(click for larger versions)
11.05.2007
...and some pictures
Forgive the Coveyesque nature of some of these, but of course one can't hold a monopoly on cell phone cam neo-realism...
(click for larger versions)
(click for larger versions)
Better late then--never mind.
And what do I have to show for it?
Not much.
As for this next bit, I was on a plane. So you can't complain (that makes two Nirvana references, if you're counting):
MISSED HER SAND, MAN
whisper powder in a sleeping ear:
the words that taunt and haunt
the corners of the slumber mill;
faith burrowed, brow furrowed
in a taciturn toss ‘n’ turn
on a rain-rinsed morning
it’s goodbye to bottle-nosed notions
and past-due date potions,
tho’ a linger of maudlin malady remains,
resistant to elixir’s refrain;
so summon the sawbones,
swing a bell rope side t’side,
quit the calm from the clapper,
blow out a reveille
for the noontime napper
pack a pail o’ prudence
'ere you sing a song o’ sixth-sense;
as minnows grow to Mopey Dicks,
the eggs will soon be citizens.
Not much.
As for this next bit, I was on a plane. So you can't complain (that makes two Nirvana references, if you're counting):
MISSED HER SAND, MAN
whisper powder in a sleeping ear:
the words that taunt and haunt
the corners of the slumber mill;
faith burrowed, brow furrowed
in a taciturn toss ‘n’ turn
on a rain-rinsed morning
it’s goodbye to bottle-nosed notions
and past-due date potions,
tho’ a linger of maudlin malady remains,
resistant to elixir’s refrain;
so summon the sawbones,
swing a bell rope side t’side,
quit the calm from the clapper,
blow out a reveille
for the noontime napper
pack a pail o’ prudence
'ere you sing a song o’ sixth-sense;
as minnows grow to Mopey Dicks,
the eggs will soon be citizens.
7.11.2007
Waste of Chicago
These were taken last weekend when Alexis visited us during her cross-country train trip. As usual when her and Covey are in the same place at the same time, poop tends to be a frequent topic. But before that stuff hits the fan, enjoy these more halcyon moments from our oh-so-touristy excursions to Chicago's famous summer food and music festival, a sampling of deep dish pizza from Gino's East, and The Museum of Science and industry.
6.24.2007
Man R. from Mars vs. Bertha Venus
Well, faithful readers, what may seem like a bit of diarrhea after a prolonged constipation is actually a fairly long-tinkered-with little piece, summing up much of what's been on the mind recently (as far as artistic musings are concerned). By no means is this a final word on any of the involved subjects, some of which I've discussed pretty lengthily on the blog. While I've bestowed what is likely my most obnoxious title to date on this creation (apologies to Mr. Boticelli), be sure that underneath the handful of puns is some meat to chew, which you'll have to do mostly unaided, at least for starters.
One quick note I'll share, is on the phrase "three on a match", found below, which is old-fashioned enough to likely be foreign to most modern readers. It's a superstition that says it's bad luck to light three cigarettes with one match, and though there are numerous rumors as to its origin, most place it around World War I. Supposedly the enemy could spot your location by the lighting of the first, aim the rifle by the second, and shoot the person lighting the third. Some rumors claim the whole saying was invented by a match manufacturer so he could sell more of his product. So we have a superstition that arose from either war or capitalism. As we move on to more ethereal matters, be warned that these two forces may poke their heads out at some point, as they always do, world without end.
UPDATED NOTE: It was only after rereading this a few times that I noticed that within this abstract battle of the sexes there appear to be some references to warfare, and economic matters. Of course, true to my nature, there's a bit of a slacker/defeatist quip at the end. I assure you that all of this was unconscious, and purely a manifestation of how all these seemingly unrelated matters are connected in the laissez-faire market of the mind.
