I sit at night, on the porch, alone but not lonesome. The breeze, the cool air; each a wish fulfilled. I sit and feel blessed. Little sleep these past two days - too hot! too hot!The twin trees on either side of the road to my left are broadcast in slate vivid glow. I wonder why I've hardly noticed them before. I filter out so much.The air stirs, another cool surge. I am content.
People walk by, I witness. Under the moon and the yawning maw of sky powdered with teeth, they are more like me than ever before. They are brothers and sisters, there is communion. I know when the day returns and I am out among them, I will feel less kinship. Under the sun and sky with no secrets and no depth, I will forget what I remembered.
Anon.
I close my eyes. I might fall asleep. I am at ease, I clear my mind. Thoughts arrive, slower but potent. I consider my future. I wonder what I'll do. These are uncertain days, they infect me with fear and make me feel small.
But not so much, not so much....
Out here, right now, I see more joy than sorrow. I see peace. Will it be so? I close my eyes. Yes, I believe it will be so.
I read some, I look around, I think, I meditate. It's time to go inside. I will sleep through the night.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
What else can I write, I don't have the right
I predicted correctly: today flew by and it was a scorcher. It's still 83 degrees and it's after 7. I never made it to the office today. I got an early start and did some recording in Cambridge, took care of some business at the registry and Land Court in Boston, and then hit the registry in Cambridge again to tie everything up in a nice, neat, bow. And then, in the afternoon, I walked over to the dentist, came home, and practiced yoga in the heat. Like yesterday, I am a tired man. Is there not one of you who feels sympathy for me?
-
Feeling tired notwithstanding, I'm in good spirits, like I am every single second of every day (Not exactly true, but remember: my heart is pure). The sun is out, the sky is blue, it's beautiful, and so are you (forgive my lapse into song, but as I said, I'm in good spirits.)I'm coming down from the all the Lost activity, even though I just riffed on the phone with Spira about it, but that's not such a bad thing.
Kate, because I just remembered you left me a comment and believe I'll forget to respond once I finish this post, I'll first thank you for the insightful feedback before I go about the business of answering the questions you posed.
Your questions (paraphrased because I don't have them in front of me):
1. Why didn't I address the possibility of more Lost?
(I take "more Lost" to mean movies, TV spin offs, that type of thing, so my response will reflect that assumption.) I didn't address it because there was so much Lost flotsam splashing around in my head that I simply forgot to wonder, at least while writing that post. I'm not sure if there will be any movies or TV shows/specials down the pike. I hope there will. If there was ever a show, especially considering how this one ended, that begged to be revisited, this is the one.
2. Who would win in a fight: Baby Boy Z or an ocelot?
Look, I appreciate the question, really I do; I've even considered it myself, many, many, times. The thing is, in order for me to approach it thoughtfully, I have to imagine Poochy Bottoms engaging in violent behavior with an ocelot, and you know what - to go there would leave a vile taste in my mouth. I've seen too much of Zeekers the lover, the renaissance dog, in action, especially this past weekend, when he got all romantic with Missy, the lovely greyhound, who is now his boo.
Here's the deal: yes, Baby Boy Z would massacre the ocelot - I am sure of that; he is very strong and quick - but what's the point of picturing him in a fight, with its attendant blood, howls, and growls? No, Zico is as gentle and kind as Santa Claus's gentler, kinder, uncle. I must hold fast to that image.
3. Which were better action figures: Star Wars or G. I. Joe?
Thanks for asking. No one ever asks me that. I have to go with Star Wars, if only because Star Wars had way more of an impact on me than G.I. Joe. The G.I. Joe action figures were higher quality, though. You could bend the arms and legs and the packaging was cool, too, with awesome bios of the characters on the back that got you all pumped up to play some Joe. I played with both, so, you know.... win, win for me.
There you go, Kate.
--
I finished reading Drood over the weekend. I liked it quite a bit, especially Dan Simmon's writing style, which is above average. I moved on to Joe Abercrombie's Best Served Cold, a deliciously gory and often humorous tale of revenge set in the world of his prior books. I've also been reading The Picture of Dorian Gray at work and Meister Eckhart sermons before bed. Once I'm through with Abercrombie, I'll read Lord Dunsany's The King of Elfland's Daughter.
-
I leave you with an anecdote from this morning. I was waiting for my turn to go through the metal detector at the courthouse in Cambridge t - there were about two people ahead of me - when the guy in front of me started acting like a dick to the security guard.
Even before it was his turn, this guy, most likely a lawyer or a judge, by his suit and disposition, started muttering to himself about how preposterous it was to have to go through this nonsense. It never takes more than a minute or two to go through this security check; I have no idea why this man was so irked. Well, actually I do have an idea: he was a self-absorbed dick.
When it was his turn, he walked through the metal detector, which promptly started beeping. The guard walked over to the him and asked if he had anything in his pockets as he applied a wand to him.
