I'm heading to Player's Pub in half an hour to sing for half an hour at 11:00 in the morning.
I'm doing it as part of a benefit for Haiti, so it's a good thing, though it is a bar and it is 11:00 on a Sunday morning.
It's been years since I was in a bar on a Sunday morning. Since college.
It was cheap, back then - some kind of ridiculous all-you-can-eat deal at The Sidelines, and it all made sense, somehow. You could still smoke indoors, so the combined aromas of bacon, smoke, beer, and other bodily fluids could not possibly have been conducive to dining...
And even then, Billy Joel's Piano Man was squirming around my head as I sat there, because, as is always the case, some people weren't there for breakfast at 11:00, and like I said, I have to wipe the drama off of me with handiwipes most of the time. It's a kind of magnetic goo to me, drama - I have a hard time staying away from it, and then a harder time ridding myself of it... so Piano Man would squirm, and I'd write sad stories about lonely people on bar stools while I ate my scrambled eggs and worried about finals. Or money. Or love.
Nothing's changed terribly, now that I read over this paragraph. I worry about all the same types of things, to varying degrees, and still make up stories about people on bar stools.
And now, in a weirdly circuitous way, I'm heading to a bar on a Sunday morning. I'll probably even eat some scrambled eggs.
And if anyone asks me, tomorrow, 'How was your weekend?'
With a clear conscience, I can say, 'Great! Had breakfast in a bar. Just like the old days. Of course, unlike the old days, this time, it was for a good cause. And not just because I was hung over.'
Might even skip the bloody mary. Maybe.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Answer #39 - No one, that's who
Dave will never talk with me about any of my schemes for world domination. Occasionally I think of starting a church of some sort in the middle of nowhere - maybe Montana. Montana's a big place. Maybe build a really cool church (this is where Dave comes in. If it can be built, he can build it), with some bat-shit crazy suppositions - like Scientology... I love sci-fi, so working in some sci-fi characters as part of the church historical doctrine could be fun. Especially if they had cool super powers and Elton John sunglasses, but not lame ass living in volcanoes like the Thetans. That's just lame.
We're driving home from a dinner party last night, and, a couple of glasses of wine in, I want to kick around my plans for my new sci-fi church and then eventual world domination, including an on-line donation basket and possibly emblazoned coffee mugs.
'Weird,' he says.
'What? Don't tell me you've never plotted world domination by way of religion? You worship at the altar of Vonnegut. You've read Cat's Cradle 5 times! Hello! Bokononism?!'
'That's fiction and you're a freak,' he says.
And now I'm mad. So I stew about it overnight. Grumble.. grrrr...
Who among us hasn't contemplated gaining followers and thusly subverting the system by way of sci-fi characters and some soul-cleansing electronic machinery and a complex, color-coded system of spiritual/spatial evolution?
What the hell?
I'm not alone in this.
"When are you going to stop being mad at me?," he asks, as he hands me my coffee.
"As soon as I find a partner whose got a little bit of evil vision for the good of me and my people."
"Is this because the album got a good review, this sudden ridiculous dabbling in world domination? Or the Monsanto article?"
"Possibly both."
Damn good review. Funny how it can warp your perspective. As can watching the short-sighted greed and avarice that calls itself Agri-business buy the USDA right out from under the American people.
Still, I probably won't move to Montana.
Yet.
But someone's got to stop Monsanto and their attempts at world domination by mandatory use of their deadly, non-proliferating seed. Other crops aren't safe from cross-contamination. We're already forcing Iraqi farmers to buy from them. It's disgusting and sickening. We're funny, us Americans. In the name of our freedom, we allow the subjugation of millions by corporate interest. And then we wake up, and all the crops are gone, wring our hands and wonder why?
So, like I told him. This may be the only way.
We're driving home from a dinner party last night, and, a couple of glasses of wine in, I want to kick around my plans for my new sci-fi church and then eventual world domination, including an on-line donation basket and possibly emblazoned coffee mugs.
'Weird,' he says.
'What? Don't tell me you've never plotted world domination by way of religion? You worship at the altar of Vonnegut. You've read Cat's Cradle 5 times! Hello! Bokononism?!'
'That's fiction and you're a freak,' he says.