***
MAN R. MARS vs. BERTHA VENUS
parade of motley bands around the blonde,
wrapped in streamers like a lace-stitched shoe;
pell-mell partials swarm this swan,
pearl harborin’ somethin’ secret--
a wad o’ wisdom ‘tween the teeth;
tempest in a d-cup,
busom and then some;
mind your pleas and cues,
three on a match made overused,
once entrenched with a
monkey’d ‘round wrench,
now back on the boneheap
while skins and cynics
reticent to give a red cent
cough up a long
and dwindling lode,
larceny in dey hearts
and bedlam on de brain
roll out a rare refrain:
If I Had A Hammock,
I’d Hang.
***
One quick note I'll share, is on the phrase "three on a match", found below, which is old-fashioned enough to likely be foreign to most modern readers. It's a superstition that says it's bad luck to light three cigarettes with one match, and though there are numerous rumors as to its origin, most place it around World War I. Supposedly the enemy could spot your location by the lighting of the first, aim the rifle by the second, and shoot the person lighting the third. Some rumors claim the whole saying was invented by a match manufacturer so he could sell more of his product. So we have a superstition that arose from either war or capitalism. As we move on to more ethereal matters, be warned that these two forces may poke their heads out at some point, as they always do, world without end.
UPDATED NOTE: It was only after rereading this a few times that I noticed that within this abstract battle of the sexes there appear to be some references to warfare, and economic matters. Of course, true to my nature, there's a bit of a slacker/defeatist quip at the end. I assure you that all of this was unconscious, and purely a manifestation of how all these seemingly unrelated matters are connected in the laissez-faire market of the mind.
***
MAN R. MARS vs. BERTHA VENUS
parade of motley bands around the blonde,
wrapped in streamers like a lace-stitched shoe;
pell-mell partials swarm this swan,
pearl harborin’ somethin’ secret--
a wad o’ wisdom ‘tween the teeth;
tempest in a d-cup,
busom and then some;
mind your pleas and cues,
three on a match made overused,
once entrenched with a
monkey’d ‘round wrench,
now back on the boneheap
while skins and cynics
reticent to give a red cent
cough up a long
and dwindling lode,
larceny in dey hearts
and bedlam on de brain
roll out a rare refrain:
If I Had A Hammock,
I’d Hang.
***
6.21.2007
5000 Words
I know, this trip happened like over a month ago. Whatever. I'll spare you the Mt. Rushmore pics, as I don't know what I could show you that you probably haven't seen before. So here's some kitchy fun from Wall Drug, and if you don't know where or what that is, well, you'll just have to find out for yourself.
6.10.2007
Pictures From The Road Strikes Back!
So we were driving along some smaller Wyoming highway, and had the urge to pull off to the side because we saw an easily accessible river. We descended a hill, and at the bottom were the remains of some kind of dwelling, as if the top half had been sliced off and removed, leaving only a below ground section. We ignored what we figured was an outdated No Tresspassing sign and continued down to the water for about 30 minutes of skipping stones exploring, getting our feet wet...little boy stuff. I wish I could entertain you with a story of some enraged property owner attacking us, or some other Deliverance-esque business, but it was just a peaceful afternoon under the sun where lesser poets would say something about heaven touching earth. You might grok a hint of what I'm talking about with the first pictures.
Next we have a lone picture from Buffalo, WY inside the Occidental Hotel. I can't even begin to tell you (a sentence starter that never fails to immediately negate itself) how amazing this place is. This place has been restored to a level of detail that's shocking. We hit the town before the high season and it was pretty dead, so the owner gave us a sweet deal on a couple of rooms. Supposedly we slept where Butch Cassidy once stopped for a night; possibly bullshit but it's no fun if you don't play along. There's a restaurant connected to the place where I had the best prime rib I've ever had in my life for like $25. I implore you to check out the website (www.occidentalhotel.com), and if you're ever passing through Wyoming you don't want to miss it.
The last three are pretty self-explanatory, but if you want captions, here goes: 1. You have to be THIS tall to ride Devil's Tower, 2. "Independence Day/Close Encounters of the Third Kind 2: These Colors Do NOT Run" (starring Will Smith), 3. Jesus Towers Over Devil's Tower--no contest.