"Yes", he said, with a condescending sneer, "My glasses."
"Ok, can I see them?"
The man inched closer to the security guard's face. "I just told you what I had in my pocket. Why do you need to see them?"
I should note here that I've dealt with this security guard hundreds of times and despite being ornery at times (he kind of has to: he's bald, with a bulldog's face), he's mostly been even tempered and fair. Even if he wasn't, even if he was just a flat out prick, he did not deserve the treatment he was getting from this uptight prima donna. I think he's a decent guy, but he also seems to be the kind you don't want to piss off. I say this because I saw him pissed off this morning.
"Sir, can you please take out your glasses so I can see them? I'm just doing my job."
"Does this make you feel superior, screwing around with me like this?"
"Sir, just let me do my job. Please." (Uh oh - water's starting to boil)
"It seems you think your job is to screw around with people who would like nothing better than getting on with their business."
(Full boil. That kettle started to sing!) "Ok, you're done. Get out of my sight."
"What is your problem?"
Here's where it almost looked like they were going to throw down. The security guard got in the man's face, I'm talking no more than an inch away, and said, loudly, "I said you're done. Get the fuck out of here before I bounce you out of this building!"
The man backed away, but only a little bit. Less, I think, out of courage, but more out of a bloated sense of entitlement. This man looked like he's never, not once in his life, had dirt under his fingernails. Nor did he appear to be someone who considered more than a handful of people his equals.
"Alright, I'm going. Don't be surprised if you're the one leaving the building. I have a mind to report you."
"Fine!" He's yelling now. "Go get a judge and bring him down here. Have him kick me out. Go get him, asshole!"
Whew! All this went down in front of about fifty or so people. The man went on his way and the security guard went back to work, muttering about cocksuckers and assholes.
Later in the day, when I returned to the courthouse, I asked the security guard if the man ever followed through on his threat.
"I would have knocked that fuck out if he did!"
You know, I think he probably would have.
-
Feeling tired notwithstanding, I'm in good spirits, like I am every single second of every day (Not exactly true, but remember: my heart is pure). The sun is out, the sky is blue, it's beautiful, and so are you (forgive my lapse into song, but as I said, I'm in good spirits.)I'm coming down from the all the Lost activity, even though I just riffed on the phone with Spira about it, but that's not such a bad thing.
Kate, because I just remembered you left me a comment and believe I'll forget to respond once I finish this post, I'll first thank you for the insightful feedback before I go about the business of answering the questions you posed.
Your questions (paraphrased because I don't have them in front of me):
1. Why didn't I address the possibility of more Lost?
(I take "more Lost" to mean movies, TV spin offs, that type of thing, so my response will reflect that assumption.) I didn't address it because there was so much Lost flotsam splashing around in my head that I simply forgot to wonder, at least while writing that post. I'm not sure if there will be any movies or TV shows/specials down the pike. I hope there will. If there was ever a show, especially considering how this one ended, that begged to be revisited, this is the one.
2. Who would win in a fight: Baby Boy Z or an ocelot?
Look, I appreciate the question, really I do; I've even considered it myself, many, many, times. The thing is, in order for me to approach it thoughtfully, I have to imagine Poochy Bottoms engaging in violent behavior with an ocelot, and you know what - to go there would leave a vile taste in my mouth. I've seen too much of Zeekers the lover, the renaissance dog, in action, especially this past weekend, when he got all romantic with Missy, the lovely greyhound, who is now his boo.
Here's the deal: yes, Baby Boy Z would massacre the ocelot - I am sure of that; he is very strong and quick - but what's the point of picturing him in a fight, with its attendant blood, howls, and growls? No, Zico is as gentle and kind as Santa Claus's gentler, kinder, uncle. I must hold fast to that image.
3. Which were better action figures: Star Wars or G. I. Joe?
Thanks for asking. No one ever asks me that. I have to go with Star Wars, if only because Star Wars had way more of an impact on me than G.I. Joe. The G.I. Joe action figures were higher quality, though. You could bend the arms and legs and the packaging was cool, too, with awesome bios of the characters on the back that got you all pumped up to play some Joe. I played with both, so, you know.... win, win for me.
There you go, Kate.
--
I finished reading Drood over the weekend. I liked it quite a bit, especially Dan Simmon's writing style, which is above average. I moved on to Joe Abercrombie's Best Served Cold, a deliciously gory and often humorous tale of revenge set in the world of his prior books. I've also been reading The Picture of Dorian Gray at work and Meister Eckhart sermons before bed. Once I'm through with Abercrombie, I'll read Lord Dunsany's The King of Elfland's Daughter.
-
I leave you with an anecdote from this morning. I was waiting for my turn to go through the metal detector at the courthouse in Cambridge t - there were about two people ahead of me - when the guy in front of me started acting like a dick to the security guard.
