feel long and even claustrophobic. This is my first major point about Beware. You can drive to it. There is a steady, churning, insistent quality to the rhythms. BPB often counterpoises anachronism with the utterly contemporary. An example from the back catalogue: a loose, haunting piano waltz played against a drum machine is called, “You Have Cum in Your Hair and Your Dick is Hanging Out.” These counterbalancing tensions are found in other ways, and Beware is full of them: some of the musicians, particularly the backup singers, sound rehearsed and offer perfect, rich harmonies, while others play as though they are improvising. The lyrics are bald and almost uncomfortably honest, but, as with Oldham’s hero Merle Haggard, the precisely autobiographical blends into intimations of the Everyman and the Everyromance. The traveling rhythm I note above at times evokes trains or even wagons, but, on the songs where Oldham seems most inspired by Gram Parsons and Gordon Lightfoot, we are in the world of cars and open highways.
3. In fact, for his apparent archness, lyrically, Oldham seldom strays from basic themes of popular music: mostly sex, but God as well.
4. Few lyricists can be so blunt, and appear so cryptic. Much of this comes from the listener’s inability to determine what is lyrical (in the older sense, with an assumption of insight and autobiography), what is ironic, and what is ballad (again, in the older sense, involving a story). And, outside of the films of Eric Rohmer or the writings of Proust, you won’t likely find depictions of love so decentering. A rowdy song starts off promising for our young lover: “sometimes you like the smell of me or how my stomach jiggles/even if that smell is liquor . . . but you don’t love me.” Our anticipations are thwarted and we are disappointed as well. This man sounded so optimistic! But again, the unexpected: “that’s all right/because you cling to me/all through the night.”
5. Here is Oldham at his most Haggardesque: “I don’t belong to anyone/There’s no one who’ll take care of me/It’s kind of easy to have some fun/When you don’t belong to anyone.”
6. If this is the voice of Oldham or of his inventions, we’re not sure, but through the conflicted love, the lyrics convey a search for purpose: “if I follow the song I hear/will another come near,” “I’ll likely never know/The answer why/You are hello/I am goodbye.” The ambiguities between a personal search for the good life, the search for romance, and the search for transcendent meaning are often answered with a shrug and a turn to work itself, be it creative or otherwise. “Yeah work baby and all good things will gather/love to your buckets, to honor your father/and arms will hold you!”
7. I don’t want to waste time speculating on the title, but I will say this. A close listen to the music and a reading of the lyrics suggest what we might beware of: loneliness, pointlessness, and darkness of various sorts. I would have to imagine that the title adds tension to two words that recur throughout the songs: work and light. Given how prolific Oldham is, it isn't surpising to see work invoked as a stay against confusion. Yet it is clear that this work serves a higher purpose.
8. I also don’t want to waste time speculating on whether or not this will be the recording that pushes Oldham out of the constraints of a cult following into the mainstream. Listeners have known long enough that he belongs among the serious and challenging great American songwriters: Foster, Dylan, Haggard, and Hank Williams. I will say it’s a beautiful album that reveals more with each listen. I suspect it will seem a high watermark in the BPB canon.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Backburners on Fire!!!
When I left off working on the novel, the inevitable shake-up occured and I've been writing less in all arenas, including this blog. Now, after spending the morning working on applications for teaching jobs, I can at least offer hints of an update.
*
I spent Saturday at a judo seminar at Boston BJJ, and returned home to take Jess and the Dufflebag out for pho. The Dufflebag had never had Vietnamese food before, enjoyed it past measure. Nice to see how he's transformed from having a pickiness so profound that I heard about it before I met him to the current situation, where he's wondering why I'm holding off on frying up the eel housed in our freezer.
*
The new Will Oldham (Bonnie Prince Billy) cd, Beware, comes out tomorrow, and it will one of the few discs in the last five years or so that I'm so excited about that I'll pick up on the release date.
Check back for a review.
*
So, if I haven't been writing, what have I been doing?
Well, the applications are taking up some time. I put in three days of training last week -- about as much as I'd trained in the past three months. The knee feels sore when done, but healed the next day, and that's fine for now. I'm also enjoying bjj again, but I suppose that comes from not having the urgency of the novel pressing on me. It is a happier life without writing, I'll admit, although it feels somehow emptier.
I've continued to listen to music closely and with enjoyment in ways I haven't in years. For the past few days, I've set my ipod to play all my songs by The Fall and my interest is sustained.
*
You might note that there's not a lot of cooking going on. I'm still making dinner most of the time, but exercise, the job search, and a few photo jobs have pushed all that to my crooked little backburners.
*
I spent Saturday at a judo seminar at Boston BJJ, and returned home to take Jess and the Dufflebag out for pho. The Dufflebag had never had Vietnamese food before, enjoyed it past measure. Nice to see how he's transformed from having a pickiness so profound that I heard about it before I met him to the current situation, where he's wondering why I'm holding off on frying up the eel housed in our freezer.
*
The new Will Oldham (Bonnie Prince Billy) cd, Beware, comes out tomorrow, and it will one of the few discs in the last five years or so that I'm so excited about that I'll pick up on the release date.
Check back for a review.
*
So, if I haven't been writing, what have I been doing?
Well, the applications are taking up some time. I put in three days of training last week -- about as much as I'd trained in the past three months. The knee feels sore when done, but healed the next day, and that's fine for now. I'm also enjoying bjj again, but I suppose that comes from not having the urgency of the novel pressing on me. It is a happier life without writing, I'll admit, although it feels somehow emptier.
I've continued to listen to music closely and with enjoyment in ways I haven't in years. For the past few days, I've set my ipod to play all my songs by The Fall and my interest is sustained.
*
You might note that there's not a lot of cooking going on. I'm still making dinner most of the time, but exercise, the job search, and a few photo jobs have pushed all that to my crooked little backburners.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The Common Whore of Mankind
Is Karl Marx the first great intellectual of the twenty-first century?
Christopher Hitchens explains why this may be the case here.
Christopher Hitchens explains why this may be the case here.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
HVAC in the News
It isn't every day when you read about HVAC workers, particularly people who work on the supply end, so it's interesting to note that Michael McLendon, the Alabama man who murdered twelve people yesterday, not only was a former HVACer but went to two different supply houses while on his spree.
Since a small but significant percentage of the guys I knew in that field seemed capable of such an act, it comes as no surprise to me. This isn't to make light of a horrible situation, but a statement of fact.
Since a small but significant percentage of the guys I knew in that field seemed capable of such an act, it comes as no surprise to me. This isn't to make light of a horrible situation, but a statement of fact.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Gator, Tater, Sprout Conclusion
I was more than pleasantly surprised by the fried gator. The best parts were the longer, thinner ones, which tasted very much like fried clams. The thicker ones tasted somewhere between chicken, pork, and tuna. I cooked them in the Fry Daddy after dipping the pieces in eggs and then dredging them in flour with fresh black pepper, salt, a cajun spice mix, and galanga powder.
The Dufflebag went for seconds.
I served it with with roasted potatoes and brussel sprouts, which I cooked with rosemary, paprika, garlic, salt and pepper and dressed in a mustard sauce. A simple dish that I've made before, but it always seems to work well and somehow manages to seem both healthy and hearty. Since I don't watch much tv other than cooking shows, it's nice to be reminded that simplicity is sometimes best. Of course, everyone knows this, but everyone also forgets.
Back to working on applications!
The Dufflebag went for seconds.
I served it with with roasted potatoes and brussel sprouts, which I cooked with rosemary, paprika, garlic, salt and pepper and dressed in a mustard sauce. A simple dish that I've made before, but it always seems to work well and somehow manages to seem both healthy and hearty. Since I don't watch much tv other than cooking shows, it's nice to be reminded that simplicity is sometimes best. Of course, everyone knows this, but everyone also forgets.
Back to working on applications!
Gators, taters, and sprouts
I've decided to stop working on the novel this Sunday.
It is driving me nuts, the combination of putting my life on hold while, at the same time, only making the slightest progress with lots of effort. It doesn't mean I'm giving up on the novel, only that I'm putting it on the shelf while I start the job search in earnest. I also need to start exercising again. Imagine a strange, immobile sea creature that rests on the ocean floor, eating bits of stray fishbones and the occasional starfish. That creature? That's me right now.
This doesn't mean I'm done with the novel, only that I'm letting it ferment for a time while I take care of other matters of increasingly vital concern. It also means that I can start acting like a human being again, I hope.
*
I'm going to fry up the alligator I bought, frozen, weeks at SS Lobster and serve it with roasted potatoes and bean sprouts. I'll let you know how it goes.
It is driving me nuts, the combination of putting my life on hold while, at the same time, only making the slightest progress with lots of effort. It doesn't mean I'm giving up on the novel, only that I'm putting it on the shelf while I start the job search in earnest. I also need to start exercising again. Imagine a strange, immobile sea creature that rests on the ocean floor, eating bits of stray fishbones and the occasional starfish. That creature? That's me right now.
This doesn't mean I'm done with the novel, only that I'm letting it ferment for a time while I take care of other matters of increasingly vital concern. It also means that I can start acting like a human being again, I hope.
*
I'm going to fry up the alligator I bought, frozen, weeks at SS Lobster and serve it with roasted potatoes and bean sprouts. I'll let you know how it goes.
Half a Loaf of CF
For the first time since taking up nanny duties, I overslept today, and the Dufflebag was late to school.
Normally, I naturally wake up at the right time, but daylight savings must have thrown me off, and the cats failed in their duties to rouse me. Typically, they go right at my face when it's time to play, but today, perhaps sensing the deepness of my sleeping, they were rolled up at my foot.
And it was a very deep sleep, fueled by camomile and late night writing.
I put his cereal in a bag for a snack and poured him a glass of milk, which he stared at for a few minutes before I finally told him to chuck it.
My car immediately got stuck in the snow, and I had to, on the spot and in a rush, teach him how to drive so that I could push. He ended up doing a good job. It was too difficult and dangerous to explain the rocking technique of rapidly switching from reverse to drive, I had him tap the gas while I pushed as hard as I could.
"Driving is harder than I expected," he told me.
"Well, that's why you see so many bad drivers," I said, slipping into my grumpy old man mode.
The car extracted, the day began.
Normally, I naturally wake up at the right time, but daylight savings must have thrown me off, and the cats failed in their duties to rouse me. Typically, they go right at my face when it's time to play, but today, perhaps sensing the deepness of my sleeping, they were rolled up at my foot.
And it was a very deep sleep, fueled by camomile and late night writing.
I put his cereal in a bag for a snack and poured him a glass of milk, which he stared at for a few minutes before I finally told him to chuck it.
My car immediately got stuck in the snow, and I had to, on the spot and in a rush, teach him how to drive so that I could push. He ended up doing a good job. It was too difficult and dangerous to explain the rocking technique of rapidly switching from reverse to drive, I had him tap the gas while I pushed as hard as I could.
"Driving is harder than I expected," he told me.
"Well, that's why you see so many bad drivers," I said, slipping into my grumpy old man mode.
The car extracted, the day began.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Fried Feet
My attempt to capitalize on Charlie's departure as the opportunity to write all hermit-like hasn't quite worked. Because of the snow, school was let out early. And, tomorrow, I have to wait around for a mattress to be delivered. Jess bought one -- the old one is so spent that we dream of sleeping on stormy seas.
But I'm determined to get through this draft. I'm drinking tea and gearing up for another hour or so of editing. TV off. Radio on.
I've been out of money for a few days. For dinner, I sliced some pickles and put them on the sourdough, with mustard and horseradish. Humble and good, but it made me want to eat fried chicken feet.
My tax refund overdue, I checked the IRS website and got an update. They claimed my refund, citing a law that allowed them to do so to if I owed money for child support or to the state or federal governments.
Since I certainly don't owe child support and thought I'd paid all taxes, I was surprised. Surprised, meaning it felt like a brick fell on my head. I needed that money. According to the site, they are sent me a letter today detailing the reasons why my paltry refund got crabbed. We'll see what new joys it brings later this week.