Next we have a lone picture from Buffalo, WY inside the Occidental Hotel. I can't even begin to tell you (a sentence starter that never fails to immediately negate itself) how amazing this place is. This place has been restored to a level of detail that's shocking. We hit the town before the high season and it was pretty dead, so the owner gave us a sweet deal on a couple of rooms. Supposedly we slept where Butch Cassidy once stopped for a night; possibly bullshit but it's no fun if you don't play along. There's a restaurant connected to the place where I had the best prime rib I've ever had in my life for like $25. I implore you to check out the website (www.occidentalhotel.com), and if you're ever passing through Wyoming you don't want to miss it.
The last three are pretty self-explanatory, but if you want captions, here goes: 1. You have to be THIS tall to ride Devil's Tower, 2. "Independence Day/Close Encounters of the Third Kind 2: These Colors Do NOT Run" (starring Will Smith), 3. Jesus Towers Over Devil's Tower--no contest.
6.02.2007
At Long Last Pics...
From the top, two shots of Shoshonee Falls (Bigger than Niagra, Stronger than Viagra!) in Idaho (note the rainbow in pic #2), and a few from Jackson Hole, Wyoming, specifically an antler archway, the signage from some old-timey saloon, and Mr. Ryan the dead tree-hugger.
More to come. And FYI, Wyoming is now my new Second Favorite State (after the indisputable California at Number One).
More to come. And FYI, Wyoming is now my new Second Favorite State (after the indisputable California at Number One).
5.16.2007
News from the front...
Once again an apology for the lack of updates. I could blame it on the emotional freefall I've been in since learning that Gilmore Girls was coming to a close, but you know, it had run its course and resolved itself about as well as I had hoped, plus I'm a little too tough to let the future of a CW network television show affect my creative output (actually, Veronica Mars may be cancelled too as of Thursday morning, so maybe I should wait before making a bravado-filled statement I might regret).
Some serious computer problems out here in minneapolis, and I don't know if I'm going to be online with my computer the whole time I'm here (about 2 1/2 more weeks). Apparently my computer is too NEW to be compatible with the modem & wireless security at the place I'm subletting. Way to go, Apple. That's what nearly $2000 gets you. Oh, my 90-day tech support window is over already too? Unless I want pay $350 to extend my warranty and regain the right to hear some Indian operator posing under a fake American name type what I'm saying into their own help software and stall me with pre-scripted babble (personally I would feel in better hands if they used their own names; the smartest kid when I was in elementary school--let me rephrase that to allow for my younger self, who was able to get much further ahead with little effort--the second smartest kid when I was in elementary school was named Deepak, and I know if it was him instead of "John" on the other end of the line I wouldn't be so skeptical). Alright, maybe it was Qwest, the ISP, who was outsourcing the help line jobs, but allow me a little poetic license in combining the two corporate brick walls I just hit, for pete's sake.
What this all means is no pictures, which, let's face it, is a great way to not have to sit down and actually write something on a regular basis. Since I just spent the most part of a week driving across the Great American West, I was hoping to share some of the visual record from said trek, and I assure you there's some great stuff scattered among the typical Me In Front of Mount Rushmore shots (there's actually a Me Appearing To French Kiss George Washington's Profile shot, but I'm sure that's been done a million times as well, no offense Martha).
Do you want to see me ride a 6-foot-tall jackalope? Or Ryan's face in the cut-out hole of a squaw, holding a papoose? Yeah, well, you're going to have to wait. Unless you all want to pitch in to pay for my AppleCare package (if I knew there were more than 5 people reading this blog I'd try to start one of those Everyone Just Donate A Dollar For My Insignificant Unnecessary Purchase That Somehow Becomes a Noble Quest Because I'm Shamelessly Throwing Myself On The Mercy Of The Masses And I'll Have Enough To Get It things that some girl used to pay her way through college or whatever). I guess that only happens if you absent-mindedly lose or break something important so your friends feel bad and pitch in to buy a new one for you (right, Alexis?).
