We go together like a storm and rain

We await Sandy, the hurricane-superstorm-apocalyptic-juggernaut. Signs of its pending arrival are here like advance scouts from some devilish army. The wind is picking up, the rain dumps down and retreats. We could be in for it, besieged. I'm supposed to record at the courthouse in Cambridge in the morning, but I just spoke with my boss, Jeff, and he's not sure if that's going to happen. We're going to have to wait and see how severe the weather will be. One thing is certain: we're going to see a lot more of these frankenstorms.

Around eight o'clock this morning, I got a text from Spira, which I could barely read because the display on my phone is damaged. All I could make out was "Call me!". There didn't seem to be much more in the message, so I took it to be important. I called her back and she told me the word in the message I missed was "brunch" and that it would be in honor of her friend, Leah, who is moving to Nashville. I said I was going back to sleep and would call her when I woke up to let her know if I'd be going.

When I called her, they had finished eating and were going to take the dogs out for a walk. We worked it out that I'd pop in for a visit before they did. In the lobby, shortly after I arrived, everyone came down with their dogs and proceeded to head out the door. Because I was wearing shorts (I wasn't expecting to be outside for very long), I opted out of the walk, which I had thought was going to happen after I left. Spira explained that she was under the impression that I'd be accompanying them and then and said, "Well, we dressed appropriately" and led everyone out the door. My options at that point were to wait in the lobby, wait in my car, or join them on their walk, which, if going on past experience, was not going to be a very short one. Oh, and another option, which I eventually went with, was to leave.

I told Spira I was going to wait in my car,. She said, "ok", and continued on towards the park. I've known her a long time and I'm confident her outlook on the matter was "Come or don't come; I'm not going beg you". And I respect that outlook; if she felt my actions were the result of some adolescent need for attention, then I can see why she wouldn't want to have anything to do with it. I went to my car and thought about how to proceed. It didn't take long. I called Spira and told her I was leaving, that I had better things I could be doing with my time. "Ok, bye", was the gist of her reply.

As I drove away, I stewed a bit over the situation. I could have been at home, sipping coffee and working on music instead this bit of business. I wasn't expecting to be treated like royalty, but something more than indifference would have been nice. All the same, I'm over it and understand that the other side of the coin has its story to tell. I'm sure from their perspective, I'm a colossal jerk for up and leaving. I can accept that; I did what I felt was right for me. There will be other situations with more favorable outcomes.

Anyway, I don't intend to belabor the matter. I'm home and still have the bulk of the day at my disposal. The situation didn't work out for whatever reason. So be it. Let's watch some Boardwalk Empire!

Hello, is it me you're looking for?

I don't feel much like writing, which is to say I did but now that I actually have to extend effort, however slight, my enthusiasm sloughs off my bones and I feel drowsy. How dim my bulb too often gets has been a concern. But I'll continue; who knows, maybe the fire in my belly will be stoked from its slumber. Somehow I doubt it, but we'll see.

Taking inventory. That's been the modus operandi. It's a taut thin wire I've been walking on, delving into the past and assessing how it informs the present. It's an easy thing to lose balance and fall into the abyss of regret and milky sentimentality, but I continue steadily on. Still, the venture has not been without some measure of pain and anguish. Despair waits in the wings, eager to take over. Don't let it, o' pure-hearted one! The clouds are already parting; stick with it.

Enough with being cryptic.It's my own bullshit and the only one who can sort it out is me. You've got your own, you can do without mine. In my last post, I assured those of you who relish quantity as much as quality that a longer post would be forthcoming. That is still the case, but it ain't happening tonight. So let's wrap things up like a champ.

My yoga practice has evolved this week. I've altered my routine and one of the results has been a body that feels like a singular functioning thing rather than a series of parts, some creaky, some robust. I'm feeling strong, son! Tell Billy anywhere, anytime. I'm ready for that mother fucker!

It's comical to me how grossed out people get when they hear about someone peeing in the shower. These same people don't clean their assholes when they shit; what they're doing is what we've been taught as Americans: smearing. That's right, they're smearing, not cleaning, which, if you think about it, is way grosser than peeing in the shower, where the pee is washed down the drain, no trace left behind. If you stepped in a pile of dog shit barefoot, how would you remove it? Would you take a dry paper towel to your foot and smear the shit on it? No, you'd wash that shit off you foot like a civilized human being. You'd use soap maybe. See what I'm getting at? You'd CLEAN the foot, not smear shit all over it like some half-witted imp. Anyway, you get the point. Note to self: explore why the topic of shit makes frequent appearances in this blog. 