But I'm determined to get through this draft. I'm drinking tea and gearing up for another hour or so of editing. TV off. Radio on.
I've been out of money for a few days. For dinner, I sliced some pickles and put them on the sourdough, with mustard and horseradish. Humble and good, but it made me want to eat fried chicken feet.
My tax refund overdue, I checked the IRS website and got an update. They claimed my refund, citing a law that allowed them to do so to if I owed money for child support or to the state or federal governments.
Since I certainly don't owe child support and thought I'd paid all taxes, I was surprised. Surprised, meaning it felt like a brick fell on my head. I needed that money. According to the site, they are sent me a letter today detailing the reasons why my paltry refund got crabbed. We'll see what new joys it brings later this week.
Plant Life
I've returned home to bake the bread. It didn't rise nearly as much as I hoped. It seems that the crust already hardened too much, even though I liberally coated it with olive oil.
It smells good. I suspect it will taste good. But it won't be what I'm after.
*
The snow continues to fall and it took me forty-five minutes to get back from Fitchburg, not even counting the multiple times I got stuck in Charlie's driveway. Last Monday it snowed, and I couldn't teach. I've been itching to get in and train, but I might have to cancel again.
*
For lunch, I sliced up the rest of the fennel, quartered some radishes, put them on a bed of spinach, and sprinkled the top with a fistful of carrots. This winter has killed me: bad knees, heavy food, lots of sitting down to read and write. I'm trying to switch to eating more plant life. I love eating plant life, thankfully.
I dressed the salad with some thai peanut sauce, combined with rice vinegar. It was luxurious, and I wish I had thought of doing it yesterday, since it easily topped the lousy store-bought yogurt and parmasan gloop we tried.
It smells good. I suspect it will taste good. But it won't be what I'm after.
*
The snow continues to fall and it took me forty-five minutes to get back from Fitchburg, not even counting the multiple times I got stuck in Charlie's driveway. Last Monday it snowed, and I couldn't teach. I've been itching to get in and train, but I might have to cancel again.
*
For lunch, I sliced up the rest of the fennel, quartered some radishes, put them on a bed of spinach, and sprinkled the top with a fistful of carrots. This winter has killed me: bad knees, heavy food, lots of sitting down to read and write. I'm trying to switch to eating more plant life. I love eating plant life, thankfully.
I dressed the salad with some thai peanut sauce, combined with rice vinegar. It was luxurious, and I wish I had thought of doing it yesterday, since it easily topped the lousy store-bought yogurt and parmasan gloop we tried.
Cat Sat
Charlie is away at a conference, so I'm house sitting for him. His skittish cat took to me right away and we're both in the living room, keeping warm from the snow.
I'm hoping that the relative isolation will allow me a half day's concentrated effort on the novel. I've got about three to four hours before I have to pick up the Dufflebag, bake the bread, and head off to teach tonight.
*
Speaking of the bread, I was worried that my sourdough would rise because I went off recipe and substituted wheat for white flour. Supporting my theory that the house has bread goblins that do my work for me when I'm asleep, the dough had risen even more than the white when I checked this morning. A good sign, indeed.
I'm hoping that the relative isolation will allow me a half day's concentrated effort on the novel. I've got about three to four hours before I have to pick up the Dufflebag, bake the bread, and head off to teach tonight.
*
Speaking of the bread, I was worried that my sourdough would rise because I went off recipe and substituted wheat for white flour. Supporting my theory that the house has bread goblins that do my work for me when I'm asleep, the dough had risen even more than the white when I checked this morning. A good sign, indeed.
Acid People
Jess came along on my photo trip today. We ended up driving for six hours -- all the way to the southern part of the state and then back up, getting only slightly lost on back roads, before arriving home to eat a quick spinach and fennel salad before heading out again to pick up the Dufflebag from his dad.
My first sourdough turned out well. The taste was excellent. I forgot to slice the top of the loaf, and suspect it would have risen more if I had done so. I was going to make another batch tonight, but might have botched it. The recipe calls for mostly unbleached white flour, but I ran out, so I had to mix in about half wheat. Wheat flour is lower in gluten, making it harder to rise. The loaf yesterday rose so easily I'm going to have faith in it. I made it at ten tonight so that it will go into the oven mid-afternoon tomorrow. If it turns out well and if you train with me at the school, you may just get a loaf. I intend on giving loaves to those who have helped me out recently as a thank you, but I can only make so many at one time.
I annoyed Jess by talking so much about the sourdough. After going on about the simplicity (just yeast, water, and salt and nothing more) and the taste, the luck I felt for getting it right the first time, the honor I felt at seeing it rise and confirm to expectations, she was ready to hit me with a shoe, I gather, but showed saintlike restraint and I ended the conversation unharmed.
*
While on the road today, we listened to the ipod on shuffle. We stopped for a decent lunch outside of Franklin that looked like a converted barn. I had a reuben. Not the best I'd ever had, but I was hungry. Plus, I was able to avoid ordering the french fries and went instead for the cucumber salad, and that set off a wave of healthy eating, ending with my own spinach salad when we finally got home.
I learned a lesson from the salad.
For the first time in years, I bought a dressing from the supermarket, and it nearly ruined the dish. My original intention was to save time.
Make your own dressing. Say it with me. Make your own dressing.
To take something so pure and delicious and healthy and then pour factory glop on it? Foolish, faltering humanity. And it simply didn't taste nearly as good as vinegar, lemon juice, olive oil, salt and pepper would have.
Jess and I were watching a tv show the other night, and the thought struck me: we're vinegar people. Acid people.
She asked me to explain myself.
Well, there are bases and acids . . . .
She got the point.
And the store bought dressing? Base. Cheese and yogurt. Not unhealthy. Just not tasty. Not light. Not possessing the wonderful, electric quality of a good dressing.
*
Jess sat down to watch the Devil and Daniel Johnston again, since she was so tired she fell asleep the first time. She loved the film, but falls asleep easily.
She fell asleep again, almost at the same part.
She was able to make it through nearly all three hours of Altman's Short Cuts on Friday. Perhaps the best movie ever made that you can call "a great little film" even though it's three hours long.
*
Along the ride, we stopped in Clinton to admire a pen of baby goats, and let them suck our fingers. See flickr.
*
Despite the busy day, I was able to process all the pictures from the weekend, along with some strays I took for my own pleasure, and also rewrite a few paragraphs from my novel. I didn't have a lot of time, but made major revisions. Sometimes, that is enough.
For reading, I abandoned the Nooteboom -- didn't say much to me although I admire it -- and picked up True Grit, a Portis novel I avoid for obvious reasons but it's so damn good it had me wanting to call people on the telephone and read passages to them. I mean. It's really good. Really, really good.
*
Writing, reading, watching good dvds. Making or in the process of making four sourdough loaves. Driving to Manchester, Portsmouth, Franklin, Bridgewater. Playing with goats. Moving furniture. Writing this entry. A full weekend. Bodes well for the week. Snow forecast tomorrow. I don't care. It'll warm up soon enough.
My first sourdough turned out well. The taste was excellent. I forgot to slice the top of the loaf, and suspect it would have risen more if I had done so. I was going to make another batch tonight, but might have botched it. The recipe calls for mostly unbleached white flour, but I ran out, so I had to mix in about half wheat. Wheat flour is lower in gluten, making it harder to rise. The loaf yesterday rose so easily I'm going to have faith in it. I made it at ten tonight so that it will go into the oven mid-afternoon tomorrow. If it turns out well and if you train with me at the school, you may just get a loaf. I intend on giving loaves to those who have helped me out recently as a thank you, but I can only make so many at one time.
I annoyed Jess by talking so much about the sourdough. After going on about the simplicity (just yeast, water, and salt and nothing more) and the taste, the luck I felt for getting it right the first time, the honor I felt at seeing it rise and confirm to expectations, she was ready to hit me with a shoe, I gather, but showed saintlike restraint and I ended the conversation unharmed.
*
While on the road today, we listened to the ipod on shuffle. We stopped for a decent lunch outside of Franklin that looked like a converted barn. I had a reuben. Not the best I'd ever had, but I was hungry. Plus, I was able to avoid ordering the french fries and went instead for the cucumber salad, and that set off a wave of healthy eating, ending with my own spinach salad when we finally got home.
I learned a lesson from the salad.
For the first time in years, I bought a dressing from the supermarket, and it nearly ruined the dish. My original intention was to save time.
Make your own dressing. Say it with me. Make your own dressing.
To take something so pure and delicious and healthy and then pour factory glop on it? Foolish, faltering humanity. And it simply didn't taste nearly as good as vinegar, lemon juice, olive oil, salt and pepper would have.
Jess and I were watching a tv show the other night, and the thought struck me: we're vinegar people. Acid people.
She asked me to explain myself.
Well, there are bases and acids . . . .
She got the point.
And the store bought dressing? Base. Cheese and yogurt. Not unhealthy. Just not tasty. Not light. Not possessing the wonderful, electric quality of a good dressing.
*
Jess sat down to watch the Devil and Daniel Johnston again, since she was so tired she fell asleep the first time. She loved the film, but falls asleep easily.
She fell asleep again, almost at the same part.
She was able to make it through nearly all three hours of Altman's Short Cuts on Friday. Perhaps the best movie ever made that you can call "a great little film" even though it's three hours long.
*
Along the ride, we stopped in Clinton to admire a pen of baby goats, and let them suck our fingers. See flickr.
*
Despite the busy day, I was able to process all the pictures from the weekend, along with some strays I took for my own pleasure, and also rewrite a few paragraphs from my novel. I didn't have a lot of time, but made major revisions. Sometimes, that is enough.
For reading, I abandoned the Nooteboom -- didn't say much to me although I admire it -- and picked up True Grit, a Portis novel I avoid for obvious reasons but it's so damn good it had me wanting to call people on the telephone and read passages to them. I mean. It's really good. Really, really good.
*
Writing, reading, watching good dvds. Making or in the process of making four sourdough loaves. Driving to Manchester, Portsmouth, Franklin, Bridgewater. Playing with goats. Moving furniture. Writing this entry. A full weekend. Bodes well for the week. Snow forecast tomorrow. I don't care. It'll warm up soon enough.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Hi, How Are You?
Jess was curious about The Devil and Daniel Johnston. I've seen it before.
But not in this context.
I've been driving all over New Hamsphire today.
My friend Rob killed himself in the mid nineties. And one of my last memories of him was driving around New Hampshire, lost, and looking for Durham. We had one tape in the car -- Daniel Johnston -- and we listened to it on repeat and sang along with every line.
It's been a long time, man. Memories ferment, like anything else given the right conditions. But just because something is pervasive, doesn't mean it doesn't have some sort of added weight. A heaviness.
Is it distasteful for someone who aspires to write to cite this? Unspoken bits of matter.
As a human, you learn when to shut your mouth.
But not in this context.
I've been driving all over New Hamsphire today.
My friend Rob killed himself in the mid nineties. And one of my last memories of him was driving around New Hampshire, lost, and looking for Durham. We had one tape in the car -- Daniel Johnston -- and we listened to it on repeat and sang along with every line.
It's been a long time, man. Memories ferment, like anything else given the right conditions. But just because something is pervasive, doesn't mean it doesn't have some sort of added weight. A heaviness.
Is it distasteful for someone who aspires to write to cite this? Unspoken bits of matter.
As a human, you learn when to shut your mouth.
Here We Go. Aspire to Greatness. Ready 1-2-3.
I lost my ability to concentrate on most novels around 93, for complex reasons.
Partially having to do with me, partially having to do with novels.
Is there any other art form that demands so much attention and offers so little reward? Crackers.
But this is what gives me pause. Filtration. Immediacy. Impermanence. Glut. Pipelines. Hyperlinks. Buzz and static.
Maybe, just maybe, such mindframes are more necessary now, even more than in the past. This is what has me thinking. Maybe the problem of being able to sit alone in a room is old, old, old. And maybe we now have a solution, not quite obvious, that has been from us since just after Gutenberg.
At one time, we imagined, language as the house of being. Or we had it imagined for us.