Some would say, hey, you have a work computer you share with a guy who's now gone most of the time hanging out with his girlfriend, so what's the big deal? You still have internet access. Well, I'll tell you. I do a lot of downloading. I'm not sure if I should say it's porn so the music and television industries won't come after me, or admit to being the kind of guy who scours torrent sites in hopes of tracking down fragments of his past (hey, someone uploaded that cartoon I saw once when I was 8! I guess I have to spend 3 days and 1.5 gigs of memory getting all 24 episodes of it, even though I'm either [a] never going to watch all of them, if any or [b] be totally disappointed about how shitty it is compared to what I remember). Take your pick; I can't win.
Others would say, maybe this is a sign to stop spending so much time online, and actually use your computer to write something constructive, like another screenplay you won't do anything with, or a script for one of those short films you keep talking about making but never do.
Hey, great idea.
Some serious computer problems out here in minneapolis, and I don't know if I'm going to be online with my computer the whole time I'm here (about 2 1/2 more weeks). Apparently my computer is too NEW to be compatible with the modem & wireless security at the place I'm subletting. Way to go, Apple. That's what nearly $2000 gets you. Oh, my 90-day tech support window is over already too? Unless I want pay $350 to extend my warranty and regain the right to hear some Indian operator posing under a fake American name type what I'm saying into their own help software and stall me with pre-scripted babble (personally I would feel in better hands if they used their own names; the smartest kid when I was in elementary school--let me rephrase that to allow for my younger self, who was able to get much further ahead with little effort--the second smartest kid when I was in elementary school was named Deepak, and I know if it was him instead of "John" on the other end of the line I wouldn't be so skeptical). Alright, maybe it was Qwest, the ISP, who was outsourcing the help line jobs, but allow me a little poetic license in combining the two corporate brick walls I just hit, for pete's sake.
What this all means is no pictures, which, let's face it, is a great way to not have to sit down and actually write something on a regular basis. Since I just spent the most part of a week driving across the Great American West, I was hoping to share some of the visual record from said trek, and I assure you there's some great stuff scattered among the typical Me In Front of Mount Rushmore shots (there's actually a Me Appearing To French Kiss George Washington's Profile shot, but I'm sure that's been done a million times as well, no offense Martha).
Do you want to see me ride a 6-foot-tall jackalope? Or Ryan's face in the cut-out hole of a squaw, holding a papoose? Yeah, well, you're going to have to wait. Unless you all want to pitch in to pay for my AppleCare package (if I knew there were more than 5 people reading this blog I'd try to start one of those Everyone Just Donate A Dollar For My Insignificant Unnecessary Purchase That Somehow Becomes a Noble Quest Because I'm Shamelessly Throwing Myself On The Mercy Of The Masses And I'll Have Enough To Get It things that some girl used to pay her way through college or whatever). I guess that only happens if you absent-mindedly lose or break something important so your friends feel bad and pitch in to buy a new one for you (right, Alexis?).
Some would say, hey, you have a work computer you share with a guy who's now gone most of the time hanging out with his girlfriend, so what's the big deal? You still have internet access. Well, I'll tell you. I do a lot of downloading. I'm not sure if I should say it's porn so the music and television industries won't come after me, or admit to being the kind of guy who scours torrent sites in hopes of tracking down fragments of his past (hey, someone uploaded that cartoon I saw once when I was 8! I guess I have to spend 3 days and 1.5 gigs of memory getting all 24 episodes of it, even though I'm either [a] never going to watch all of them, if any or [b] be totally disappointed about how shitty it is compared to what I remember). Take your pick; I can't win.
Others would say, maybe this is a sign to stop spending so much time online, and actually use your computer to write something constructive, like another screenplay you won't do anything with, or a script for one of those short films you keep talking about making but never do.
Hey, great idea.
5.07.2007
While we're on the subject...
I'm not going to pretend that this post isn't a placeholder of sorts...I had hoped to be updating more often, and still plan to, but I bit off a lot last week (as you can see from the previous post), and frankly I'm still masticating on that one. The fact that said action rhymes with "procrastinating" should be regarded as a coincidence and nothing more.