I'm out of here. I'll watch some Boardwalk Empire and do other things; some sexy, some cerebral, and some secret. That's all I can say; my attorney forbids any more.

Good night, ye mewling pups of autumn.

I'm taking whiskey to the party tonight and I'm looking for someone to squeeze

I'm back from a yoga class that kicked my ass. When it was through, I was drenched in sweat. Jenn, the instructor, seems like one of those authentically happy people we don't encounter nearly enough. She taught a great class; I'll make sure to take more with her. While she guided us through a series of vinyasas, Sigur Ros and other Icelandic sounding artists added a fitting, misty soundtrack that coated us like dew. The class kicked my ass, I say, but I'm grateful it did. There are things going on that are pregnant with stress; it's important I take care of myself so as not to feel overwhelmed.

I took a hot shower when I came home and I'm feeling pretty blissed out. I think it's time to watch an episode of Boardwalk Empire, which is one of the best shows I've ever seen. Fucking HBO! Always bringing the ruckus!

Sorry for the short post, but don't fret: I'm confident I'll be presenting you with some overlong, bloated, and self-indulgent posts soon enough.

Fare thee well, ye bonnie lads and lasses.

They don't live too long, just a flash and then they're gone, we'll laugh at them and watch the sun go down

Earlier this evening, as I spoke with my parents in their living room, the earthquake hit. My mother jumped out of her seat - she thought a mouse or some other, larger and more bitey, rodent had begun scaling the back of it in order to enact some foul deed upon her person - while I wondered if a small plane had just landed on the house. My father didn't feel a thing. My mother and I were incredulous: there was no way he didn't feel that; he was only five feet away. "Didn't feel a thing", he said. I haven't figured out what to make of this. Best not to linger; off we go.

After yoga class last night, I asked Spira how she felt about it. "It was pretty good, but some guy - I don't know if it was you or the one in front of me - stank to high heaven. It was guy odor - you know, that horrible b.o. guys get." I took no offense at being suspected of something so unflattering and foul - we've known each other too long - but, and believe me I'm not trying to be boastful, I'm pretty sure she would have handled it a bit differently if I said something similar to her. Although, she didn't seem too offended when I broke it to her that she was the one stinking up the joint and her pungent aroma reminded me very much of a sub shop dumpster baking in the intense heat of summer. Anyway, I don't think I was the stinky guy, but in the interest of full disclosure, I should note that I did have six bowls of three alarm chili followed by a few soft tacos at Taco Bell earlier in the day. Don't tell me you haven't followed a similar trajectory before; I bet if I burrowed my head into your armpit, you'd reek of chalupas.

There is more, but there are other things that beg my attention. Not masturbation, you psychopaths. Okay, maybe masturbation. Anyway.... Adieu, conspirators.

Come on beautiful, we'll go sit on the front lawn, and watch the fireflys as the sun goes down

Here is the feeling, and you recognize it maybe only dimly: unhindered and unadulterated, it is joy-permeated expression. True expression, that engulfs, the way the sun would a fly, anything that would interrupt or sully it. We could call it free expression, but the word free does not apply here, because to be free, you have to be free of something. I use joy-permeated as a descriptor, but cautiously, understanding that for there to be joy there has to be the opposite of joy. For our purposes here, it will have to suffice, though it may only hint at what I'm trying to convey. I suppose that's all we can ever do when we consider the profound.

One of the reasons (and there are several) I'm fascinated by the video I'm about to present to you  is because it is a wonderful example of that feeling and a reminder that it is available to us. Hearing a baby's laughter reduced in pitch to the point that it sounds like an adult sounds odd, even creepy, but only because it's rare we hear an adult who does so with such purity and abandon. When we do, our first inclination may be that the person is not right in the head. And perhaps by society's standards we may be right. Sometimes the world just plain feels inside-out.

So here it is. I've watched it many times, I'm not afraid to admit, and I'll watch it many more because it is a view into that other world that tickles around in our brains like fragments of old dreams. More simply put, it makes me fucking laugh real hard. If you're not similarly affected, then I suggest you take inventory of your life. This is gold, readers. Forget therapy: watch this twice a day, upon waking and before sleep, and you will be enlightened in no time.