And now I'm mad. So I stew about it overnight. Grumble.. grrrr...
Who among us hasn't contemplated gaining followers and thusly subverting the system by way of sci-fi characters and some soul-cleansing electronic machinery and a complex, color-coded system of spiritual/spatial evolution?
What the hell?
I'm not alone in this.
"When are you going to stop being mad at me?," he asks, as he hands me my coffee.
"As soon as I find a partner whose got a little bit of evil vision for the good of me and my people."
"Is this because the album got a good review, this sudden ridiculous dabbling in world domination? Or the Monsanto article?"
"Possibly both."
Damn good review. Funny how it can warp your perspective. As can watching the short-sighted greed and avarice that calls itself Agri-business buy the USDA right out from under the American people.
Still, I probably won't move to Montana.
Yet.
But someone's got to stop Monsanto and their attempts at world domination by mandatory use of their deadly, non-proliferating seed. Other crops aren't safe from cross-contamination. We're already forcing Iraqi farmers to buy from them. It's disgusting and sickening. We're funny, us Americans. In the name of our freedom, we allow the subjugation of millions by corporate interest. And then we wake up, and all the crops are gone, wring our hands and wonder why?
So, like I told him. This may be the only way.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Answer #38 - We're all the dog and the deer
7 degrees as I was driving in this morning. Thinking of Jane, the title character in a play I started writing about 3 years ago. Jane doesn't like the cold, nor wearing much in the way of clothing for that matter. She's eccentric. She's eccentric and obsessive.. and unsettling. But charming.
She's complex. And, in her generally semi-clothed state, she wouldn't like to be in Indiana this time of year.
And who among us isn't, I'm thinking, a little complex? - at 7 degrees as the black and white dog stands in the middle of the road, patiently watching my car speed toward him, unimpressed, unmoving.
I slow down. He sniffs the headlight. This is why I think of Jane. I couldn't have predicted the dog's response. I can't predict hers.
People know to watch for dogs. It's the deer that take you by surprise. Another one hit our hood the other day, on an icy downhill- came sprinting out of the snowy woods. Practically leapt onto the hood, flew a few feet in the air onto a snow bank and ran off. Hopefully without internal injuries.
Not the first time. Won't be the last.
Jane is the dog and the deer. This is maybe why I haven't visited her in 3 years. Left to her own devices, she might not survive. And look at me, I'm Virginia Woolf, but there's something to it - there's something to knowing that a character might not survive that makes you slow down all the more on the icy roads that lead home.
Maybe I'll see her this year. Maybe.
She's complex. And, in her generally semi-clothed state, she wouldn't like to be in Indiana this time of year.
And who among us isn't, I'm thinking, a little complex? - at 7 degrees as the black and white dog stands in the middle of the road, patiently watching my car speed toward him, unimpressed, unmoving.
I slow down. He sniffs the headlight. This is why I think of Jane. I couldn't have predicted the dog's response. I can't predict hers.
People know to watch for dogs. It's the deer that take you by surprise. Another one hit our hood the other day, on an icy downhill- came sprinting out of the snowy woods. Practically leapt onto the hood, flew a few feet in the air onto a snow bank and ran off. Hopefully without internal injuries.
Not the first time. Won't be the last.
Jane is the dog and the deer. This is maybe why I haven't visited her in 3 years. Left to her own devices, she might not survive. And look at me, I'm Virginia Woolf, but there's something to it - there's something to knowing that a character might not survive that makes you slow down all the more on the icy roads that lead home.
Maybe I'll see her this year. Maybe.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Answer #37 - MacGyver
This time, I dreamed Adventure Boy attended an AA meeting and then swung from a freeway light post, dropped onto a bus and then hopped, mid-traffic, into a minivan window.
This isn't outside of the realm of possibility, mind you (except the AA part, because Adventure Boy doesn't really drink much). Adventure Boy was in the circus, though - and maybe you've seen his sister, Dreya, recently on the Grammys all painted in gold with Pink. She was in an insurance commercial a while ago, swinging from a light post, hopping onto a bus... it runs in the family.
Anyway, it was actually kind of fun. I watched it happen, and then in the dream it replayed on a video screen. I woke up in a considerably better mood this morning. Definitely better than dreaming of mud.