Even before it was his turn, this guy, most likely a lawyer or a judge, by his suit and disposition, started muttering to himself about how preposterous it was to have to go through this nonsense. It never takes more than a minute or two to go through this security check; I have no idea why this man was so irked. Well, actually I do have an idea: he was a self-absorbed dick.
When it was his turn, he walked through the metal detector, which promptly started beeping. The guard walked over to the him and asked if he had anything in his pockets as he applied a wand to him.
"Yes", he said, with a condescending sneer, "My glasses."
"Ok, can I see them?"
The man inched closer to the security guard's face. "I just told you what I had in my pocket. Why do you need to see them?"
I should note here that I've dealt with this security guard hundreds of times and despite being ornery at times (he kind of has to: he's bald, with a bulldog's face), he's mostly been even tempered and fair. Even if he wasn't, even if he was just a flat out prick, he did not deserve the treatment he was getting from this uptight prima donna. I think he's a decent guy, but he also seems to be the kind you don't want to piss off. I say this because I saw him pissed off this morning.
"Sir, can you please take out your glasses so I can see them? I'm just doing my job."
"Does this make you feel superior, screwing around with me like this?"
"Sir, just let me do my job. Please." (Uh oh - water's starting to boil)
"It seems you think your job is to screw around with people who would like nothing better than getting on with their business."
(Full boil. That kettle started to sing!) "Ok, you're done. Get out of my sight."
"What is your problem?"
Here's where it almost looked like they were going to throw down. The security guard got in the man's face, I'm talking no more than an inch away, and said, loudly, "I said you're done. Get the fuck out of here before I bounce you out of this building!"
The man backed away, but only a little bit. Less, I think, out of courage, but more out of a bloated sense of entitlement. This man looked like he's never, not once in his life, had dirt under his fingernails. Nor did he appear to be someone who considered more than a handful of people his equals.
"Alright, I'm going. Don't be surprised if you're the one leaving the building. I have a mind to report you."
"Fine!" He's yelling now. "Go get a judge and bring him down here. Have him kick me out. Go get him, asshole!"
Whew! All this went down in front of about fifty or so people. The man went on his way and the security guard went back to work, muttering about cocksuckers and assholes.
Later in the day, when I returned to the courthouse, I asked the security guard if the man ever followed through on his threat.
"I would have knocked that fuck out if he did!"
You know, I think he probably would have.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Headstart on the frog, the deer, and the dog
It is Monday. I am tired. There's your Haiku for the month. Indeed, I am tired; I ended up falling asleep around three thirty this morning. Can't blame the late bed time entirely on the final episode of Lost, but watching it contributed mightily to the situation, to be sure. When it ended at eleven thirty, I promptly scoured the web for fan opinion (uniformly unfavorable and reactionary) and word from the people involved with the show (nowhere to be found except on The Jimmy Kimmel show, which was, not surprisingly, more about the funny than extrapolating on plot points, etc.).
I think I trolled the Internet the way I did primarily because I wasn't sure I how I felt about the episode. I'm still not entirely sure. It affected me, it stayed in my head all day. Isn't that the true service of art, though - to shake us up, to stir the blood? Sure, a lot of the show's mysteries were not solved - for example, we still have no idea what the island, arguably the show's main character, was - but the the episode was so well rendered, so poetic, that I wasn't, and still am not, too bothered by that fact.
Initially, I thought the lack of revelations, the lack of a big payoff, was a kind of slap in the face to the hardcore fans, the ones who devoted many an hour theorizing and hypothesizing about the show. Those fans, probably the majority of the show's viewers, were less attracted to characterization than they were to speculating about the supernatural/scientific labyrinthine elements. Each new puzzle lobbed at them was a nugget of gold. They were devoted, they clamored to the last episode with gleeful zeal; they wanted answers, son! They didn't get them, at least not the ones they wanted.
As I say, I initially felt as if that was a slap in the face to these devotees. I bet they had no problem with the the ending itself, but the lack of closure in other key areas of the show, well, I bet that hurt them deep. I imagine they slept less than I did, and less comfortably. Did the the writers sell them short intentionally? Were they just a bunch of dicks fucking with the heads of their loyal fans?
No, I don't think so. I've come to the conclusion that the writers, rather than deprive their fans, actually did them a great service. By leaving a lot of questions unanswered, they've enabled the die-hards to keep theorizing, their bread and butter, long after the show has aired. Ten years from now, people will still be wondering why Miles wasn't at the church at the end and why the man in black was never named.
I'll miss the show, I already do. I plan on eventually, perhaps soon, watching the show from start to finish. I don't think there will be another show like it for a long while.
-
Yes, I am tired. I've got a busy day tomorrow. I predict two things: it will fly by and the heat of it will be stifling. We'll see. In the meantime, it's the Celtics game for me.