We haven't served that spirit here since 1969

Advice, commands, observations, accusations, sundry:

1. The High Llamas are playing- their epic, Brian Wilson flavored Hawaii- and it occurs to me I haven't listened to it in a long time. It's a great album.

2. If you want to be kind to your fellow man, offer assistance if he's occupying a urinal or stall near you. "Need a hand, friend?" or "Take a load off and let me do the work; that's what I'm here for" are along the lines of what you should say. This works for dames, too (except as concerns the urinal, of course). I'll have none of your accusations that I'm gender biased.

3. I guess I'm not in the mood for Hawaii, as great as I claim it is. Back to Grizzly Bear's Shields, which has been in heavy rotation. Sleeping Ute is a standout track and conjures Yes's "Gates of Delirium", something I never thought I'd  have occasion to say.





4. Watch Boardwalk Empire....NOW!

5. What's made me more content over the last several weeks: wasabi mayonnaise or God's love? Well, let's see....HA! It's a trick question: they are one in the same.

6. Someone recently told me about their anal fissures and, despite not being told to keep it a secret - it was brought forth casually to the conversation - I'm going to go ahead and treat it as such. I don't know what I'm getting at, why I'm sharing this; perhaps it's just my way of letting you know you can unload your anal fissure issues on me and I won't utter a peep to anyone.

7. I used to work with this guy named Chepo who once told me that when he was a youth in Puerto Rico, he used to steal chickens from his neighbor. Sometimes, he said, the neighbor would eat dinner with Chepo's family, unaware that he was eating stolen goods. I told Chepo my experience growing up was quite different. I did eat chicken fairly often, though. There is that.

8. Coming up: new car. Finally.

9. Have you been telling all the ladies that I'm a venereal disease infested worm and abuser of women? It must be the case because otherwise I'd be getting it on with all sorts of them almost all the time. Not cool, man. Not cool.

10. Time for some Boardwalk Empire or maybe some Guy Maddin. Maybe both. I'll keep you posted.

So I'll walk out these wandering dreams, up the north road dressed gold and green

There was a time last week when I felt something was amiss, an inner agitation I couldn't put my finger on. Then it struck me one morning as I entered the rest room at work: I hadn't seen, heard, or smelled The Shitter in days. That should have been welcomed news - who wouldn't want a respite from his prolific, noxious shitting?- but, as it happened, I discovered his absence left me feeling slightly bereft, as if lurking beneath my disdain for him, a part of me felt a measure of kinship with, or, at the very least a dose of sympathy towards, this cherubic lord of the toilet. Absent or present, he's been a haunting influence in my life.

About a day later, I entered the rest room and there were his spotless white Nike's on display under the stall door. I can't attest to where he had been the last several days, but, damn!, did that son of a bitch make up for lost time. Just about every time I went to the restroom, which was about once an hour to pee, he was there, ubiquitous, stinking up the joint with his foul, sinful waste. And today was no different. Any feeling of kinship or sympathy was washed away with the cold realization that The Shitter is a malevolent force in this world. Look past the countenance of doughy innocence! Think not upon the sad state of affairs this man's life must be in because of all that shitting! Not true! His actions are premeditated and cunning; nothing leaves his factory but with his permission. Keep clear of this agent of Lucifer! I say the following with the utmost conviction: if I had a gun with two bullets and was alone in a room with Hitler, Pol Pot, and The Shitter, I'd shoot The Shitter twice.
--
I watched Dreyer's La Passion De Jeanne D'Arc with Spira the other day. The film had such a profound effect on me when I first saw it; between Dreyer's inventive and often stunning cinematography, Richard Einhorn's moving score, and one of the most transcendent acting performances I've ever seen by Melle Falconetti, I was left awestruck. I thought about it for days, electrified by it like the buzz of a first love.

Spira slept through just about the entire film. Once, when she was awake, I asked her if she wanted to stop the movie. She said no and fell back asleep. When it was over, she woke up and half-jokingly berated me for making her sit through a silent movie with "mellow" music with the lights off, as if it was my fault she couldn't stay awake.

I had hoped the film would have had a similar impact on her as it did me. Obviously, it didn't, though she did claim that she liked what she saw. I had no problem staying awake, but I can see why she didn't. I've fallen asleep to through films before; we all have. Still, I lamented not being able to share my enthusiasm about the film with her. It's okay, my tastes aren't very conventional; I've gotten over how it limits shared experience.