And all that we saw resolved to language, however tentative, however fragile. Even our psychological architecture. Even our architecture. Even the way we cooked our fish.
Now? Ones and zeros. Zeros and ones.
We can't be faulted for at least considering where the escape routes might lie.
I mean.
Can we?
Partially having to do with me, partially having to do with novels.
Is there any other art form that demands so much attention and offers so little reward? Crackers.
But this is what gives me pause. Filtration. Immediacy. Impermanence. Glut. Pipelines. Hyperlinks. Buzz and static.
Maybe, just maybe, such mindframes are more necessary now, even more than in the past. This is what has me thinking. Maybe the problem of being able to sit alone in a room is old, old, old. And maybe we now have a solution, not quite obvious, that has been from us since just after Gutenberg.
At one time, we imagined, language as the house of being. Or we had it imagined for us.
And all that we saw resolved to language, however tentative, however fragile. Even our psychological architecture. Even our architecture. Even the way we cooked our fish.
Now? Ones and zeros. Zeros and ones.
We can't be faulted for at least considering where the escape routes might lie.
I mean.
Can we?
If You Have Ghosts
My old employer called and hired me to take pictures of all the branches. I met him in Nashua and was reunited with the work truck, which I have all weekend.
After thousands of dollars of repairs, she is retiring and being replaced by a newer model. Since I left, business has been slow, and the odometer hasn't spun much more since I sat behind the wheel.
I spent all day driving New Hampshire, working on the project. Fortunately, the fastest way was slow and off the interstate, and I spent a healthy amount of time looking at cows and listening to Roky Erickson.
The Boss gave me cash for the project, and I returned with a few dollars in my pocket -- more than usual -- but was able to pick up garbage bags, kitty litter, supplies from Home Depot for the house, and a cup of coffee to fuel the journey home.
*
I'm rising dough made with my sourdough starter for the first time. I'm excited: no additional yeast, no sugar, no leavener. Just "the beast," water, and salt. And it's rising, smelling warm and beary. Fifteen hours to rise. Forty five to bake. My timing was off. She's coming out of the oven at midnight. But I'm going to assume that there's something in the house that makes the environment good for baking -- the temperature, the ghosts, the microbes, and I'll respect that spirit and see the project through to whatever hour presents itself.
After thousands of dollars of repairs, she is retiring and being replaced by a newer model. Since I left, business has been slow, and the odometer hasn't spun much more since I sat behind the wheel.
I spent all day driving New Hampshire, working on the project. Fortunately, the fastest way was slow and off the interstate, and I spent a healthy amount of time looking at cows and listening to Roky Erickson.
The Boss gave me cash for the project, and I returned with a few dollars in my pocket -- more than usual -- but was able to pick up garbage bags, kitty litter, supplies from Home Depot for the house, and a cup of coffee to fuel the journey home.
*
I'm rising dough made with my sourdough starter for the first time. I'm excited: no additional yeast, no sugar, no leavener. Just "the beast," water, and salt. And it's rising, smelling warm and beary. Fifteen hours to rise. Forty five to bake. My timing was off. She's coming out of the oven at midnight. But I'm going to assume that there's something in the house that makes the environment good for baking -- the temperature, the ghosts, the microbes, and I'll respect that spirit and see the project through to whatever hour presents itself.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Review of the Review of the Watchmen Continued
Following Mikey's dismantling of Lane, Anton wrote from New York:
Yeah, the graphic novel essentially deconstructs the idea of the American Hero, and actually investigates the very problem you and Lane are talking about: how these heroes end up mirroring the forces they are fighting against. (And it "deconstructs" all this in the best, most straightforward, nonacademic way). Thus the question on one of the title pages: Who Watches the Watchmen?
I would go so far as to say it is one of the greatest novels I've read. It is literally Miltonic, and full of references to Shelley and Blake (not to mention Bob Dylan and John Cale). If you haven't read it you need to get a copy of it immediately.
Can anyone lend me a copy?
As an aside, even I sometimes have problems posting to blogger, and anyone who knows me is welcome to send me their comments as an email and I will incorporate them back into the entries.
As for the matter at hand, I'm going to assume Lane hasn't seen the movie, and, since Moore distanced himself from the movie, is it possible that the movie misses the point as well?
I myself will not see the film. The Dufflebag had been anticipating this film for a year now and was upset that he couldn't see it. Since he was so let down, I made a pact with him that we'd see the film for the first time, together, when he was old enough. For whatever reason, this notion seemed to make him happy, so I'm sticking to it. I will, however, read the comic if someone might pass it my way.
*
Anyone with a shred of curiosity about contemporary literature and an extra half-hour on their hands should read D.T. Max's biographical essay on David Foster Wallace in this week's New Yorker. Max manages to pack an astounding amount of insight and information over its few pages: in some ways, the article serves as a time capsule and I suspect historians centuries in the future could read it as a pared down glimpse into how end of the century postmodernism, psycho-pharmacology, and publishing practices all had an immediate bearing on an actual, human life.
The issue also contains the Wallace story "Wiggle Room," which is taken from the unpublished novel he was writing at the time of his suicide.
Yeah, the graphic novel essentially deconstructs the idea of the American Hero, and actually investigates the very problem you and Lane are talking about: how these heroes end up mirroring the forces they are fighting against. (And it "deconstructs" all this in the best, most straightforward, nonacademic way). Thus the question on one of the title pages: Who Watches the Watchmen?
I would go so far as to say it is one of the greatest novels I've read. It is literally Miltonic, and full of references to Shelley and Blake (not to mention Bob Dylan and John Cale). If you haven't read it you need to get a copy of it immediately.
Can anyone lend me a copy?
As an aside, even I sometimes have problems posting to blogger, and anyone who knows me is welcome to send me their comments as an email and I will incorporate them back into the entries.
As for the matter at hand, I'm going to assume Lane hasn't seen the movie, and, since Moore distanced himself from the movie, is it possible that the movie misses the point as well?
I myself will not see the film. The Dufflebag had been anticipating this film for a year now and was upset that he couldn't see it. Since he was so let down, I made a pact with him that we'd see the film for the first time, together, when he was old enough. For whatever reason, this notion seemed to make him happy, so I'm sticking to it. I will, however, read the comic if someone might pass it my way.
*
Anyone with a shred of curiosity about contemporary literature and an extra half-hour on their hands should read D.T. Max's biographical essay on David Foster Wallace in this week's New Yorker. Max manages to pack an astounding amount of insight and information over its few pages: in some ways, the article serves as a time capsule and I suspect historians centuries in the future could read it as a pared down glimpse into how end of the century postmodernism, psycho-pharmacology, and publishing practices all had an immediate bearing on an actual, human life.
The issue also contains the Wallace story "Wiggle Room," which is taken from the unpublished novel he was writing at the time of his suicide.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Speaking of Scumbags
Speaking of scumbags, terrorist Bill Ayers made the news again today, this time defending plagiarist and phony Ward Churchill, who was fired from his position as an ethnic studies professor at the University of Colorado following an investigation into his academic misconduct.
The two have a history: According to a 1987 Washington Post article, Churchill taught bomb making to the detestable organization Ayers helped run, the Weather Underground, back in the sixties.
My own experience with academia has shown me how intellectually lazy and mean spirited professors who get caught gravitate to self-sealing arguments and otherwise insulate themselves from having to defend indefensible positions. Get caught plagiarizing? Blame politics. Cite free speech. But don't, you know, stop plagiarizing or anything.
The two have a history: According to a 1987 Washington Post article, Churchill taught bomb making to the detestable organization Ayers helped run, the Weather Underground, back in the sixties.
My own experience with academia has shown me how intellectually lazy and mean spirited professors who get caught gravitate to self-sealing arguments and otherwise insulate themselves from having to defend indefensible positions. Get caught plagiarizing? Blame politics. Cite free speech. But don't, you know, stop plagiarizing or anything.
Evil Beans, Evil Balls
I tried to remember why Pythagoras supposedly thought beans were evil the other night.
Jess and I were talking about beans. I'm too discrete to say why.
I found this interesting piece in which the author suggests that the whole problem might have come from an inititial translation error, arising because the word for beans and testicles was the same, and that Pythagoras might have been forbidding sexual indulgence.
Jess and I were talking about beans. I'm too discrete to say why.
I found this interesting piece in which the author suggests that the whole problem might have come from an inititial translation error, arising because the word for beans and testicles was the same, and that Pythagoras might have been forbidding sexual indulgence.
Many Disguises
Since it seems half my readers now are the scumbags who work for negative option schemers, I just wanted to say hello to the good people at Adaptive Marketing, the marketing arm of the reprehensible Vertrue -- the company that tried, unsuccessfully, to snare me with their Vista Print scam.
All you people keep checking my site. Do I detect a little bit of concern? How fun. Sure beats playing Tetris while the innocent are fleeced of their money, huh?
These negative option schemers operate under endless disguises. It isn't just that they hide behind so many names (Experian, how many webpages do you own? How many different ways to hide?) but that they hide behind the law as well.
*
Bertolt Brecht wrote this small poem. Please enjoy!
On my wall hangs a Japanese carving,
The mask of an evil demon,
decorated with gold lacquer.
Sympathetically I observe
The swollen veins of the forehead, indicating
What a strain it is to be evil.
All you people keep checking my site. Do I detect a little bit of concern? How fun. Sure beats playing Tetris while the innocent are fleeced of their money, huh?
These negative option schemers operate under endless disguises. It isn't just that they hide behind so many names (Experian, how many webpages do you own? How many different ways to hide?) but that they hide behind the law as well.
*
Bertolt Brecht wrote this small poem. Please enjoy!
On my wall hangs a Japanese carving,
The mask of an evil demon,
decorated with gold lacquer.
Sympathetically I observe
The swollen veins of the forehead, indicating
What a strain it is to be evil.
Vertrue, Trilegiant, and Webloyalty: Goo Goo is Hunting Foxes!
After finding out that three of the major players in negative option schemes, Webloyalty, Vertrue, and Trilegiant (all three changes their names with alarming frequency, and work under the auspices of countless websites, so who knows what they'll be called a few years from now or even next week!) are based in Connecticut, I wrote to the state's Attorney General Office.
I will await Richard Blumenthal's response and, if appropriate, post it here, along with my email.
In the meantime, feel free to send a quick message yourself!
I will await Richard Blumenthal's response and, if appropriate, post it here, along with my email.
In the meantime, feel free to send a quick message yourself!
Another Negative Option Alert: Trilegiant
I checked my statcounter today and was surprised to see a lot of traffic from Trilegiant. I had never heard of them, but, since they share an Norwalk, Connecticut address with the scumbags at Webloyalty, I had to google them.
Of course, what I found was highly disturbing.
So, my hero for the day is Michigan Attorney General Mike Cox. Mr. Cox, how about a little jail time instead of just settlements? Treat thieves like thieves.
I can't help but to notice how many of these vultures are based in Connecticut. Here's the webpage for CT Attorney General Richard Blumenthal. Maybe we should write and ask him why his state seems to be the safe haven for the Negative Option jackals?
Of course, what I found was highly disturbing.
So, my hero for the day is Michigan Attorney General Mike Cox. Mr. Cox, how about a little jail time instead of just settlements? Treat thieves like thieves.
I can't help but to notice how many of these vultures are based in Connecticut. Here's the webpage for CT Attorney General Richard Blumenthal. Maybe we should write and ask him why his state seems to be the safe haven for the Negative Option jackals?
Punky Retreads
Charles Portis holed up in a fishing shack to write. Some go to Norway. Some to the mountains. I can't get a fucking break.
I went to the Westford Starbucks, but there wasn't a single empty chair. Closest nearby was Chelmford. They are selling some of the Clover drinks on special there. Best cup I've ever had.
But, as luck would have it, there aren't a lot of seats. I sat down and almost immediately some douchbag with a cellphone sat next to me. Even with the noise cancelling headphones I can't drown him out.
*
Hey, that's magic! Whenever I blog about annoying people in coffee shops, they get up and leave! It's happened three times. So long, db!