I sit in the office, typing, next to the studio door. Songs coming through the door... I think this one's by Tom Paxton. It's lovely today. Isn't always, though. Sometimes folks with many facial piercings are screaming about Satan on the other side of that door (not that there's anything wrong with that). And that's not just the voices in my head. These are the real deal. Nice people, all pierced up and screaming about Satan. I was in a band in Louisiana, years ago - Ophelia Exhumed (yep, you heard it here), and we played a gig with a band that had the song, 'He was the nicest Satan Worshiper that I have ever known.' Good times.
Which leads me to conclude that I might be better served by watching MacGyver re-runs prior to bed time, rather than reading 'The Importance of Being Iceland,' no matter how starkly beautiful, no matter its gritty poignancy. No matter my gigantic crush on Eileen Myles. No matter her angst which is perfectly suited to mine. No. No matter. It needs to be MacGyver or something of that ilk.
Because the music on the other side of the door is okay today. I can think, I can type - I'm not contemplating homicide or liquor. And even if there were pierced up, hairless boys singing about the devil and broken hearts in leather vests and pants belted mid-thigh, I think it'd be okay.
The answer to a good night's sleep?
MacGyver. All these years, and it was right there. Just behind the stack of books.
This isn't outside of the realm of possibility, mind you (except the AA part, because Adventure Boy doesn't really drink much). Adventure Boy was in the circus, though - and maybe you've seen his sister, Dreya, recently on the Grammys all painted in gold with Pink. She was in an insurance commercial a while ago, swinging from a light post, hopping onto a bus... it runs in the family.
Anyway, it was actually kind of fun. I watched it happen, and then in the dream it replayed on a video screen. I woke up in a considerably better mood this morning. Definitely better than dreaming of mud.
I sit in the office, typing, next to the studio door. Songs coming through the door... I think this one's by Tom Paxton. It's lovely today. Isn't always, though. Sometimes folks with many facial piercings are screaming about Satan on the other side of that door (not that there's anything wrong with that). And that's not just the voices in my head. These are the real deal. Nice people, all pierced up and screaming about Satan. I was in a band in Louisiana, years ago - Ophelia Exhumed (yep, you heard it here), and we played a gig with a band that had the song, 'He was the nicest Satan Worshiper that I have ever known.' Good times.
Which leads me to conclude that I might be better served by watching MacGyver re-runs prior to bed time, rather than reading 'The Importance of Being Iceland,' no matter how starkly beautiful, no matter its gritty poignancy. No matter my gigantic crush on Eileen Myles. No matter her angst which is perfectly suited to mine. No. No matter. It needs to be MacGyver or something of that ilk.
Because the music on the other side of the door is okay today. I can think, I can type - I'm not contemplating homicide or liquor. And even if there were pierced up, hairless boys singing about the devil and broken hearts in leather vests and pants belted mid-thigh, I think it'd be okay.
The answer to a good night's sleep?
MacGyver. All these years, and it was right there. Just behind the stack of books.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Answer #36 - the intensity of the gamma rays
I dream of mud some nights. I read the poem years ago - the frog prince who dreamed of mud while his flour-dry princess bride slept soundly. 'In March I dreamed of mud..'
I don't sleep well, in general. One of the genetically-blessed for whom sleep is a challenge and a paradox, I stay in a kind of vague twilight state half the time.
And then, some months, inexplicably, I sleep.
What changes? I don't know. This month, I dream of mud.
I have about one month until I get on the road for Europe. In Europe I will dream of bread and cheese. Which, incidentally, will be mostly what I eat. I sleep well in Europe. Again, what changes? My theory is that the corporate powers that be are pumping something, inconsistently, over the U.S. airwaves in order to scramble our brains and get us all to buy expensive drugs to counter the scrambling effects of stress, depression and ill health. Europe doesn't let them do that. Just like they don't let them sell Wonder Bread.
But that's just paranoid conspiracy theory nonsense.
Unless it's true. And then I'm a genius. And I'll probably write a book. Maybe call it 'To Serve Man.'
And then I'll wake everybody out of the Matrix, like Neo, and peace will guide the planets and looovvvee will steer the stars.