I think I trolled the Internet the way I did primarily because I wasn't sure I how I felt about the episode. I'm still not entirely sure. It affected me, it stayed in my head all day. Isn't that the true service of art, though - to shake us up, to stir the blood? Sure, a lot of the show's mysteries were not solved - for example, we still have no idea what the island, arguably the show's main character, was - but the the episode was so well rendered, so poetic, that I wasn't, and still am not, too bothered by that fact.
Initially, I thought the lack of revelations, the lack of a big payoff, was a kind of slap in the face to the hardcore fans, the ones who devoted many an hour theorizing and hypothesizing about the show. Those fans, probably the majority of the show's viewers, were less attracted to characterization than they were to speculating about the supernatural/scientific labyrinthine elements. Each new puzzle lobbed at them was a nugget of gold. They were devoted, they clamored to the last episode with gleeful zeal; they wanted answers, son! They didn't get them, at least not the ones they wanted.
As I say, I initially felt as if that was a slap in the face to these devotees. I bet they had no problem with the the ending itself, but the lack of closure in other key areas of the show, well, I bet that hurt them deep. I imagine they slept less than I did, and less comfortably. Did the the writers sell them short intentionally? Were they just a bunch of dicks fucking with the heads of their loyal fans?
No, I don't think so. I've come to the conclusion that the writers, rather than deprive their fans, actually did them a great service. By leaving a lot of questions unanswered, they've enabled the die-hards to keep theorizing, their bread and butter, long after the show has aired. Ten years from now, people will still be wondering why Miles wasn't at the church at the end and why the man in black was never named.
I'll miss the show, I already do. I plan on eventually, perhaps soon, watching the show from start to finish. I don't think there will be another show like it for a long while.
-
Yes, I am tired. I've got a busy day tomorrow. I predict two things: it will fly by and the heat of it will be stifling. We'll see. In the meantime, it's the Celtics game for me.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
So take your true loves down to the river, and I will watch you here on the corner
Today was a much better day. The weather was glorious, I didn't have to drive through any dilapidated cities, and, well I guess that's enough to make it better than yesterday.
There were some guys working outside near the windows of my office with a radio playing. It was loud enough that we kept ours off so there wouldn't be a cacophony of competing sounds. At one point, Therese got up and started fiddling with the radio. "Why can't I turn this down?" she asked with a puzzled expression. Sharon and I looked at each and smiled.
"The radio has to be on for that to happen", I said with a barely concealed grin.
"What do you mean? Oh, wait... the music is coming from outside!"
That's our Therese.
There's a woman in our building who leaves paper towels on the floor near the door, much to the frustration of the women in our office. Apparently she's germ-phobic and can't bring herself to touch the door handle with her bare hand, so she grasps it with a paper towel and drops it as she exits. She probably doesn't know that there are way more germs on the door handle leading into the bathroom.
The ladies in my office have never caught the litterer in the act, but they all suspect the blond, pregnant woman who works for the chiropractor. The other day, as I was coming out of the men's room, Blondie was coming out of the ladies room. Guess what she had in her hand? Yup, she was carrying a paper towel. That didn't make her guilty, but it made her the leading suspect, especially since Therese had put up a note in the ladies room asking whoever was leaving paper towels on the floor to stop not two days prior.
Yesterday, I saw her again, paper towel in hand. She's definitely the one, though it's never been made clear to me why everyone suspected her in the first place. Process of elimination? Perhaps. Well, at least, in her own way, she's complying with Therese's request. Did I mention she's very attractive? Well, she is, but why does her appearance matter so much to you?
--
I practiced yoga and went for a run today. And then I went to the laundromat and did some laundry, stopping over at Starbucks and reading from Drood while I waited. I'm bushed. Was going to work on music, but I think I'll take my cue from last night and veg out. Leigh, get another Corona ready - I could use one.
Before I end this, I want to pose a question that's been vexing me. How is it that clothes wrinkle in the same places after a wash? For example, one of the pockets on a shirt I own always bends upward in the same place after it comes out of the dryer. Are these wrinkles the equivalent of cowlicks? Are they encoded in the clothing's DNA? Hmm.... See what a deep thinker I am? Please, if you have an answer to this profound question, leave a comment so that I can sleep again.
Namaste, bitches.
There were some guys working outside near the windows of my office with a radio playing. It was loud enough that we kept ours off so there wouldn't be a cacophony of competing sounds. At one point, Therese got up and started fiddling with the radio. "Why can't I turn this down?" she asked with a puzzled expression. Sharon and I looked at each and smiled.
"The radio has to be on for that to happen", I said with a barely concealed grin.
"What do you mean? Oh, wait... the music is coming from outside!"
That's our Therese.
There's a woman in our building who leaves paper towels on the floor near the door, much to the frustration of the women in our office. Apparently she's germ-phobic and can't bring herself to touch the door handle with her bare hand, so she grasps it with a paper towel and drops it as she exits. She probably doesn't know that there are way more germs on the door handle leading into the bathroom.