*
Anthony Lane's review of the Watchmen is worth reading. To paraphrase and boil it down: No one over 25 will enjoy its adolescent violence, and no one under 18 ought to see it. Good stuff.
Lane makes a point I agree with: comic books and comic adaptations only become unintentionally silly when they leave out the comic from the comics.
The critic also takes a stab at how teenage male rebellion has an odd tendency to see fascism everywhere and to unintentionally mirror it. Thus, we have so many films geared to this audience in which the enemy is a Big Brotherish government. The good guys fight back by acting like monomaniacal or sociopathic seventeen year old skinheads.
Since I am not above seeing the occasional, qualified, necessity of violence and aggression to solve conflicts -- and even reluctantly cede the value of conflict itself and the problems of merely avoiding it qua conflict -- I can't buy entirely into Lane's point. At the same time, it seems worth of serious consideration.
I haven't seen the Watchmen, but when Lane states "the film winds up twice as fascistic as the forces it wishes to lampoon" I couldn't help but to think of Coraline, another recent film in which the unconscious message is directly at odds with the conscious. Yes, I know. Films don't have "messages." They do and they don't. Emphasis on "they do." A topic for another day.
*
I don't see enough contemporary movies to claim to see a pattern here, but it's worth noting. After seeing the trailer for the new Terminator, it makes me think: part of Lane's argument, if I read him correctly, manifests itself when violent fantasy films take as their theme not the nuanced, complicated problems of individuals, but of the whole human race.
Even great philosophers, such as Nietszsche, are at their most intolerable when they attempt to see problems in such broad, elastic nets: humanity as a cause? Be cautious with those who take it up, it seems.
Particularly when they wear rubber suits and shoot lightning from their eyes.
I went to the Westford Starbucks, but there wasn't a single empty chair. Closest nearby was Chelmford. They are selling some of the Clover drinks on special there. Best cup I've ever had.
But, as luck would have it, there aren't a lot of seats. I sat down and almost immediately some douchbag with a cellphone sat next to me. Even with the noise cancelling headphones I can't drown him out.
*
Hey, that's magic! Whenever I blog about annoying people in coffee shops, they get up and leave! It's happened three times. So long, db!
*
Anthony Lane's review of the Watchmen is worth reading. To paraphrase and boil it down: No one over 25 will enjoy its adolescent violence, and no one under 18 ought to see it. Good stuff.
Lane makes a point I agree with: comic books and comic adaptations only become unintentionally silly when they leave out the comic from the comics.
The critic also takes a stab at how teenage male rebellion has an odd tendency to see fascism everywhere and to unintentionally mirror it. Thus, we have so many films geared to this audience in which the enemy is a Big Brotherish government. The good guys fight back by acting like monomaniacal or sociopathic seventeen year old skinheads.
Since I am not above seeing the occasional, qualified, necessity of violence and aggression to solve conflicts -- and even reluctantly cede the value of conflict itself and the problems of merely avoiding it qua conflict -- I can't buy entirely into Lane's point. At the same time, it seems worth of serious consideration.
I haven't seen the Watchmen, but when Lane states "the film winds up twice as fascistic as the forces it wishes to lampoon" I couldn't help but to think of Coraline, another recent film in which the unconscious message is directly at odds with the conscious. Yes, I know. Films don't have "messages." They do and they don't. Emphasis on "they do." A topic for another day.
*
I don't see enough contemporary movies to claim to see a pattern here, but it's worth noting. After seeing the trailer for the new Terminator, it makes me think: part of Lane's argument, if I read him correctly, manifests itself when violent fantasy films take as their theme not the nuanced, complicated problems of individuals, but of the whole human race.
Even great philosophers, such as Nietszsche, are at their most intolerable when they attempt to see problems in such broad, elastic nets: humanity as a cause? Be cautious with those who take it up, it seems.
Particularly when they wear rubber suits and shoot lightning from their eyes.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Boycott Webloyalty Partners
Please join me in boycotting all Webloyalty partners: Priceline, Fandango, Classmates, EB Games, Staples, Lane Bryant, Petco, FTD, and Allposters.
Let me know if there are any companies we need to add to the list, or if any of these companies cease doing business with Webloyalty (1-800-FLOWERS.com has reportedly dropped them.)
Let me know if there are any companies we need to add to the list, or if any of these companies cease doing business with Webloyalty (1-800-FLOWERS.com has reportedly dropped them.)
You Can't Argue Virtue with Vultures
My statcounter indicates that I'm suddenly getting traffic from the webloyalty.com server in Connecticut.
So, since I know they are reading this, I just wanted to say hi. Hope you sleep well at night! Remember that what you do is hardly different from what a mugger, pickpocket, or swindler does! Even if you manipulate the letter of the law, you remain, in spirit and in essence, criminals.
If you have any notion of divine justice, then consider what you're doing and look elsewhere for honest work. Since I suspect that anyone hollow enough to get involved with negative option schemes in the first place doesn't have enough of a conscience to be appealed to, these are likely wasted words. If there are any employees working for Webloyalty who aren't sociopaths and wanna-be pirates, then maybe you can appeal to your better self and realize what you're doing.
If I can't appeal to you on moral grounds, then remember that the public outcry is growing and people are tired of seeing well-connected con artists get away with their crimes. Your riches might protect you from the clink, but they might not, either. They shouldn't.
That's it! Back to work.
So, since I know they are reading this, I just wanted to say hi. Hope you sleep well at night! Remember that what you do is hardly different from what a mugger, pickpocket, or swindler does! Even if you manipulate the letter of the law, you remain, in spirit and in essence, criminals.
If you have any notion of divine justice, then consider what you're doing and look elsewhere for honest work. Since I suspect that anyone hollow enough to get involved with negative option schemes in the first place doesn't have enough of a conscience to be appealed to, these are likely wasted words. If there are any employees working for Webloyalty who aren't sociopaths and wanna-be pirates, then maybe you can appeal to your better self and realize what you're doing.
If I can't appeal to you on moral grounds, then remember that the public outcry is growing and people are tired of seeing well-connected con artists get away with their crimes. Your riches might protect you from the clink, but they might not, either. They shouldn't.
That's it! Back to work.
Cat Attack
Big D is acting sheepish. We got into a wrestling match this morning and he ended up leaping off the bed with bits of my flesh dangling from his diggers. He returned fifteen minutes later, mild and questioning. All is forgiven.
Day Seven, no work on the novel. The Dufflebag is home sick.
I'm going to try to use the time wisely, and write my second application essay. I might watch a movie. Clean the house. Drink a cup of tea. Finally get some reading done.
*
In a study in the dynamics of idiocy, following an "incident" in which Obama was seen drinking a beer at a basketball game, the media picked up on a few muddleheaded callers phoning in to a sports talk show as a controversy. Scare quotes again, please.
When a handful of dolts object to something or other, it gets covered, as long as it makes a good story. That is, as long as it pushes the right buttons. It's much easier to weigh in on inconsequential topics like whether or not Obama should be able to enjoy a beer while watching the game (the correct answer, for the curious, is YES) than, to, for example, figure out ways of putting the jackals at Webloyalty behind bars.
Day Seven, no work on the novel. The Dufflebag is home sick.
I'm going to try to use the time wisely, and write my second application essay. I might watch a movie. Clean the house. Drink a cup of tea. Finally get some reading done.
*
In a study in the dynamics of idiocy, following an "incident" in which Obama was seen drinking a beer at a basketball game, the media picked up on a few muddleheaded callers phoning in to a sports talk show as a controversy. Scare quotes again, please.
When a handful of dolts object to something or other, it gets covered, as long as it makes a good story. That is, as long as it pushes the right buttons. It's much easier to weigh in on inconsequential topics like whether or not Obama should be able to enjoy a beer while watching the game (the correct answer, for the curious, is YES) than, to, for example, figure out ways of putting the jackals at Webloyalty behind bars.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Webloyalty and Negative Option Schemes
I have continued to research the pernicious Webloyalty. There are countless sites on the net exposing them, so it is easy enough to see the big picture. The problem is, their scam works when it isn't noticed. Once you notice, and have the time and certainty to challenge their confidence scheme, then you've pretty much figured it out yourself. I was lucky enough to check this morning. Imagine the many Americans who simply assume that their online transactions are being handled honestly. Such people might not notice the recurring twelve dollar fee. It's such a small amount, one can see how it might slip by unnoticed for months.
Here's the great part.
Webloyalty's payment processor is located in Lowell, MA, the town where I was born.
Here's what the execrable Rick Fernandes, CEO and Chief Swindler over at Webloyalty has to say about Litle & Co.:
"Litle & Co. is more than a processor. They are a partner. In every step of our relationship, they have added value in many, many ways. They have assisted us in understanding the nuances of the processing environment. They strive to enhance the value of our business by ensuring that processing through them is a value-added proposition."
This was taken right from the Litle & Co. website! They post a quote from one of the biggest perpetrators of legalized Internet theft in the country right on their homepage, as if it was a point of pride! So, if Litle & Co. is not just a processor, but a partner, then they are equally guilty and equally worth of opprobrium.
Litle & Co is located at 900 Chelmsford Street, in Lowell. Stop by and say, "Howdy, partners!!!"
*
In case you're curious, along with Fandango and allposters.com, here are some other companies that work or who have worked with Webloyalty: EB Games, Redcats USA (online retailer for Lane Bryant and Brylane Homes), movietickets.com, petco.com (yes, Mom!), ftd.com, and staples.com.
My experience with the swindlers at Webloyalty reminded one of my readers of the controversy surrounding freecreditreport.com.
Type in "freecreditreport.com" and "scam" into google and you'll get 425,000 hits.
The most succinct article my search revealed was posted by a man named Mike. He notes that this site was investigated by both the Federal Trade Commission and the Florida state attorney general's office.
Despite paying out a massive settlement, FCR continues to conduct business as usual.
As do Webloyalty, Vista Print, and others that operate "negative option" schemes.
Why this cyberpickpocketing continues, often in such a glaringly "steal from the poor and give to the rich" way, should be a cause of great concern because, to my mind, it seems impossible to imagine this going on without help from corrupt government agencies. Or, let me put it this way: either the government regulatory agencies are corrupt OR they are inept.
Well, okay. I can imagine a third solution. Some decent minded attorney general has these bastards in his or her sights, and soon, heads are going to roll.
I hope this is the case.
Here's the great part.
Webloyalty's payment processor is located in Lowell, MA, the town where I was born.
Here's what the execrable Rick Fernandes, CEO and Chief Swindler over at Webloyalty has to say about Litle & Co.:
"Litle & Co. is more than a processor. They are a partner. In every step of our relationship, they have added value in many, many ways. They have assisted us in understanding the nuances of the processing environment. They strive to enhance the value of our business by ensuring that processing through them is a value-added proposition."
This was taken right from the Litle & Co. website! They post a quote from one of the biggest perpetrators of legalized Internet theft in the country right on their homepage, as if it was a point of pride! So, if Litle & Co. is not just a processor, but a partner, then they are equally guilty and equally worth of opprobrium.
Litle & Co is located at 900 Chelmsford Street, in Lowell. Stop by and say, "Howdy, partners!!!"
*
In case you're curious, along with Fandango and allposters.com, here are some other companies that work or who have worked with Webloyalty: EB Games, Redcats USA (online retailer for Lane Bryant and Brylane Homes), movietickets.com, petco.com (yes, Mom!), ftd.com, and staples.com.
My experience with the swindlers at Webloyalty reminded one of my readers of the controversy surrounding freecreditreport.com.
Type in "freecreditreport.com" and "scam" into google and you'll get 425,000 hits.
The most succinct article my search revealed was posted by a man named Mike. He notes that this site was investigated by both the Federal Trade Commission and the Florida state attorney general's office.
Despite paying out a massive settlement, FCR continues to conduct business as usual.
As do Webloyalty, Vista Print, and others that operate "negative option" schemes.