I also can't deny that religion has been on the brain a bit lately. And it seems to me that no matter how much I protest, the audience is going to surmise that one is preoccupied. Honestly, it never has been a big part of my life since I came of age and called into question the things I had been taught, which also were beliefs that my parents appeared to be taking for granted and not overtly passionate about. Sure enough, when I revealed to my father that I simply wasn't interested in taking any more religious classes (I was just entering high school at the time) or attending any communal services, he didn't put up any kind of noticeable fight. At the time he was busy taking care of (and worrying about) my increasingly sick mother, so I imagine retaining me as one of god's warriors wasn't too high on his priority list. Perhaps his own beliefs had been called into question and he didn't feel hypocritical enough to ask me to reconsider.
At any rate, I am eternally thankful for his understanding and/or lack of energy, and not in the way that I'm thankful I was indulged as a child, which has certainly turned out to be more of a double-edged sword. It was the first step towards exploring many of my preconceived notions, and forming my own set of beliefs, which I hope have become more flexible as I've grown older. A favorite quote of mine is one from TImothy Leary: "You're only as young as the last time you changed your mind." That's something I always try to keep in mind when I find myself growing intolerant of certain things. Now that doesn't mean I'm going to be a born-again christian next week; it's about being open and available to anything that might come down the pike.
So despite my aversion in my adult life to any kind of dogmatic system I've found myself reading a lot of literature lately that deals with people's beliefs, the way that people act on them (or fail to), and how it shapes their lives. A few in particular are Philip K. Dick's The Transmigration of Timothy Archer, and Robertson Davies' Deptford Trilogy (as of this date the first two installments, Fifth Business and The Manticore). You would be hard-pressed to find a subject that illuminates the human condition as well as this one, and it never ceases to be fascinating regardless of how much of it you think is hogwash or a crutch for self-actualization.
In closing, I'd like to share with you a piece that I wrote a few years ago, which isn't from any particular well of inspiration save for the fact that I needed new material for an open mic I was performing at that evening. You will note that this work references both christianity and communist China, the idea being that these are both institutions which have strayed from their original, pure intentions, and how much so is in the eye of the beholder.
***
THE FLOWER AND THE GLORY
oh when the saints come parched and thin
there's a canteen sip for each sun-baked sin;
all good things must come to a bend,
the hump on the back of the camel skin
she mumbles out the feather-pen writ
cabalist incantations,
nothing more tragic than misspelled magic;
the croak of desperate desert vespers
she takes the paperwhites outside
to overdose on natural light
like incinerated astronauts
in welcome home atmosphere,
ashen scent on the breeze
she snaps a malade stalk
and thinks of Youth in Asia;
tanks for nothing--
scars on the stars in the city square;
root out the rats and their last caveats,
the hammer and sickly banner
all year-plans rolled up and stored away;
varied degrees of internal decay
betray a hemisphere of flying
in the falter of marches and churches;
the withered remains of growing pains--
deaf throes of the flower and the glory.
***
I also can't deny that religion has been on the brain a bit lately. And it seems to me that no matter how much I protest, the audience is going to surmise that one is preoccupied. Honestly, it never has been a big part of my life since I came of age and called into question the things I had been taught, which also were beliefs that my parents appeared to be taking for granted and not overtly passionate about. Sure enough, when I revealed to my father that I simply wasn't interested in taking any more religious classes (I was just entering high school at the time) or attending any communal services, he didn't put up any kind of noticeable fight. At the time he was busy taking care of (and worrying about) my increasingly sick mother, so I imagine retaining me as one of god's warriors wasn't too high on his priority list. Perhaps his own beliefs had been called into question and he didn't feel hypocritical enough to ask me to reconsider.
At any rate, I am eternally thankful for his understanding and/or lack of energy, and not in the way that I'm thankful I was indulged as a child, which has certainly turned out to be more of a double-edged sword. It was the first step towards exploring many of my preconceived notions, and forming my own set of beliefs, which I hope have become more flexible as I've grown older. A favorite quote of mine is one from TImothy Leary: "You're only as young as the last time you changed your mind." That's something I always try to keep in mind when I find myself growing intolerant of certain things. Now that doesn't mean I'm going to be a born-again christian next week; it's about being open and available to anything that might come down the pike.