Anyway, if you haven't seen it and want to watch something different, inventive, and transcendent (at least in my estimation), have a go. It's worth it for Falconetti's performance alone. She wasn't acting, she was channeling.



--
Had a nice long weekend. Went up to Mike's on Saturday to attend Pumpkin Fest with him and a stellar lineup of friends, some I hardly ever see. When I left my house, it was sunny, the birds were chirping gaily. When I hit NH, ominous clouds appeared and the closer I got to Mike's the darker it became. When the rain hit, I wondered if we'd have to forgo Pumpkinfest. It poured like a mah'fucka! But, alas, the rain subsided and the clouds parted and we were able to attend the festivities. Good thing: I had begun to wonder if I was heading towards a Heart of Darkness scenario. Kurtz!

Ah, but it was a merry time! At the festival, we splintered off into groups and explored. I don't know why, but I didn't get any fried dough, despite having a mild hankering for some recently (last time I tasted its unholy goodness was when I was a wee lad). Maybe I found the prospect too daunting. It's possible. Anyway, there were other shenanigans, but they're not meant for you to know about. Sorry, but the last thing I want to do is besmirch your innocence with tales of debauchery. You don't want to end up like Billy, do you?

Off to watch some Boardwalk Empire. Maybe I'll play some music and read from Moby Dick. We'll see. Best get crackin'.

G'night, you sweet and tender pups.

How many mics do we rip on the daily?

I woke up feeling lousy. I had at least two sneezing fits before I left for work, during which time I thought reminiscently about the summer when my head wasn't so thick and my breathing was unobstucted. Another day with the cold, but I'm feeling better. After work, I hit the yoga mat to the sounds of Lisa Gerrard and, despite some congestion, I had an abundance of energy and was absorbed in the session. Afterward, I made a salad with kale and baby spinach and other assorted goodies, including some extra-extra firm tofu I got at Trader Joe's, which has ruined me for all other less firm tofu. I'm not going to lie to you: I don't feel as fresh as a summer fig, but I'm on the mend.

I'll tell you what: I'm never again going to take dating advice from Willem Dafoe. Alright, I will, but I'm going to be a bit more wary when I do. I almost got slapped in the nuts trying out the following on an unsuspecting fraulein:




I must be feeling better because my loins were humming all day. Ah, but nothing came of it (there's a pun there, but I'd never stoop so low as to suggest it); still, though, the loins hum. Maybe it's time to explore Craig's List and its casual encounters section. I'm sure it would be a fruitful endeavor. I might even meet my future wife.

I'm tired, but I have things I'd like to do before I surrender to the mattress. Craig will be stopping by and I'd like to spend some quality time with Moby Dick. And, if time permits, I'd like to work on some music. Maybe try to restore my sickness- ravaged  voice back to its former glory.

Adieu, my bonnie lads and lasses.

Autumn has come to my home town

This cold is being a real asshole; I thought I'd be rid of it by now, but it lingers. Anyway, it could be worse; and besides, I was getting tired of being able to smell and taste stuff. The other night at Veggie Galaxy with Spira is a prime example: not knowing whether the open faced seitan sandwich I ordered was pleasing or not was refreshing. The texture was appealing; there was that. Anyway, I'm on the mend and soon enough I'll be back on the streets crackin' skulls.

So I've been watching a ton of The Sopranos, listening to a plethora of Black Sabbath, and reading up on bizarre missing person cases in our national parks and forests (courtesy of author and retired cop, David Paulides). And I've been sick. Surprisingly, my spirits have been generally positive, and why not? The Sopranos rocks and Sabbath brings the ruckus. And as far as people disappearing under bizarre, possibly supernatural, circumstances in remote locations goes, well, who doesn't like a good mystery? Yet, I've made sure to counterbalance these activities with less dark ones, like meditating and watching shows like Curb Your Enthusiasm. The goal is not to tip too far into the camp of gloom. But we know that could never happen, considering I'm illuminated by a pure heart and am always kind to puppies, toddlers, and certain primates.

When I'm better, I've really got to get off my ass and make some decisions about this life of mine. Time is less of a friend the older you get. Yes, let's make some decisions, I say. Inertia has had its way with me for too long. I'll have to ask Billy which direction he thinks I should take.

In the meantime, it's more of The Sopranos, I'm afraid. And definitely more Sabbath. But I will meditate and read from the Gita or A Course In Miracles. Balance, my friends; it's about balance.