Why this cyberpickpocketing continues, often in such a glaringly "steal from the poor and give to the rich" way, should be a cause of great concern because, to my mind, it seems impossible to imagine this going on without help from corrupt government agencies. Or, let me put it this way: either the government regulatory agencies are corrupt OR they are inept.
Well, okay. I can imagine a third solution. Some decent minded attorney general has these bastards in his or her sights, and soon, heads are going to roll.
I hope this is the case.
Water for Milk
While I haven't gotten any work done on the novel, I did write an application essay for a teaching job that seems perfect for me. It requires a second essay, as well -- I'll get started on that after I proof some yeast for bread.
Today's variations: using water instead of milk, adding fresh rosemary, trying out a secret leavening agent. Nothing sinister -- I just want eaters to judge first.
Today's variations: using water instead of milk, adding fresh rosemary, trying out a secret leavening agent. Nothing sinister -- I just want eaters to judge first.
Reservation Rewards II
Well, aparently, a few things have changed since the blog I linked to below was posted. As soon as I called Reservation Rewards, I got an automated answering service. Cancelling my membership was first on the list.
I had to take note: Once I tried to cancel, the first, number one option, was an oddly phrased choice: Yes, I would not like to cancel my membership at this time. I can't remember the specifics, but, even as a former English teacher, I had to think about the option a few times to realize it merely allowed me to . . . do nothing. Option two was the one to cancel, and I did.
I was informed that I hadn't been charged and would not be charged. I was given a confirmation number.
The only problem? Why is the pending charge still listed on my bank statement?
So I'm calling Bank of America to make sure they cancel the charge and all future charges from the swines at Reservation Rewards.
I was given an estimated wait time of three minutes to speak with an operator. I've been on the phone for twenty minutes now. At least it gives me time to update the blog.
When I had the problem with Vista Print, once I actually got to a human being, they were friendly and helpful. Those weight times, though . . . .
*
Okay. Talked to the Bank of America rep, and the charge hasn't been "hard posted" yet, meaning that it is still pending. I need to keep checking, because I can only file a claim once it posts. I asked if there was a direct number to the claims department and there isn't.
So that's that. I'll have to keep checking my bank account this week to monitor to see if the fraudulent charges post.
*
For the record, I finally remember the website where I inadvertently fell into their trap: it was Fandango -- the site I used to buy the Coraline tickets.
I read this excellent article and discovered other websites that willingly work with these con-artists: priceline.com, hotels.com, and classmates.com.
The article notes that, as of the post date, at least one company did the right thing and ended their relationship with the reservation rewards program: 1-800-FLOWERS.com.
Reservation Rewards is a run by a company called Webloyalty. They might just as well be called Orwell's Nightmare, with a name like that.
The most sinister part of the article concerns the company's CEO, Richard Fernandes, who told author Peter Dizikes, that he refused to change his business practices on the grounds that, ""Our approach is generally to make transactions simple for consumers."
In a just society, Mr. Fernandes would be doing time in prison for theft and fraud. But not for punitive reasons: I simply want to make sure he gets his food and shelter as simply as possible.
I had to take note: Once I tried to cancel, the first, number one option, was an oddly phrased choice: Yes, I would not like to cancel my membership at this time. I can't remember the specifics, but, even as a former English teacher, I had to think about the option a few times to realize it merely allowed me to . . . do nothing. Option two was the one to cancel, and I did.
I was informed that I hadn't been charged and would not be charged. I was given a confirmation number.
The only problem? Why is the pending charge still listed on my bank statement?
So I'm calling Bank of America to make sure they cancel the charge and all future charges from the swines at Reservation Rewards.
I was given an estimated wait time of three minutes to speak with an operator. I've been on the phone for twenty minutes now. At least it gives me time to update the blog.
When I had the problem with Vista Print, once I actually got to a human being, they were friendly and helpful. Those weight times, though . . . .
*
Okay. Talked to the Bank of America rep, and the charge hasn't been "hard posted" yet, meaning that it is still pending. I need to keep checking, because I can only file a claim once it posts. I asked if there was a direct number to the claims department and there isn't.
So that's that. I'll have to keep checking my bank account this week to monitor to see if the fraudulent charges post.
*
For the record, I finally remember the website where I inadvertently fell into their trap: it was Fandango -- the site I used to buy the Coraline tickets.
I read this excellent article and discovered other websites that willingly work with these con-artists: priceline.com, hotels.com, and classmates.com.
The article notes that, as of the post date, at least one company did the right thing and ended their relationship with the reservation rewards program: 1-800-FLOWERS.com.
Reservation Rewards is a run by a company called Webloyalty. They might just as well be called Orwell's Nightmare, with a name like that.
The most sinister part of the article concerns the company's CEO, Richard Fernandes, who told author Peter Dizikes, that he refused to change his business practices on the grounds that, ""Our approach is generally to make transactions simple for consumers."
In a just society, Mr. Fernandes would be doing time in prison for theft and fraud. But not for punitive reasons: I simply want to make sure he gets his food and shelter as simply as possible.
Reservation Rewards I
I checked my meager bank account balance this morning and found a charge to a company called Reservation Rewards. I learned to check my balance long ago and to scan for small charges after I got ripped off buying business cards through a company called Vista Print, who at the time were the princes of these hidden charge scams. I remember doing research on them and finding out the owner had used the company to amass a fortune and was a close associate to George W. Bush. That seemed to be the only viable explanation, to me at least, for why such scammers could operate so brazenly and so openly without the feds cracking down on them.
These people are, after all, thieves. The owners, the reps, the employees. They are thieves, pure and simple. Just because you fill out a W-2 form when you go to work for the first day doesn't give you the right to rob people. But this is obvious.
Twelve bucks. I never bought anything through Reservation Rewards. Their number was listed as 800-732-7031.
So a quick and easy google search lead me to this website. What a way to start the morning. What's great about the scumbags you deal with at these places, is that they always try to make it seem like they're making an exception for you because of YOUR mistake, even though they are dogshit scam artists.
Now I'm going to drop the Dufflebag off at school and come home and try to clear the charges.
These people are, after all, thieves. The owners, the reps, the employees. They are thieves, pure and simple. Just because you fill out a W-2 form when you go to work for the first day doesn't give you the right to rob people. But this is obvious.
Twelve bucks. I never bought anything through Reservation Rewards. Their number was listed as 800-732-7031.
So a quick and easy google search lead me to this website. What a way to start the morning. What's great about the scumbags you deal with at these places, is that they always try to make it seem like they're making an exception for you because of YOUR mistake, even though they are dogshit scam artists.
Now I'm going to drop the Dufflebag off at school and come home and try to clear the charges.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Winter Warming
As the next draft of the novel nears completion, I'm going to start focusing on freelance food writing -- I've already secured a name and a site and I'll update you as soon as there's anything worth reading up there.
Today, I'm baking bread, using the autolyse method Charlie suggested, as well as making a few other modifications: I'm using wetter dough, I'm not using a bread pan but a stone, and, instead of punching the bread down, I've been letting it rise and folding it on itself every 20 minutes or so, a technique suggested on some artisinal baking sites I visited. I'm also playing with the baking times -- starting with a high temp for the first fifteen minutes then switching to a lower one for half an hour. It is baking now, so I can't speak for the results.
The bread is a simple, unbleached white with no added ingredients.
It's snowing too hard for me to head in to teach (four hour commute? Sorry, guys. I'll be there in spirit) so I'm also making a sausage lentil soup: I've added tomatoes, roasted cumin and coriander, dijon mustard, celery, a single lime leaf, and other standard spices. I'm slow cooking it. I didn't have access to stock, so I'm using water. I add pepper about ten minutes from completion -- overcooked pepper adds an unpleasant, bitter taste. A pinch of salt, and I'm serving it up with the bread for a snowy night's feast for the family.
Today, I'm baking bread, using the autolyse method Charlie suggested, as well as making a few other modifications: I'm using wetter dough, I'm not using a bread pan but a stone, and, instead of punching the bread down, I've been letting it rise and folding it on itself every 20 minutes or so, a technique suggested on some artisinal baking sites I visited. I'm also playing with the baking times -- starting with a high temp for the first fifteen minutes then switching to a lower one for half an hour. It is baking now, so I can't speak for the results.
The bread is a simple, unbleached white with no added ingredients.
It's snowing too hard for me to head in to teach (four hour commute? Sorry, guys. I'll be there in spirit) so I'm also making a sausage lentil soup: I've added tomatoes, roasted cumin and coriander, dijon mustard, celery, a single lime leaf, and other standard spices. I'm slow cooking it. I didn't have access to stock, so I'm using water. I add pepper about ten minutes from completion -- overcooked pepper adds an unpleasant, bitter taste. A pinch of salt, and I'm serving it up with the bread for a snowy night's feast for the family.
Sourdough
Day five without working on the novel. Very frustrating.
School was cancelled, so the Dufflebag is home. I have to go out and shovel and work on the house electrical problem before teaching tonight.
*
After spending a great deal of time reading about sourdoughs, I started a starter last week and, as luck would have it, it is now bubbling and stinking up and doing all that it is supposed to. I spent some good hours reading about the history of sourdoughs: San Francisco, the miners, the European variations.
My first attempt, after I let it grow for a week, will be to make an olive bread. I love olive breads, and olives in general, so it seems a fitting way to begin.
I nearly finished off the last of the wheat bread this morning. It is heavier, but not too stale, which is surprising given how quickly homemade breads will go bad. I toasted it and ate with with some raspberry jam. If that won't get me through the snow shoveling, I don't know what will.
School was cancelled, so the Dufflebag is home. I have to go out and shovel and work on the house electrical problem before teaching tonight.
*
After spending a great deal of time reading about sourdoughs, I started a starter last week and, as luck would have it, it is now bubbling and stinking up and doing all that it is supposed to. I spent some good hours reading about the history of sourdoughs: San Francisco, the miners, the European variations.
My first attempt, after I let it grow for a week, will be to make an olive bread. I love olive breads, and olives in general, so it seems a fitting way to begin.
I nearly finished off the last of the wheat bread this morning. It is heavier, but not too stale, which is surprising given how quickly homemade breads will go bad. I toasted it and ate with with some raspberry jam. If that won't get me through the snow shoveling, I don't know what will.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Dinner
Parsnip salad with diced celery. Dressing: blue cheese, horseradish, and rice vinegar.
Baked haddock with mushrooms and capers. Seasoned with toasted coriander and paprika. Topped with crackers. Baked on a cooling tray to keep it dry.
Served with the wheat bread.
One of my best.
Baked haddock with mushrooms and capers. Seasoned with toasted coriander and paprika. Topped with crackers. Baked on a cooling tray to keep it dry.
Served with the wheat bread.
One of my best.
The Romp
Very pleased with the wheat bread. My best so far. I let this one rise three times -- normally I do twice.I took the loaf and wanted to take a few pics -- add a little color to the old blog. The cats, drawn by my attention, wouldn't leave me or the bread alone and kept trying to lick the results of the day's baking. As soon as I convinced Bubbs to us be, Big D moved in to investigate, only relenting when he spotted the camera lens which he leapt on and hockeypucked under the entertainment center.
Finally, Slappy jumped off the couch and joined in the fray. I tried to get a picture of all three romping it up, but the macro lens, fading daylight, and constant motion made it impossible. You'll simply have to take my word for it.
The Crumb and the Crust
Unlike Wednesday's bread, the yeast seemed to be doing me a favor and rose artfully.
About two weeks ago I took a basic bread recipe and started baking it nearly every weekday. I have slowly started to experiment with it. I'm pleased that I haven't turned out a bad loaf yet. For today, I added toasted fresh cumin, molasses, sesame seeds, warm buttermilk, and butter. I'm using mostly wheat flour, although the first half cup into the mix was unbleached white. As an additional experiment, I left the dough in the Kitchen-Aid about five minutes longer than normal. That machine runs like a horse and is practically self-cleaning. We understand each other.
When the house smells good and the baking hasn't begun yet, I take that as a good sign.