The ladies in my office have never caught the litterer in the act, but they all suspect the blond, pregnant woman who works for the chiropractor. The other day, as I was coming out of the men's room, Blondie was coming out of the ladies room. Guess what she had in her hand? Yup, she was carrying a paper towel. That didn't make her guilty, but it made her the leading suspect, especially since Therese had put up a note in the ladies room asking whoever was leaving paper towels on the floor to stop not two days prior.
Yesterday, I saw her again, paper towel in hand. She's definitely the one, though it's never been made clear to me why everyone suspected her in the first place. Process of elimination? Perhaps. Well, at least, in her own way, she's complying with Therese's request. Did I mention she's very attractive? Well, she is, but why does her appearance matter so much to you?
--
I practiced yoga and went for a run today. And then I went to the laundromat and did some laundry, stopping over at Starbucks and reading from Drood while I waited. I'm bushed. Was going to work on music, but I think I'll take my cue from last night and veg out. Leigh, get another Corona ready - I could use one.
Before I end this, I want to pose a question that's been vexing me. How is it that clothes wrinkle in the same places after a wash? For example, one of the pockets on a shirt I own always bends upward in the same place after it comes out of the dryer. Are these wrinkles the equivalent of cowlicks? Are they encoded in the clothing's DNA? Hmm.... See what a deep thinker I am? Please, if you have an answer to this profound question, leave a comment so that I can sleep again.
Namaste, bitches.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
I wish I had more friends like yours, that wouldn't close the social doors
I'm trying to decide whether I should go for a run. I'm 50/50. Though it's gray, gloomy, and drizzly outside, and despite the fact that I feel sullen and deflated after arriving home from Worcester, perhaps my least favorite city in MA, a run may be the elixir I need to bring back some pep. My GPS brought me back the hard way; I think I went through at least fifty sets of lights. It was a long, squirmy, ride. Should have stuck to the highways. Whatever. I'm home.
I think I will skip the run. I'm due for a day off and, besides, I was up late last watching the Celtics manhandle the Magic. Mara watched with me. We watched the penultimate episode of Lost before switching over to the game. What a great show; I will miss it dearly. The final episode is Sunday. It will be bittersweet, I'm sure. I predict many viewers will not be happy with the ending. This is a show that thrives in mystery. The ending, unless we're left hanging, will be final. No more mystery. People are bound to be disappointed. The show has been too good, too inventive, for the ending to be sucky, at least as far as I'm concerned.
I'm not going to lie to you: I'm gassed and think I better stop this. I'm having trouble focusing and I'm sure I'm committing all sorts of grammatical and other writerly (See, I'm so foggy, I'm not even sure if that qualifies as a word) errors. My apologies.
I had more to say, and who knows, if I get a second wind later, I'll add to the post. For now, I think it's best I succumb to the vegetative state that's enshrouding me.
I think I will skip the run. I'm due for a day off and, besides, I was up late last watching the Celtics manhandle the Magic. Mara watched with me. We watched the penultimate episode of Lost before switching over to the game. What a great show; I will miss it dearly. The final episode is Sunday. It will be bittersweet, I'm sure. I predict many viewers will not be happy with the ending. This is a show that thrives in mystery. The ending, unless we're left hanging, will be final. No more mystery. People are bound to be disappointed. The show has been too good, too inventive, for the ending to be sucky, at least as far as I'm concerned.
I'm not going to lie to you: I'm gassed and think I better stop this. I'm having trouble focusing and I'm sure I'm committing all sorts of grammatical and other writerly (See, I'm so foggy, I'm not even sure if that qualifies as a word) errors. My apologies.
I had more to say, and who knows, if I get a second wind later, I'll add to the post. For now, I think it's best I succumb to the vegetative state that's enshrouding me.
Monday, May 17, 2010
I hope that I don't fall in love you
A feeling of unease stuck to me all day, it's source a stew of multiple worries, fears, and frustrations. Nevertheless, today wasn't a bad day. The weather was glorious, work went rather well, I went for a run. I'll get past the unease.
-
Saturday night, I hung out with Spira at her place. We talked a bit, then took Missy out for a long walk in the park, where we listened intently to the frogs chirping in the little pond by the path. I brought along the toy megaphone Spira had bought after seeing one of her students with one and had fun using the pitch-shift function. Missy enjoyed it more than I did, though. Every time I spoke into the toy, Missy would wag her tail and come over to me. I was her Pied Piper.
The initial plan that night was to hang out with Mara. She had called earlier in the day asking what I was up to that evening. We made plans to hang out. She called me later on and told me she and Jessica were going to order in some food and then Jessica and a friend were going to a cocktail party. "So I'll be free when they leave, probably around eight thirty or so", she said.