For now, I'm working on the new album, performance-wise. Looking for exotic instruments to take on the road - sruti box, hurdy-gurdy, didgeridoo, that kind of thing. This weekend, I'll score a choral version of 'Clock of the World' - currently on YouTube if you're interested, and will most likely drink a little too much wine at a cocktail party. [This doesn't take a psychic to foresee. There's a cocktail party, I'll be at it. You do the math.]
For now, I'm picking up shows, getting used to a 65-degree house because I'm NOT a spoiled American, I'm not I'm not, and languishing a bit in the blue winter light.
For now, I dream of mud. We'll see if I get used to the flour-dry.
I don't sleep well, in general. One of the genetically-blessed for whom sleep is a challenge and a paradox, I stay in a kind of vague twilight state half the time.
And then, some months, inexplicably, I sleep.
What changes? I don't know. This month, I dream of mud.
I have about one month until I get on the road for Europe. In Europe I will dream of bread and cheese. Which, incidentally, will be mostly what I eat. I sleep well in Europe. Again, what changes? My theory is that the corporate powers that be are pumping something, inconsistently, over the U.S. airwaves in order to scramble our brains and get us all to buy expensive drugs to counter the scrambling effects of stress, depression and ill health. Europe doesn't let them do that. Just like they don't let them sell Wonder Bread.
But that's just paranoid conspiracy theory nonsense.
Unless it's true. And then I'm a genius. And I'll probably write a book. Maybe call it 'To Serve Man.'
And then I'll wake everybody out of the Matrix, like Neo, and peace will guide the planets and looovvvee will steer the stars.
For now, I'm working on the new album, performance-wise. Looking for exotic instruments to take on the road - sruti box, hurdy-gurdy, didgeridoo, that kind of thing. This weekend, I'll score a choral version of 'Clock of the World' - currently on YouTube if you're interested, and will most likely drink a little too much wine at a cocktail party. [This doesn't take a psychic to foresee. There's a cocktail party, I'll be at it. You do the math.]
For now, I'm picking up shows, getting used to a 65-degree house because I'm NOT a spoiled American, I'm not I'm not, and languishing a bit in the blue winter light.
For now, I dream of mud. We'll see if I get used to the flour-dry.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Answer #35 - Rabbits in Boxes
The Rabbit and the Hunter
Wood. Wood pillars on wooden two by fours gouged out of wood.
Gouged with sandpaper and oil and years of misgivings - spread over nights of uncertain leanings.
What do they want?
And what do I see there on the edge of the lateral plane?
Why?
'I'm missing something, I think,' said the rabbit to the hunter. 'And if the box is a home then this hole is a home and why don't I have no relief?'
No answer.
And then I'm running into the woods. And the woods run past me.
And I can't stop. Not ever. And it's nowhere that I'm going. But the movement is forgiving and the stopping is undoing, and do you see where the horizon lies? It goes on forever.
Jump.
I'm jumping over this river, these smooth rocks and slight surface. Give me air on the ground, give me ground on the water.
In the woods.
In the wood.
Light the fire. Send the rabbit into heaven and have something to remember him by when the ringing hits your head and the cold hits his head and stops there.
It stops.
Stops.
Wood. Wood pillars on wooden two by fours gouged out of wood.
Gouged with sandpaper and oil and years of misgivings - spread over nights of uncertain leanings.
What do they want?
And what do I see there on the edge of the lateral plane?
Why?
'I'm missing something, I think,' said the rabbit to the hunter. 'And if the box is a home then this hole is a home and why don't I have no relief?'
No answer.
And then I'm running into the woods. And the woods run past me.
And I can't stop. Not ever. And it's nowhere that I'm going. But the movement is forgiving and the stopping is undoing, and do you see where the horizon lies? It goes on forever.
Jump.
I'm jumping over this river, these smooth rocks and slight surface. Give me air on the ground, give me ground on the water.
In the woods.
In the wood.
Light the fire. Send the rabbit into heaven and have something to remember him by when the ringing hits your head and the cold hits his head and stops there.
It stops.
Stops.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Answer #34 - Squish the lemons
It happens. Some days the rabbit's been shot. Silhouette by the silver maples, it's a boy with a .22. Good for not much more than killing a rabbit. I should know. I own one. Same little gun the boy took Into the Wild. Sad.