About two weeks ago I took a basic bread recipe and started baking it nearly every weekday. I have slowly started to experiment with it. I'm pleased that I haven't turned out a bad loaf yet. For today, I added toasted fresh cumin, molasses, sesame seeds, warm buttermilk, and butter. I'm using mostly wheat flour, although the first half cup into the mix was unbleached white. As an additional experiment, I left the dough in the Kitchen-Aid about five minutes longer than normal. That machine runs like a horse and is practically self-cleaning. We understand each other.
When the house smells good and the baking hasn't begun yet, I take that as a good sign.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Eel at the Fishmongers
When I requested an eel at the fishmongers, the monger went into the back and came out a minute later with my "animal."
Two of her co-workers looked at her and laughed.
She held up the eel. "What the fuck are people laughing at?!? And I had to go past the guys when I came back from the freezer. Sexual harassment at the market? Nevah."
Two of her co-workers looked at her and laughed.
She held up the eel. "What the fuck are people laughing at?!? And I had to go past the guys when I came back from the freezer. Sexual harassment at the market? Nevah."
Slippery
One-thirty. Haven't worked on a word of the novel.
Got my oil changed, hit the fish mongers, ordered a pair of cheap glasses online, and reheated some of the lentil soup for a good lunch.
*
I broke in my marble spice mortar and pestle last night. I had a wooden one, but it didn't work well, and an old metal one I borrowed from my mother that was rusty. I suspect it was merely decorative as well, since it didn't grind the spices so much as scatter them around the bottom of the device.
The marble, however, is a thing of beauty. The spices seem to burst. I toasted some cumin and then ground some coriander as well for the soup. There simply is no comparison in smell or taste to the preground versions.
I also made wheat bread for the first time yesterday, adding cumin and substituting buttermilk for milk. I struggled getting the yeast to rise, but ended up producing my best loaf to date. Wasn't much to look at, but the taste was rich and mildly spiced.
Jess has to work late tonight. I asked the Dufflebag what he wanted to dinner, and he asked for salmon. This seems to be his favorite dish I make, and we're finding that seafood works well for us as it satisfies three distinct palates.
I'm going to make up a homemade blackening mix -- not that it's that hard -- but it will be for the first time.
*
I picked up frozen eel and alligator at the fishmongers. I originally was going to make an alligator chili, but the Dufflebag doesn't like beans. I could make chili without beans, but I don't think there's enough meat to round out the dish. So now I'm leaning to chowder. Charlie reminds me that I need to slow cook the gator -- maybe I'll spice the hell out of it, seal it up in tin foil, and serve it on rice.
The eel I'm frying.
Now, there's a big pile of dishes in the kitchen just waiting for me. Doesn't look like another productive day for your aspiring novelist.
Got my oil changed, hit the fish mongers, ordered a pair of cheap glasses online, and reheated some of the lentil soup for a good lunch.
*
I broke in my marble spice mortar and pestle last night. I had a wooden one, but it didn't work well, and an old metal one I borrowed from my mother that was rusty. I suspect it was merely decorative as well, since it didn't grind the spices so much as scatter them around the bottom of the device.
The marble, however, is a thing of beauty. The spices seem to burst. I toasted some cumin and then ground some coriander as well for the soup. There simply is no comparison in smell or taste to the preground versions.
I also made wheat bread for the first time yesterday, adding cumin and substituting buttermilk for milk. I struggled getting the yeast to rise, but ended up producing my best loaf to date. Wasn't much to look at, but the taste was rich and mildly spiced.
Jess has to work late tonight. I asked the Dufflebag what he wanted to dinner, and he asked for salmon. This seems to be his favorite dish I make, and we're finding that seafood works well for us as it satisfies three distinct palates.
I'm going to make up a homemade blackening mix -- not that it's that hard -- but it will be for the first time.
*
I picked up frozen eel and alligator at the fishmongers. I originally was going to make an alligator chili, but the Dufflebag doesn't like beans. I could make chili without beans, but I don't think there's enough meat to round out the dish. So now I'm leaning to chowder. Charlie reminds me that I need to slow cook the gator -- maybe I'll spice the hell out of it, seal it up in tin foil, and serve it on rice.
The eel I'm frying.
Now, there's a big pile of dishes in the kitchen just waiting for me. Doesn't look like another productive day for your aspiring novelist.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Murnau, Nooteboom, Billy Joel, Lentils, Grimm.
Since I am, at least in terms of how I spend my hours, living for the first time as a full-time writer, I'm left to wonder how work gets done. Admittedly, my output is substantially greater than when I was driving the truck, but labors of various sorts come to us like magnets.
Take today, for example.
I'm done ripping the collection. I was woken up before six by a combination of splitting back pain and tender-hearted animals. I edited a few pages, flipped through Cees Nooteboom. Wrote a little. Then, I got up and made the Dufflebag a cheese and eggs scramble for breakfast. I drove him to school, came back, put the dishes from yesterday away, and worked for two solid hours.
I broke to go to the grocery store, where I picked up lentils and other ingredients for tonight's dinner. When I got home, one of the cats had smashed our new cactus. It seemed to have exploded, and I found soil and pottery shards all the way on the other side of the room. I did the dishes, cleaned the floors, lit the fireplace, and struggled to get the dough to rise on a stubborn wheat bread.
Big D, one of the cats, threw up a foamy liquid vomit. Back to the floors.
Time to pick up the Dufflebag, give him his snack, and send him upstairs while I mopped the kitchen with a cranky, resistant device. It didn't work well, so I took an old tee-shirt and started using that.
Soon, it will be time to start the lentil soup.
So, in ten hour's time, I did about two and a half hours of work. I was happy with what I did, but it seems a meager justification. I read about five pages of a short story. In that time, I had a time for a quick lunch of sour cream and herring, but not enough time to shower. That comes after dinner.
This isn't a complain, but an article of wonderment. When you work at home, how do you work on the work rather than the home?
I'm finding my way.
*
All that having been said, I've added about thirty pages to the MS over the past week, just in minor edits. It's exciting to watch it continue to take shape. It is as they say: at a certain point, the book writes itself because certain things need to go in certain places. In others, have I have to step back and figure out the transitions in my head.
*
Ha! I have my ipod on shuffle. There are so many songs there are some I will no doubt never hear. But I wonder at how many big songs make it through. "Piano Man."
In the context of whatever went before or after, it sounds damn good to me. I don't care if you've heard it too often and it's now annoying. To me, it remains evocative. The sun is setting. The song ends. Hank Williams plays, "Ramblin' Man." We continue.
*
Jess and I rewatched the last half hour of Murnau's excellent Sunrise last night. I wrote before about an element in the film that seemed magical, and I tried to suggest that this came from the backgrounds, the setting. I considered this. It is one thing to be in love, and another to be in love in the Alps, or in Paris, or in a cave, or on the moon. Since it is a silent film, the environments do best when they lend an air of rich suggestiveness. Murnau takes this to such a peak, I can only describe it as analagous to Grimm's fairy tales painted on layered glass plates. The constricted, cramped quality only adds to the visual, multidimensional power, be it waves or woods that the characters move among.
I would like to talk about the ending, but to know it beforehand truly would rob you of the pleasure of experiencing it for yourself. And I wouldn't do that to you. Not this time.
Take today, for example.
I'm done ripping the collection. I was woken up before six by a combination of splitting back pain and tender-hearted animals. I edited a few pages, flipped through Cees Nooteboom. Wrote a little. Then, I got up and made the Dufflebag a cheese and eggs scramble for breakfast. I drove him to school, came back, put the dishes from yesterday away, and worked for two solid hours.
I broke to go to the grocery store, where I picked up lentils and other ingredients for tonight's dinner. When I got home, one of the cats had smashed our new cactus. It seemed to have exploded, and I found soil and pottery shards all the way on the other side of the room. I did the dishes, cleaned the floors, lit the fireplace, and struggled to get the dough to rise on a stubborn wheat bread.
Big D, one of the cats, threw up a foamy liquid vomit. Back to the floors.
Time to pick up the Dufflebag, give him his snack, and send him upstairs while I mopped the kitchen with a cranky, resistant device. It didn't work well, so I took an old tee-shirt and started using that.
Soon, it will be time to start the lentil soup.
So, in ten hour's time, I did about two and a half hours of work. I was happy with what I did, but it seems a meager justification. I read about five pages of a short story. In that time, I had a time for a quick lunch of sour cream and herring, but not enough time to shower. That comes after dinner.
This isn't a complain, but an article of wonderment. When you work at home, how do you work on the work rather than the home?
I'm finding my way.
*
All that having been said, I've added about thirty pages to the MS over the past week, just in minor edits. It's exciting to watch it continue to take shape. It is as they say: at a certain point, the book writes itself because certain things need to go in certain places. In others, have I have to step back and figure out the transitions in my head.
*
Ha! I have my ipod on shuffle. There are so many songs there are some I will no doubt never hear. But I wonder at how many big songs make it through. "Piano Man."
In the context of whatever went before or after, it sounds damn good to me. I don't care if you've heard it too often and it's now annoying. To me, it remains evocative. The sun is setting. The song ends. Hank Williams plays, "Ramblin' Man." We continue.
*
Jess and I rewatched the last half hour of Murnau's excellent Sunrise last night. I wrote before about an element in the film that seemed magical, and I tried to suggest that this came from the backgrounds, the setting. I considered this. It is one thing to be in love, and another to be in love in the Alps, or in Paris, or in a cave, or on the moon. Since it is a silent film, the environments do best when they lend an air of rich suggestiveness. Murnau takes this to such a peak, I can only describe it as analagous to Grimm's fairy tales painted on layered glass plates. The constricted, cramped quality only adds to the visual, multidimensional power, be it waves or woods that the characters move among.
I would like to talk about the ending, but to know it beforehand truly would rob you of the pleasure of experiencing it for yourself. And I wouldn't do that to you. Not this time.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
As I Heard the Riotous Rigmarole of the Last Post-Ironist
The morning was frustrating, as far as writing. Like cycling uphill, as I put it to Jess. I managed to get some momentum going before I had to break to pick up the Dufflebag. After that, it was dishes and cat shit. Fifteen minutes of Steinbeck.
Off to teach at the academy.
I returned home, put on Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations, and started to work again. Five-thousand additional words added to the draft, all while marveling at Bourdain's take on the fading holdover restaurants of the New York before I was born. A good night. But one which left me hungry.
Maybe tomorrow should be a breadmaking day.
Yep. That's it. Baking bread changes everything.
Off to teach at the academy.
I returned home, put on Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations, and started to work again. Five-thousand additional words added to the draft, all while marveling at Bourdain's take on the fading holdover restaurants of the New York before I was born. A good night. But one which left me hungry.
Maybe tomorrow should be a breadmaking day.
Yep. That's it. Baking bread changes everything.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Peking Spring
When people walk the Appalachian Trail, they get to the end and often experience the desire to turn around and start back in the other direction. When you're holding so hard to the path, and your mind is so focused on amassing the footfalls, it is hard to let that go. I'm told some can't, and start off on the return voyage, going a few days or weeks before getting the sense that they've achieved their objectives.
I thought of those people today when I ripped the final cd of my collection. I wanted to start looking around for more cds, for more to rip.
I had to restrain myself. I can't listen to all the music in the world, and, if I could, it wouldn't give me pleasure. The necessary sense of completion wasn't there. A hollow remained. Good thing, too. Work to be done.
*
The last disc to go was Mission of Burma's "Peking Spring." Don't know how I passed that one over earlier.
I thought of those people today when I ripped the final cd of my collection. I wanted to start looking around for more cds, for more to rip.
I had to restrain myself. I can't listen to all the music in the world, and, if I could, it wouldn't give me pleasure. The necessary sense of completion wasn't there. A hollow remained. Good thing, too. Work to be done.
*
The last disc to go was Mission of Burma's "Peking Spring." Don't know how I passed that one over earlier.
For Walking
I have joined the masses. I'm ready to start complaining about the cold now. I need a long walk through the woods like I need a cold drink on a hot summer day. Maybe it really has passed into the realm of a need.
