“I have misunderstood the process of making something cool as the process of making something to share.”
No. As the lady at a crafts booth told me, “You are an asshole if you don’t share your art.”
She had strewn about handmade keychains, picture frames, pastel block prints, planters.
This was 6 months ago. This is now.
I don’t know what I am doing. I am picking up equipment to record through the winter.
Here it is. Let’s go for it.
(dives into the water but makes no splashing sound)
Here it is. Let’s go for it.
(leaps back onto the bridge. runs to the garage with a sweater on).
“Here is a guy who everyone wanted to hang out with, but he did not want to hang out with very many people.”
How can this continue as such madness?
Become domesticated or share what you’ve made of your anxieties.
(with grace, if possible).
This was 10 months ago. Now I am entering music
into the S.E. Alaska State Fair songwriter competition,
though last years winner won with a song called “That’s my Mom!”
I have songs to share with you. (Mountain Lion. Profanity Peak. Northwestern Debris).
She had said, “You are an asshole if you don’t share your work.
You have no idea what kind of good it might do for someone
else. Maybe it inspires them to make art of their own. How god-damn
rewarding would that be to know you opened a stranger up
to the wonder and the joy of bringing new ideas into the world?”
Here it is. Let’s go for it.
The attic of the nocturnal creatures exhibit at the zoo lit on fire and some speculation suggested a vampire bat was exposed to light and combusted, burning up the place, filling the cages with smoke, the empty cages, and now, as a result, a firefighter has minor injuries to be dealt with, little burns, or a sprained wrist. Continue reading
Without hesitation, he is concerned with where he will be tomorrow, where the rain will be, and mudslides, and making a way out there to get to a place that makes meditation on the heart rate easy. A serene lake, he thinks. Somewhere with reflective surfaces and distance. Somewhere with old trees to keep out of the rain. Rivers overflowing. Or flowing low or spitting out salmon, don’t remember what happens when you lose three seasons after intending “maybe August” and letting that go, letting the dream of backpacking the Olympics lost, making the music no one asked for and wondering, in this age of wonder, where and when it can all find outlet. Go out and make it to the ocean, lovely human, your body is not lost on you, it is waiting for you to make up your mind on how to fix what is tense, smart, spelled, and coming after you with the chemical make up of invisible threats or serotonin bombs, the fireworks when you are happy, sad duds, the rain picks up I can feel it in my spine and my 1st system edges toward and away from the sound of the guitar music and the old rain. Dry tones with open chord changes, as everything changes, “unbroken for one hundred years in a constantly changing world” and wondering what watch on what wrist can keep me locked away in some false resemblance of time spent hovering away from who you are, barely hiding the taste of the spirits (self-critique squeezing back in) “days are fine, nights are unbearable” and let me tell you about familiar feelings. I feel tired and sore with scratched and stabbed hands a weighted chest with some guilt spiral and some vicious words from a bereaved and November already I lost everything this year, it is all gone and from its absence, this new canvas, I can move away from hating imagining your body and settle back into the flowers, where the haunt is, the rain on feedback loop, the goings on in the night. Nothing makes sense. Let time pass and let yourself feel back inside the body you live in. No abstractions in that. Commit to the body you’ve been given. Its limitations and experiences and vaunt over the depressions with new experiencing conscious art racing heart tracing mountain yodel gallop wild horse kind of sound of the heart beat in the bath tub too small for that same body, the little pump staying regularly heated in the tension and letting itself fizzle down, spark up, and flash red lights to his submerged toes. I am watching this happen from above, as steam rising off a body picking out warm from one source and dispersing it into the room, but is it cold, and why have I acted on such little positive forethought, all a kind of rushed emotion, signifying nothing.
When I materialized back into my body, I realized the coma had broken. There he was, the body I thought I had, but aged slightly, a year, or more, maybe 5 years there resting under the eyes, wrinkles from frowning covered by beard, it is a seasonal, he told himself, this only happens during the fall transitions, he thought. I am not going insane I am just losing my chlorophyll, bleeding green as it were, and heading into hibernation after hibernating all summer and barely eating enough roots to keep the cave warm. Strangely, and with great hope, I feel I am in the process of resurfacing. Making plans, looking forward to things, all some weeks after becoming shockingly 25 years old and feeling the same sense of estrangement as the 16 year old cigar smoker buried somewhere in the lungs 9 years aged, the wooden heart metaphor, yeah, sure. Nesting dolls. Fabric covering the body no longer fit in. Larger sizes. Mental pingpong. Gasping for air, breathing for the first time in months air unfiltered through a straw or a pond reed or here it is the moment of transition, again, and again, the bursting forward. Is it ever going to stop? Will I ever want it to? This hope for the future always happens in the resolute fall. The endless winter looming. Matt says, “Fall’s always been our season. There’s something in the transitions.” and I can’t argue. I’m no summer lizard (at least whoever I was summer ’16 was not a lizard, more a different species of something hibernating… the unseasonal human boy until fall when everything becomes practical and shares mortality and breathes with cold truths and shoves trees through houses and powerlines and all that.)