I'm walking on anyway, hoping the trigger-finger isn't too twitchy. I should have gotten out the orange blanket, but it's winter and it's summer thin. Besides, these are my woods and not the boy's. He's a visitor. And I can't save the rabbit.
In my story life, I'm never the hunter. I'm really always the damn rabbit. For this reason, I can't see films like Shindler's List or Mississippi Burning or the like.. man's inhumanity and all. For whatever reasons, I don't have the filtration system to dull myself to the suffering. It's probably pathetic, but this stuff will keep me awake at night. It buries me in the imagery and the certain knowledge that we humans are capable of unholy horror that no demon ever dreamt. Our evolution is slow.. and not based on our best traits, as it happens. We haven't lost the need for power above all things. Haven't lost the desire for violent and fiery endings. Since many of our holy texts encourage violent and fiery endings, I can only assume this will not soon change.
I see Beckett and Joyce sitting across from each other, eyes glazed. Baffled. Ah.. hopeless. Ah... crap. Not this again.
For this reason, my friend Jenny is my book and movie preview guide.
"Yes, you can read this."
"No, you can't see that. Even I couldn't handle the 7-minute torture scene. You'd go shopping for arsenic, so let's not go there. Go see 'Up', it's more your speed."
Go see Up.
I saw Up. It was pretty good. First 1/2 hour anyway. Anything was still possible.
My mind's a fuzzy gray blanket today. On it, rabbits are sitting silent, ears tuned to sussurrations. Under it are memories of fallen things and old splintery doors.
How do you get rid of a rabbit infestation without a gun?
Too early for a martini. Besides, I may as well drink lighter fluid for the way those things taste. No, best to just tough it out and keep walking until the rabbits start moving and take their blanket with them.
Besides, it was just Saturday morning that the kind, funny little man in wire glasses and wrapped in the flannel duck blanket came out of the house with the lemons. He put them, one each, under the front tires and said something under his breath, with his hand on the car. The road was clear all the way to Wisconsin that day and that memory will make me smile forever.
Shoo, rabbits.
I'm walking on anyway, hoping the trigger-finger isn't too twitchy. I should have gotten out the orange blanket, but it's winter and it's summer thin. Besides, these are my woods and not the boy's. He's a visitor. And I can't save the rabbit.
In my story life, I'm never the hunter. I'm really always the damn rabbit. For this reason, I can't see films like Shindler's List or Mississippi Burning or the like.. man's inhumanity and all. For whatever reasons, I don't have the filtration system to dull myself to the suffering. It's probably pathetic, but this stuff will keep me awake at night. It buries me in the imagery and the certain knowledge that we humans are capable of unholy horror that no demon ever dreamt. Our evolution is slow.. and not based on our best traits, as it happens. We haven't lost the need for power above all things. Haven't lost the desire for violent and fiery endings. Since many of our holy texts encourage violent and fiery endings, I can only assume this will not soon change.
I see Beckett and Joyce sitting across from each other, eyes glazed. Baffled. Ah.. hopeless. Ah... crap. Not this again.
For this reason, my friend Jenny is my book and movie preview guide.
"Yes, you can read this."
"No, you can't see that. Even I couldn't handle the 7-minute torture scene. You'd go shopping for arsenic, so let's not go there. Go see 'Up', it's more your speed."
Go see Up.
I saw Up. It was pretty good. First 1/2 hour anyway. Anything was still possible.
My mind's a fuzzy gray blanket today. On it, rabbits are sitting silent, ears tuned to sussurrations. Under it are memories of fallen things and old splintery doors.
How do you get rid of a rabbit infestation without a gun?
Too early for a martini. Besides, I may as well drink lighter fluid for the way those things taste. No, best to just tough it out and keep walking until the rabbits start moving and take their blanket with them.
Besides, it was just Saturday morning that the kind, funny little man in wire glasses and wrapped in the flannel duck blanket came out of the house with the lemons. He put them, one each, under the front tires and said something under his breath, with his hand on the car. The road was clear all the way to Wisconsin that day and that memory will make me smile forever.
Shoo, rabbits.
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