*
I found another set of cd's, so I'm almost done for real now. I have a few gaps in the collection: Smog, Pavement, Slint, Half Man Half Biscuit. I have a few odd places of glut: why did I need four Mills Brothers records? The fiddling can turn endless. Better let it go.
*
Writing work started rough. I edited what was clearly the worst part of the novel. Eventually, I just highlighted and hit delete. Curiously enough, the section following worked well. I'm still going over the material I wrote when I was working full-time. You expect a certain unevenness, but it was clearly worse when I was finally sitting down to write at nine p.m.
*
I'm going to take a break from the novel and work on a few pictures I took this weekend. I still get excited about photography. Someday, when I grew up, I'm going to get a good camera again and have a go at photojournalism. I had ambitions to work both mediums, but the crabbed time constraints of driving the truck made this vision vague at best. I blinked my eyes too often. Someday, though.
*
I found another set of cd's, so I'm almost done for real now. I have a few gaps in the collection: Smog, Pavement, Slint, Half Man Half Biscuit. I have a few odd places of glut: why did I need four Mills Brothers records? The fiddling can turn endless. Better let it go.
*
Writing work started rough. I edited what was clearly the worst part of the novel. Eventually, I just highlighted and hit delete. Curiously enough, the section following worked well. I'm still going over the material I wrote when I was working full-time. You expect a certain unevenness, but it was clearly worse when I was finally sitting down to write at nine p.m.
*
I'm going to take a break from the novel and work on a few pictures I took this weekend. I still get excited about photography. Someday, when I grew up, I'm going to get a good camera again and have a go at photojournalism. I had ambitions to work both mediums, but the crabbed time constraints of driving the truck made this vision vague at best. I blinked my eyes too often. Someday, though.
Nestled Beasts
Slow go on the novel today, but at least I'm working on it. Restless, nearly sleepless night.
Twice in the past two days I've stood up to check my shuffling ipod, hearing an unfamiliar but interesting song. Both times it turned out to be Blonde Redhead. I've had "Misery is a Butterfly" since it came out, but never got around to listening to it. I will now.
*
Watched Murnau's Sunrise with Jess last night. Stunning cinenaphotography that made me think in terms of magic lanterns and childhood fantasy -- it worked on the level of a good Viewmaster set. Bet you don't remember how fun those were, do you?
Throw some light on a wall. Carnivals, lovers, boats. Late night. Right at the time when you're half asleep anyway. Little bit of last minute wonder before broken dreams.
Twice in the past two days I've stood up to check my shuffling ipod, hearing an unfamiliar but interesting song. Both times it turned out to be Blonde Redhead. I've had "Misery is a Butterfly" since it came out, but never got around to listening to it. I will now.
*
Watched Murnau's Sunrise with Jess last night. Stunning cinenaphotography that made me think in terms of magic lanterns and childhood fantasy -- it worked on the level of a good Viewmaster set. Bet you don't remember how fun those were, do you?
Throw some light on a wall. Carnivals, lovers, boats. Late night. Right at the time when you're half asleep anyway. Little bit of last minute wonder before broken dreams.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Erections Never Lie
I installed the pandora widget. Pandora is a website that creates a radio station for you, based on your musical preferences. It is eerily accurate, as you might expect these days.
You begin by entering a musician or song. I started, tonight, with Woody Guthrie, and this lead to the Carter Family, John Hurt, the Carter Family, Furry Lewis, and Frank Stokes. Good music for Saturday night.
The site references the Music Genome Project.
I clicked on the link and it spelled out my predilections, some obvious: major keys, dynamic male voices, folk music, guitar.
*
I was hired for a one off photo gig today. It made me miss working the lens.
Still, I'm where I am. I read this week's New Yorker with pieces on Donald Barthelme and Ian McEwan. Time to work, was how I read them.
*
Following Charlie's advice, I looked for unglazed ceramic tile at Home Depot. I wanted an extra stone to cook pizza on. We had company tonight, and there was a need for a plain cheese pizza. Jess and I got mushrooms, good olives, and capers. My pizza skills are getting better. I'm learning from my mistakes.
*
This blog becomes more spare as I intensify my work on the book. Please keep reading. There will likely be mundane entries in the the near future. But this remains a critical enterprise for me. There is new territory ahead.
You begin by entering a musician or song. I started, tonight, with Woody Guthrie, and this lead to the Carter Family, John Hurt, the Carter Family, Furry Lewis, and Frank Stokes. Good music for Saturday night.
The site references the Music Genome Project.
I clicked on the link and it spelled out my predilections, some obvious: major keys, dynamic male voices, folk music, guitar.
*
I was hired for a one off photo gig today. It made me miss working the lens.
Still, I'm where I am. I read this week's New Yorker with pieces on Donald Barthelme and Ian McEwan. Time to work, was how I read them.
*
Following Charlie's advice, I looked for unglazed ceramic tile at Home Depot. I wanted an extra stone to cook pizza on. We had company tonight, and there was a need for a plain cheese pizza. Jess and I got mushrooms, good olives, and capers. My pizza skills are getting better. I'm learning from my mistakes.
*
This blog becomes more spare as I intensify my work on the book. Please keep reading. There will likely be mundane entries in the the near future. But this remains a critical enterprise for me. There is new territory ahead.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Touch and Gone
The folks at Pitchfork note that Touch and Go announced they are no longer releasing new music, and put up this video to signal the event.
Jesus Lizard were one of the great live bands. If you never saw them in person, this vid gives you a sense of what you missed.
Jesus Lizard were one of the great live bands. If you never saw them in person, this vid gives you a sense of what you missed.
Clusterfuck Manifesto
World BBC news commemorated the 100th anniversary of the Futurist manifesto with a segment on all that followed.
Of course, the publication of a manifesto is now seen as impotent at worst, and I was surprised to hear of at least one that I found exciting despite myself. Of course, in film, the Dogme manifesto felt necessary at the time and I love the films it produced. But the one that got into my daily thoughts enough to make me google it eight hours later is Stuckism. One of the principle engineers is British musician, novelist, and artist Billy Childish, whom I know mostly from his records: unadorned, spirited punk rock.
As someone who believes it is inherently healthy to have diverse means -- in other words, for there to be alternatives -- it's funny to read the manifesto making such propositions as painters should know how to fucking paint. Those are my words. If you don't see why this position is radical, and not at all reactionary, you aren't even familiar with SNL parodies of the art world, never mind the art itself.
This is not an ad for the know-nothingism of SNL, either. At least what I've seen of it.
*
What made the BBC piece linger with me is the current context. I dislike the word meme in this context, but I was thinking of the 25 things facebook note I wrote about in an earlier entry. It's being called a meme. I'll just call it a note.
The notes that most intrigued me -- Devin's, Anton's, and Bonnie's -- used apparently random autobiographical details to create a sort of soft manifesto -- a statement of beliefs, an invitation to understand why they like what they like and why they do what they do on something more than a superficial level. These notes are unlike a manifesto, in that their "do not's" tended to be concealed. To suggest why we pursue a course is also to suggest why we refused to take another.
(I note here that I didn't read everyone's notes -- if I happened to see it pass through my daily updates, I clicked, and, if you're my friend and not on this list, it's because it's either a given that you're in the above company, or that I can't remember it, or that your list has nothing to do with the topic at hand. Or that I never noticed you posted it in the first place. Despite appearances, my facebook usage is cursory. I'm sure it was great stuff.)
In fact, we might anticipate facebook precipitating a return to the manifesto: one can hardly read Charlie's page, for example, without coming away with the notion that he is making a case for certain decisions to be made about how we live our lives and what we put into our bodies. The febrile see this as arrogance, and perhaps would suggest that we ought never to take positions and believe in them unless they are so in line with the mainstream that they appear invisible. Work hard! Be good to yourselves!
It is a disruption of a bland middle class numbness to say, sorry kids, certain things are healthy. And certain things are not. And it's not about your subjective opinion on these matters. We can stake our claim in relative terms, but still do it with conviction.
Of course, the publication of a manifesto is now seen as impotent at worst, and I was surprised to hear of at least one that I found exciting despite myself. Of course, in film, the Dogme manifesto felt necessary at the time and I love the films it produced. But the one that got into my daily thoughts enough to make me google it eight hours later is Stuckism. One of the principle engineers is British musician, novelist, and artist Billy Childish, whom I know mostly from his records: unadorned, spirited punk rock.
As someone who believes it is inherently healthy to have diverse means -- in other words, for there to be alternatives -- it's funny to read the manifesto making such propositions as painters should know how to fucking paint. Those are my words. If you don't see why this position is radical, and not at all reactionary, you aren't even familiar with SNL parodies of the art world, never mind the art itself.
This is not an ad for the know-nothingism of SNL, either. At least what I've seen of it.
*
What made the BBC piece linger with me is the current context. I dislike the word meme in this context, but I was thinking of the 25 things facebook note I wrote about in an earlier entry. It's being called a meme. I'll just call it a note.
The notes that most intrigued me -- Devin's, Anton's, and Bonnie's -- used apparently random autobiographical details to create a sort of soft manifesto -- a statement of beliefs, an invitation to understand why they like what they like and why they do what they do on something more than a superficial level. These notes are unlike a manifesto, in that their "do not's" tended to be concealed. To suggest why we pursue a course is also to suggest why we refused to take another.
(I note here that I didn't read everyone's notes -- if I happened to see it pass through my daily updates, I clicked, and, if you're my friend and not on this list, it's because it's either a given that you're in the above company, or that I can't remember it, or that your list has nothing to do with the topic at hand. Or that I never noticed you posted it in the first place. Despite appearances, my facebook usage is cursory. I'm sure it was great stuff.)
In fact, we might anticipate facebook precipitating a return to the manifesto: one can hardly read Charlie's page, for example, without coming away with the notion that he is making a case for certain decisions to be made about how we live our lives and what we put into our bodies. The febrile see this as arrogance, and perhaps would suggest that we ought never to take positions and believe in them unless they are so in line with the mainstream that they appear invisible. Work hard! Be good to yourselves!
It is a disruption of a bland middle class numbness to say, sorry kids, certain things are healthy. And certain things are not. And it's not about your subjective opinion on these matters. We can stake our claim in relative terms, but still do it with conviction.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Minor Notes
Got a lot of work done on the novel. Added two-thousand words and deleted 500.
*
I'm nearing the end of the ripping. I was surprised that the iTunes Gracenote both knew and was able to tag the Dylan five volume basment tapes. It is perhaps the most famous bootleg in rock history, but was never released in its raw form. There must be Dylan fans over at Apple.
*
The dog now appears to enjoy eating wood pellets. Gotta hide those pellets.
*
Jess is giving me a hard time because I've been so intent on working on the novel that I stopped showering. I love showering, but I've really been so focused on working that I let it slide.
So I made a solemn promise that I will shower by month's end.
I know. That poor woman.
*
I'm taking a break and cooking lunch: chicken livers and mushrooms. You can buy a huge container of chicken livers for under two dollars. They taste wonderful, if you enjoy strong tastes. I know that they are often served with onions: an ugly, bland dish, even tainted as a kind of pre-1980's version of health food. Seasoned correctly, they are less fatty but almost as luxurious as bacon. Grind some up, cook it crisp, and put it on some good toast and you're looking at one of humankind's simplest, tastiest lunches.
*
I'm nearing the end of the ripping. I was surprised that the iTunes Gracenote both knew and was able to tag the Dylan five volume basment tapes. It is perhaps the most famous bootleg in rock history, but was never released in its raw form. There must be Dylan fans over at Apple.
*
The dog now appears to enjoy eating wood pellets. Gotta hide those pellets.
*
Jess is giving me a hard time because I've been so intent on working on the novel that I stopped showering. I love showering, but I've really been so focused on working that I let it slide.
So I made a solemn promise that I will shower by month's end.
I know. That poor woman.