She called me back in a couple of hours and told me that even though she hadn't been invited to the cocktail party Jessica was going to, if Jessica got the okay from the host, she'd probably end up going.
"Is that okay?"
"Sure", I replied. I meant it - she's been trying to get out more and meet new people, particularly guys, and she should seize the opportunities when they arise. I'm not in the business of holding her back. Still, I couldn't help adding, "So, unless something better comes along, and it might, we'll be hanging out later".
I suppose that may have been unfair of me to say, but it was the truth. Look, it doesn't stroke the ego when you get bumped, even when you understand the logic of it. I should note that Mara had mentioned to me early on that it was possible she could have a chance to attend the party, so she didn't exactly break plans with me, she just found something she'd rather do. Fine. I wasn't distraught; more than anything, and I told her so, I wanted her to cement her plans soon so I could make plans of my own before it became too late. And, yes, I was a little pissed, but I bet she would have been, too, if I'd done the same to her. Should I elect to engage in a little tit for tat, I'll have my chance at vengeance. Don't worry, the worst I'll probably do on that front is pull her hair. Worked on my sister, growing up.
-
I'm going to see Rufus Wainwright at the Boston Opera House in August. I had been aware that tickets were on sale, but never got around to doing anything about it. The other day, Spira sent me an email with an attached notification from Ticketmaster that tickets were on sale. I figured she was just letting me know he was playing. Talking with Janelle about the upcoming show, I found out she was going with Spira and Pam. "Damn, I missed out!" , I said.
"She got one for you, too."
Come to find out, Spira did a heroic thing and got me a ticket, even when I didn't respond to the email about the show. Evidently, I didn't read it carefully because in it she asked if I was interested in going, and if I was, she'd purchase the tickets. She told me later that she got me a ticket because she knew I'd forget to do anything about it. I don't know if that's exactly true or not, but Spira gets a virtual high five for this one. And, as an added bonus, my ticket is on her as a birthday present. High five!
I'm really excited about this show. I'm smitten with the new album and according to Rufus, this is going to be his most intimate, scaled down, tour yet. Awww, yeahhhh!
-
Off to other things. Just finished watching The Machinist (heavy stuff), will work on some music, and maybe, just maybe I'll finish Drood, but I don't think so. I'm close, but not that close.
Sayonara, bitches.
-
Saturday night, I hung out with Spira at her place. We talked a bit, then took Missy out for a long walk in the park, where we listened intently to the frogs chirping in the little pond by the path. I brought along the toy megaphone Spira had bought after seeing one of her students with one and had fun using the pitch-shift function. Missy enjoyed it more than I did, though. Every time I spoke into the toy, Missy would wag her tail and come over to me. I was her Pied Piper.
The initial plan that night was to hang out with Mara. She had called earlier in the day asking what I was up to that evening. We made plans to hang out. She called me later on and told me she and Jessica were going to order in some food and then Jessica and a friend were going to a cocktail party. "So I'll be free when they leave, probably around eight thirty or so", she said.
She called me back in a couple of hours and told me that even though she hadn't been invited to the cocktail party Jessica was going to, if Jessica got the okay from the host, she'd probably end up going.
"Is that okay?"
"Sure", I replied. I meant it - she's been trying to get out more and meet new people, particularly guys, and she should seize the opportunities when they arise. I'm not in the business of holding her back. Still, I couldn't help adding, "So, unless something better comes along, and it might, we'll be hanging out later".
I suppose that may have been unfair of me to say, but it was the truth. Look, it doesn't stroke the ego when you get bumped, even when you understand the logic of it. I should note that Mara had mentioned to me early on that it was possible she could have a chance to attend the party, so she didn't exactly break plans with me, she just found something she'd rather do. Fine. I wasn't distraught; more than anything, and I told her so, I wanted her to cement her plans soon so I could make plans of my own before it became too late. And, yes, I was a little pissed, but I bet she would have been, too, if I'd done the same to her. Should I elect to engage in a little tit for tat, I'll have my chance at vengeance. Don't worry, the worst I'll probably do on that front is pull her hair. Worked on my sister, growing up.
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I'm going to see Rufus Wainwright at the Boston Opera House in August. I had been aware that tickets were on sale, but never got around to doing anything about it. The other day, Spira sent me an email with an attached notification from Ticketmaster that tickets were on sale. I figured she was just letting me know he was playing. Talking with Janelle about the upcoming show, I found out she was going with Spira and Pam. "Damn, I missed out!" , I said.
"She got one for you, too."
Come to find out, Spira did a heroic thing and got me a ticket, even when I didn't respond to the email about the show. Evidently, I didn't read it carefully because in it she asked if I was interested in going, and if I was, she'd purchase the tickets. She told me later that she got me a ticket because she knew I'd forget to do anything about it. I don't know if that's exactly true or not, but Spira gets a virtual high five for this one. And, as an added bonus, my ticket is on her as a birthday present. High five!