I am awake and alive and feel okay.
I am alive and okay. Awake.
I am alive to my feelings. Something internal gave the okay to wake up.
Okay, now. Wake up.
Here I am. What good will come of this day now I committed to it.
I filled up the gas tank of the old focus at the dusky Valero en route to the house I grew up in after a 10-8 shift at the flavored vodka factory (where factory means marketing engine, settled nerves, crazed expressions of self-worth, and eventual quiet where everyone in the board room meeting looks down at their hands or flickers their pencils until start blurring and looking rubbery). Lines in my head from Edward Abbey, although I must question some of his tasteless terminology, his ideas about the reason for wilderness, the immersion into the raw experience of life that every other (unpampered) creature must entertain for themselves to remain alive is an exhilarating reminder of why one has whims to remove oneself from the bubbling potions and screeching garbage trucks to move away and into the otherwise unknown beyond. Beyond.
The desire to be elsewhere found itself settled onto my heart at the gas station. The probably gas station where Mike bought me my first cigar, when I was sixteen and not supposed to do such things, but such cool older friends and kept it to myself later how young I will die because of the decisions I made in high school ( who said that, a camp counselor? ) no one said anything about that other than statistical data base computers, and the people who run them for the morgue, the health service, the hereditary alcoholic research group, the liver control board, the mash tank stopwatch kept under close watch, because profits, always because profits and never for consequences, because profits can be spent before consequences catch up.
I imagined the car and the gas pump in a different locality, a desert offshoot somewhere it was crucial and not just a dumb little chore. Somewhere the next gas had to be factored in for the drive, a kind of odometer of the sense, the feeling of lurching toward a new freedom from want, but always finding more want when getting there.
Drive the car its 275 miles before it is dead and leave it there for the vultures. What then? Well, pick up some quality boots before this time of crisis and slowly drain that stupid savings account, the one meant to be spent on music equipment and later travels. Drain now, what are you waiting for, winter is encroaching and removing the summer of its plans, it becomes a cold blur and something without sunrises or sunsets just a factory with indentions of being between the beams of conscious nightlessness and letting go of other inhibitions, in the sultry consumerism of a growing little city, the kind of love affair that lasts until He is done and let the capitalization mean everything possible to you, to you with your ego driven pesticide spraying on the beaches and shorelines of a beautiful estuary we all share, the sea stars, the humans, the sand fleas, and the herons, the great blue herons forced to search for a new rookery and the conservative anti-nature lobotomists who actively (frighteningly actively) believe in the removal of such “pests” for the benefit of condo views, uninterrupted housing developments, and flavored vodkas in the more to top on their bacon raffle tickets.
The title of this post refers to a Manchester Orchestra song of the same name. One that I heard on my way home and listened to three times in a row and this whole thing spun out of that experience and others. The base experience at $99 plus tax and the advanced experience, the one you get to take home, is an additional $49 plus tax. You need to fight the battles that matter to you personally and not get caught fighting against swine who will fight among themselves anyway.
this afternoon there was a large, evasive moth with red patterns on its wings. it was in the break room which is three doorways from the outside. I attempted to catch it and release it with a brown paper bag and a chipped pint glass… G. said, “I tried to do the same thing with a hummingbird. I kept trying to coax it outside but I was afraid I would kill it. So I left it alone and eventually it found its own way out.” I’m thinking of the moths I’ve tried to trap. There was cathedral music until it became Saturday and the secrecy enhanced itself beyond the story I meant to tell.
what I meant to say was there were choral vocals coming from the woods and I imagined them to be trees with different sexes, or microphones embedded into the heartwood of a cedar, the creekside trees fled something different, and what I still meant to say was I heard music come from the woods after reading about the elephants in the room, the elephants in the vistas, the elephants in the mason jars, intimate, extroverted, and close, too close, letting us ride this one out until a new kind of future is developed for us.
complaints haven’t gotten me anywhere in three years. what in the hell would I do with lakeside erosion control.