*
I'm taking a break and cooking lunch: chicken livers and mushrooms. You can buy a huge container of chicken livers for under two dollars. They taste wonderful, if you enjoy strong tastes. I know that they are often served with onions: an ugly, bland dish, even tainted as a kind of pre-1980's version of health food. Seasoned correctly, they are less fatty but almost as luxurious as bacon. Grind some up, cook it crisp, and put it on some good toast and you're looking at one of humankind's simplest, tastiest lunches.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Hot Springs and Tenderloins
I defrosted some pork tenderloin and made cajun spiced medallions with an orange juice and jelly pepper reduction. That might sound odd, but the family were using my fresh baked bread to wipe their plates clean. The Dufflebag went for seconds. The bread came out better than expected, and was light and sweet.
I served it with some skillet cooked onions and spinach, topped with a balsamic and garlic reduction.
*
It was nice to have something to focus on other than the novel. If anything, now that I'm seeing it in its totality, it's a more daunting task. Is there a hot spring around here? I'd like to visit a hot spring. That might help. And no, a simple warm shower won't do. If monkeys can't grow ice beards while bathing in its waters, I'm not interested.
I served it with some skillet cooked onions and spinach, topped with a balsamic and garlic reduction.
*
It was nice to have something to focus on other than the novel. If anything, now that I'm seeing it in its totality, it's a more daunting task. Is there a hot spring around here? I'd like to visit a hot spring. That might help. And no, a simple warm shower won't do. If monkeys can't grow ice beards while bathing in its waters, I'm not interested.
First Loaves
My first pass through the draft is more of a quick edit than a serious second draft. I've added some words. I deleted a long section that I could tell, instantly, didn't work. In moment of doubt, I just think of John Fante. I'm using his ghost as my spiritual guide through the process. I haven't read him much lately, but he was one of the main and vital inspirations. Plus, he wrote from doubt, it seems to me, and kept going.
The Dufflebag had a second half-day in a row. He's up in his room now, do doubt praying for snow. I'm not praying for the storm to pass. Pleading? The children need math! Hear me, oh gods of snow and sleet.
My cd ripping is closer to complete. Right now I'm going through the Ray Charles boxed set. And then, it's on to the Tom Waits discs that Mikey didn't have prepped already: Black Rider (a personal favorite), Big Time, the excellent recent discs (Alice) and the not-so-excellent (Real Gone).
*
Aside from my first draft, today marks the first time I've baked a loaf of bread in the house. I've been meaning to do this for months, and see breadbaking as a productive hobby.
I went for a simple white bread, made out of unbleached flour. Going against my normal way of proceding, I'm going to try to remake the same recipe over and over, with minor modifications, until I feel as though I've mastered it. Then, I'll move on to nutbreads, oatmeal, wheat breads, cranberry breads. Banana. Jalapeno. Spiced. Once I feel have some depth of understanding and my technique has been honed, then I'll start thinking of sourdoughs and more complicated fare.
*
Listening to the ipod on shuffle. I've come to hate the term "roided up" since it's applied to anything of any size whatsoever. But it certainly feels almost excessively overflowing now. Even on shuffle, the hits far outweigh the misses. I only had to jump up and hit skip once (it was a Ween song), and was tempted to replay one half-forgotten song again to savor it (Warren Zevon's "Mutineer.")
My eyes are being opened to the minor works of David Bowie. And I'm not convinced more than ever that if Rancid didn't have such a stupid name they'd be the Billy Joel of the mohawk set. That's a compliment. Really.
The Dufflebag had a second half-day in a row. He's up in his room now, do doubt praying for snow. I'm not praying for the storm to pass. Pleading? The children need math! Hear me, oh gods of snow and sleet.
My cd ripping is closer to complete. Right now I'm going through the Ray Charles boxed set. And then, it's on to the Tom Waits discs that Mikey didn't have prepped already: Black Rider (a personal favorite), Big Time, the excellent recent discs (Alice) and the not-so-excellent (Real Gone).
*
Aside from my first draft, today marks the first time I've baked a loaf of bread in the house. I've been meaning to do this for months, and see breadbaking as a productive hobby.
I went for a simple white bread, made out of unbleached flour. Going against my normal way of proceding, I'm going to try to remake the same recipe over and over, with minor modifications, until I feel as though I've mastered it. Then, I'll move on to nutbreads, oatmeal, wheat breads, cranberry breads. Banana. Jalapeno. Spiced. Once I feel have some depth of understanding and my technique has been honed, then I'll start thinking of sourdoughs and more complicated fare.
*
Listening to the ipod on shuffle. I've come to hate the term "roided up" since it's applied to anything of any size whatsoever. But it certainly feels almost excessively overflowing now. Even on shuffle, the hits far outweigh the misses. I only had to jump up and hit skip once (it was a Ween song), and was tempted to replay one half-forgotten song again to savor it (Warren Zevon's "Mutineer.")
My eyes are being opened to the minor works of David Bowie. And I'm not convinced more than ever that if Rancid didn't have such a stupid name they'd be the Billy Joel of the mohawk set. That's a compliment. Really.
Vast Sucking
I had to get up early to drive the Dufflebag to work. I was deep in sleep and had to claw my way out.
The writing must have depleted seratonin levels in my brain, because I had a rare moment of teenage-girl, every suckitude. My cooking sucks, I thought. I can't even make eggs. My writing sucks. My brain is slow. My car sucks. I quickly noted the pattern and rightly, I think, attributed this to some exhaustion of the mind from the night before.
I made eggs and was humbled. They really were only so-so. When it comes to food, I remain an enthusiastic beginner.
*
To help finish the novel, I cracked open one of the growlers of the bad beer. It was pointless: there was likely more alcohol in cherry cordials. But I wanted something of that theatrical warmth to bring me to the end. This was good, as the only thing preventing me from finishing the novel with a completely clear mind was the strain of working so many hours and so late into the night.
*
I feel better now.
I have rarely looked back at what I've been writing, so I read my own introduction for the first time today. I was scared major gutting would be required, but all I did was tighten the prose and shift a few lines around. I'm satisfied. I can write better than I can sling hash.
Back to work.
The writing must have depleted seratonin levels in my brain, because I had a rare moment of teenage-girl, every suckitude. My cooking sucks, I thought. I can't even make eggs. My writing sucks. My brain is slow. My car sucks. I quickly noted the pattern and rightly, I think, attributed this to some exhaustion of the mind from the night before.
I made eggs and was humbled. They really were only so-so. When it comes to food, I remain an enthusiastic beginner.
*
To help finish the novel, I cracked open one of the growlers of the bad beer. It was pointless: there was likely more alcohol in cherry cordials. But I wanted something of that theatrical warmth to bring me to the end. This was good, as the only thing preventing me from finishing the novel with a completely clear mind was the strain of working so many hours and so late into the night.
*
I feel better now.
I have rarely looked back at what I've been writing, so I read my own introduction for the first time today. I was scared major gutting would be required, but all I did was tighten the prose and shift a few lines around. I'm satisfied. I can write better than I can sling hash.
Back to work.
The Novel is Done
I've been writing all night, initially fueled by a massive injection of music courtesy of Mikey's library.
I got to the point in the narrative where the novel was supposed to end, and I kept going. There it was. The ending, pure and simple. I knew my head was slightly mushy from writing for so long. But I was certain that it was done.
I knew the final lines long ago, so I wrote them down. The first draft is done. The big milestone.
Now I have to begin the process of revision. But not tonight. Although I'm tempted.
I can't just slink off to bed and celebrate with sleep. The damn trash has to go out. I put it off earlier, and am now paying for it. I'm sitting here in my underwear, and not only have to do the trash, but locate pants and boots.
It's nearly three a.m. I'm listening to Gram Parsons. It isn't quite what I wanted to hear, but I was so weary I randomly picked out a cd and put it in the stereo without thinking about what it was. The ipod is upstairs with Jess, so I've been thrown back on old-school tech.
The cats are both curled up and sleeping soundlessly next to me. There isn't an ounce of poetry left in the old inkwell. Not in my writing, that is. Maybe in the life. But the words are exhausted, and I'm looking forward to bed.
I got to the point in the narrative where the novel was supposed to end, and I kept going. There it was. The ending, pure and simple. I knew my head was slightly mushy from writing for so long. But I was certain that it was done.
I knew the final lines long ago, so I wrote them down. The first draft is done. The big milestone.
Now I have to begin the process of revision. But not tonight. Although I'm tempted.
I can't just slink off to bed and celebrate with sleep. The damn trash has to go out. I put it off earlier, and am now paying for it. I'm sitting here in my underwear, and not only have to do the trash, but locate pants and boots.
It's nearly three a.m. I'm listening to Gram Parsons. It isn't quite what I wanted to hear, but I was so weary I randomly picked out a cd and put it in the stereo without thinking about what it was. The ipod is upstairs with Jess, so I've been thrown back on old-school tech.
The cats are both curled up and sleeping soundlessly next to me. There isn't an ounce of poetry left in the old inkwell. Not in my writing, that is. Maybe in the life. But the words are exhausted, and I'm looking forward to bed.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Music Store Geek
I'm finally ripping my cd collection to an external harddrive, and it's allowed me to rediscover a great deal of music that used to give me pleasure.
I turned to the screen at the exact moment when I hit 10,000 songs. Magical.
What's odd is, that with a seeming years worth of playing time, I still recognize just about every song I hear on shuffle. How much of my life was spent listening?
Nearly all my Roky Erickson. Ten different RL Burnsides. Buck Owens. Bob Wills. Jimmie Rodgers. Howlin' Wolf. Yves Montand. The Modern Lovers. Link Wray. The Monroe Brothers. Vic Chesnutt. Lefty Frizzell. I'm working through the back of the wallet which became the depository for cds bought in New York City, maybe around 97-99. That was what I listened to then. And it's good to hear the old music once more.
I have one wallet left to go, and I've already worked on a chunk from that. But what remains is monumental: nearly the entire Dylan back catalogue. All the Velvet Underground. Every song Hank Williams ever recorded. Every Tom Waits cd except for two that are now in the hands of ex-girlfriends. The Harry Smith Anthology -- including the rare forth volume. The Band. Gram Parsons. The Byrds. Whaling ballads. I'll end, dreaming of the great white whale.
*
Should I say it was great to hear the old music, both old in terms of my own past and the past of much going before my own like eyeblink existence. The Dufflebag put the tv on. He's watching a show about seacreatures that scream at each other. One of them is a sponge. The old tunes sounded all the better and even more necessary, but I had to turn them off. They can't defeat screaming starfish. Two ships collide, one dies.
I can still check on the beans. They are still a little hard, but the taste would be perfect if they softened to just where I want them. I've been listening to Bill and Charlie Monroe. It is, after all, a baked beans kind of night.
I turned to the screen at the exact moment when I hit 10,000 songs. Magical.
What's odd is, that with a seeming years worth of playing time, I still recognize just about every song I hear on shuffle. How much of my life was spent listening?
Nearly all my Roky Erickson. Ten different RL Burnsides. Buck Owens. Bob Wills. Jimmie Rodgers. Howlin' Wolf. Yves Montand. The Modern Lovers. Link Wray. The Monroe Brothers. Vic Chesnutt. Lefty Frizzell. I'm working through the back of the wallet which became the depository for cds bought in New York City, maybe around 97-99. That was what I listened to then. And it's good to hear the old music once more.
I have one wallet left to go, and I've already worked on a chunk from that. But what remains is monumental: nearly the entire Dylan back catalogue. All the Velvet Underground. Every song Hank Williams ever recorded. Every Tom Waits cd except for two that are now in the hands of ex-girlfriends. The Harry Smith Anthology -- including the rare forth volume. The Band. Gram Parsons. The Byrds. Whaling ballads. I'll end, dreaming of the great white whale.
*
Should I say it was great to hear the old music, both old in terms of my own past and the past of much going before my own like eyeblink existence. The Dufflebag put the tv on. He's watching a show about seacreatures that scream at each other. One of them is a sponge. The old tunes sounded all the better and even more necessary, but I had to turn them off. They can't defeat screaming starfish. Two ships collide, one dies.
I can still check on the beans. They are still a little hard, but the taste would be perfect if they softened to just where I want them. I've been listening to Bill and Charlie Monroe. It is, after all, a baked beans kind of night.
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