I'm really excited about this show. I'm smitten with the new album and according to Rufus, this is going to be his most intimate, scaled down, tour yet. Awww, yeahhhh!
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Off to other things. Just finished watching The Machinist (heavy stuff), will work on some music, and maybe, just maybe I'll finish Drood, but I don't think so. I'm close, but not that close.
Sayonara, bitches.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Even now at your window, I am in the dark beside you
When I was much younger, probably around the age of five, my neighbor Jason and I set out to find Candy Land. We were convinced, I think by his mother, that it was located somewhere in the woods that cradled our street. Jason's mother packed us a lunch, handed us walking sticks, two empty sacks (you know, for all the candy we were going to acquisition),wished us well, and set us on our way towards the dead end of the street where the path into the woods awaited us. This was serious business, no one had ever been able to find Candy Land, not the world's most formidable explorers, no one. We were modern Conquistadors and Candy Land was our El Dorado, only we weren't going to come up empty handed like our historic counterparts.
We came up empty handed, but you knew that already. We probably spent about twenty minutes in the woods before we became bored and went home. Looking back, I can't help feeling a little miffed at Jason's mother for lying to us about the existence of that fabled place. And why did she let two boys fresh out of nursery school venture off into the woods unattended? Back then, I guess, people were less paranoid, thankfully so, about danger lurking in every busy street, in every silent corner. For all I know, and, now that I think about it, she probably followed us on our adventure, ensuring our safety. She lied to us, yes, but her intentions were benign. And, I'm just throwing it out there, but what if she was being truthful? What if Queen Frostine and the Molasses Swamp were just around the bend? Perhaps we gave up to soon. Well, now I have a new number one regret in life.
Those woods. I spent a lot of time in those woods. They weren't too expansive, one could never truly get lost within them, but they were deep enough where your imagination could lead you to believe you were far away from civilization. I went looking for Bigfoot in those woods; took Mandy, the dog of my youth out there for many a playful romp; saw two girls lying on a flat rock sunbathing topless ( no, I didn't linger); and sought tearful refuge in it's comforting embrace during troubling times.
It's come to pass that the woods have become depleted. New houses with manicured lawns have eaten it up like cancer, leaving only small patches of forested land. Ah, but that's progress, right? This past thanksgiving, in search of a lost dog, I walked the woods. I felt like I was in a graveyard; everything seemed dead and forgotten. Maybe I was just projecting my irretrievable past onto it. Anyway, probably due to my past association with those woods and the apparent archetypal imagery they offer, I've been dreaming about them for most of my adult life.
In my dreams, those woods have served as a portal to another place, which, as close as I can figure, is probably what we call Heaven, or at the very least, another, more preferable, mysterious world. I don't have these dreams frequently, maybe two or three times a year, but when they occur, I invariably wake up wondering at the vast mysteries of life.
I had one the other night. I was with a group of friends and the vibe I got was that it was the last day of a camping trip and everyone was going for a hike, or perhaps relocating to another site in the woods. At first, our location was foreign to me, but then it transformed and we were in my parent's backyard, the woods looming over us. There were a few people in the group I didn't recognize. One of them was a woman I felt a connection with. She was a big reason I was eager to join the expedition into the woods.
As everyone was milling about, making sure they had everything they needed, I realized I had left a few things in the house. As I made my up to it, I ran into my brother in law, who came into the house with me. I asked him if he and my sister would be coming with us. He said he needed to stay behind with his mother, who he told me was sleeping in my bed. I wasn't pleased that I wasn't asked if that was alright. The thought of a sick, aging, woman occupying my bed made me uncomfortable, I was afraid I would catch whatever she had. I didn't dwell on it too long, however; I had places to go.
I ran into my mother, who was hanging garish strings of beads in the porch. I didn't bother asking her if she'd be coming with us; I knew she wouldn't be, which made feel a little sad. I found my shoes and made my out of the house, waving to my dad, who was standing outside one of the windows.
I rejoined the group just as they were heading off into the woods. Someone gave me a pamphlet to read. There wasn't much to it, save a few cryptic passages. I can't quote directly, but most of it was unsettling. It spoke of the decline of our civilization, about how, because of greed, separateness, and the absolute, pervasive evil in our world governments, life was about to become much, much, worse for everyone before it got better. I had the distinct impression the little trip we were embarking on had much to do with what I read and was probably one way. We weren't going to be coming back.
It was a beautiful day, the birds were singing, every one's mood was light, but the undercurrent was bittersweet. When I woke from the dream, right after I read the pamphlet, I spent the next several hours thinking about death and how foreign and cold, yet somehow beautiful, known, and exquisite it is. The grand paradox.
I don't know if the dream was about death. It could have been about change, about shedding the past. I don't know for sure, but the older I get, the more death surrounds me. My grandmother is in the hospital again, my parents are almost seventy, no one is getting younger. It can't be avoided, death. Everyone owes a life. Everyone. Jung wrote that we should start preparing for death when we reach our thirties. I agree. Something so huge, so monumental, cannot be swept under the rug forever. We deny it, we distract ourselves from it - it frightens us - but it needs to be regarded.
I wonder, when I'm called away from this mortal coil, if my journey will begin, not through a dark tunnel towards the light, but through the woods of my youth and of my dreams; a packed lunch and walking stick in hand.
We came up empty handed, but you knew that already. We probably spent about twenty minutes in the woods before we became bored and went home. Looking back, I can't help feeling a little miffed at Jason's mother for lying to us about the existence of that fabled place. And why did she let two boys fresh out of nursery school venture off into the woods unattended? Back then, I guess, people were less paranoid, thankfully so, about danger lurking in every busy street, in every silent corner. For all I know, and, now that I think about it, she probably followed us on our adventure, ensuring our safety. She lied to us, yes, but her intentions were benign. And, I'm just throwing it out there, but what if she was being truthful? What if Queen Frostine and the Molasses Swamp were just around the bend? Perhaps we gave up to soon. Well, now I have a new number one regret in life.
Those woods. I spent a lot of time in those woods. They weren't too expansive, one could never truly get lost within them, but they were deep enough where your imagination could lead you to believe you were far away from civilization. I went looking for Bigfoot in those woods; took Mandy, the dog of my youth out there for many a playful romp; saw two girls lying on a flat rock sunbathing topless ( no, I didn't linger); and sought tearful refuge in it's comforting embrace during troubling times.
It's come to pass that the woods have become depleted. New houses with manicured lawns have eaten it up like cancer, leaving only small patches of forested land. Ah, but that's progress, right? This past thanksgiving, in search of a lost dog, I walked the woods. I felt like I was in a graveyard; everything seemed dead and forgotten. Maybe I was just projecting my irretrievable past onto it. Anyway, probably due to my past association with those woods and the apparent archetypal imagery they offer, I've been dreaming about them for most of my adult life.
In my dreams, those woods have served as a portal to another place, which, as close as I can figure, is probably what we call Heaven, or at the very least, another, more preferable, mysterious world. I don't have these dreams frequently, maybe two or three times a year, but when they occur, I invariably wake up wondering at the vast mysteries of life.
I had one the other night. I was with a group of friends and the vibe I got was that it was the last day of a camping trip and everyone was going for a hike, or perhaps relocating to another site in the woods. At first, our location was foreign to me, but then it transformed and we were in my parent's backyard, the woods looming over us. There were a few people in the group I didn't recognize. One of them was a woman I felt a connection with. She was a big reason I was eager to join the expedition into the woods.
As everyone was milling about, making sure they had everything they needed, I realized I had left a few things in the house. As I made my up to it, I ran into my brother in law, who came into the house with me. I asked him if he and my sister would be coming with us. He said he needed to stay behind with his mother, who he told me was sleeping in my bed. I wasn't pleased that I wasn't asked if that was alright. The thought of a sick, aging, woman occupying my bed made me uncomfortable, I was afraid I would catch whatever she had. I didn't dwell on it too long, however; I had places to go.
I ran into my mother, who was hanging garish strings of beads in the porch. I didn't bother asking her if she'd be coming with us; I knew she wouldn't be, which made feel a little sad. I found my shoes and made my out of the house, waving to my dad, who was standing outside one of the windows.
I rejoined the group just as they were heading off into the woods. Someone gave me a pamphlet to read. There wasn't much to it, save a few cryptic passages. I can't quote directly, but most of it was unsettling. It spoke of the decline of our civilization, about how, because of greed, separateness, and the absolute, pervasive evil in our world governments, life was about to become much, much, worse for everyone before it got better. I had the distinct impression the little trip we were embarking on had much to do with what I read and was probably one way. We weren't going to be coming back.
It was a beautiful day, the birds were singing, every one's mood was light, but the undercurrent was bittersweet. When I woke from the dream, right after I read the pamphlet, I spent the next several hours thinking about death and how foreign and cold, yet somehow beautiful, known, and exquisite it is. The grand paradox.
I don't know if the dream was about death. It could have been about change, about shedding the past. I don't know for sure, but the older I get, the more death surrounds me. My grandmother is in the hospital again, my parents are almost seventy, no one is getting younger. It can't be avoided, death. Everyone owes a life. Everyone. Jung wrote that we should start preparing for death when we reach our thirties. I agree. Something so huge, so monumental, cannot be swept under the rug forever. We deny it, we distract ourselves from it - it frightens us - but it needs to be regarded.
I wonder, when I'm called away from this mortal coil, if my journey will begin, not through a dark tunnel towards the light, but through the woods of my youth and of my dreams; a packed lunch and walking stick in hand.
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