So despite my aversion in my adult life to any kind of dogmatic system I've found myself reading a lot of literature lately that deals with people's beliefs, the way that people act on them (or fail to), and how it shapes their lives. A few in particular are Philip K. Dick's The Transmigration of Timothy Archer, and Robertson Davies' Deptford Trilogy (as of this date the first two installments, Fifth Business and The Manticore). You would be hard-pressed to find a subject that illuminates the human condition as well as this one, and it never ceases to be fascinating regardless of how much of it you think is hogwash or a crutch for self-actualization.
In closing, I'd like to share with you a piece that I wrote a few years ago, which isn't from any particular well of inspiration save for the fact that I needed new material for an open mic I was performing at that evening. You will note that this work references both christianity and communist China, the idea being that these are both institutions which have strayed from their original, pure intentions, and how much so is in the eye of the beholder.
***
THE FLOWER AND THE GLORY
oh when the saints come parched and thin
there's a canteen sip for each sun-baked sin;
all good things must come to a bend,
the hump on the back of the camel skin
she mumbles out the feather-pen writ
cabalist incantations,
nothing more tragic than misspelled magic;
the croak of desperate desert vespers
she takes the paperwhites outside
to overdose on natural light
like incinerated astronauts
in welcome home atmosphere,
ashen scent on the breeze
she snaps a malade stalk
and thinks of Youth in Asia;
tanks for nothing--
scars on the stars in the city square;
root out the rats and their last caveats,
the hammer and sickly banner
all year-plans rolled up and stored away;
varied degrees of internal decay
betray a hemisphere of flying
in the falter of marches and churches;
the withered remains of growing pains--
deaf throes of the flower and the glory.
***
4.29.2007
This one's a doozy...
The other day I asked some of my female friends through email to give me their thoughts on a particular biblical passage. This wasn't to inspire any kind of religious discussion, but to help me flesh out a character for a femme-centric piece I'm writing. I stumbled across this section of scripture when I Wikied "Song of Solomon" a.k.a. "The Song of Songs". I know a little about this psalm because Sergio Leone quoted it in his 1984 film Once Upon a Time in America, a particular favorite of mine. Some of the words from this display of adoration are read in the film by a very young (I'm guessing around 13 years old, and surprisingly effective) Jennifer Connelly, to a boy whose character is also played by Robert DeNiro in two different time frames. This cinematic aside doesn't necessarily (we'll get to that later) have anything to do with what I'm working on, but I thought I'd mention it. BTW, Once Upon... also features what I believe to be one of the 2 or 3 greatest film scores ever composed, this one by Ennio Morricone. It's hard to hear his music and not be inspired to do SOMETHING.
I'm going to post this quote from the Song of Songs below, and note that I simply asked my friends for a reflexive reaction, as women, to the words, in any kind of form.
Here you go:
**
The watchmen who patrol the city found me: "Have you seen him whom my soul loves?"
I opened for my beloved, but my beloved had hidden and was gone; my soul went out when he spoke; I sought him, but found him not; I called him, but he did not answer me.
**
Continuing along this chain of events, someone in the house today had turned on Antiques Roadshow, and one of those weird appraisal dudes was looking at a painting by Alphonse Mucha, and though the work was titled "Job", it featured a woman.
I Wikied the artist and linked to a gallery of his work, thinking maybe there would be an image that reflected the aforementioned excerpt from the S.O.S. I found a couple forlorn women (a common subject in the medium, I know), but the one that stood out was a poster advertising an actress playing Joan of Arc.
And I thought, as Joan was crazed from her visions that she was unable to fully explain or gain sympathy for, such is the plight of the woman roaming the city looking for her love in the S.O.S. And just as Joan was eventually burned at the stake for her words, deeds, and beliefs, I'll surprise you by mentioning that there's a continuation to the lines from the S.O.S. (which I excluded for conciseness, and what I believed at the time was a lack of relevance to my own ideas), and here they are:
**
The watchmen who patrol the city found me; they smote me and wounded me; the watchmen of the walls took my jewelry off me.
**
Interesting, huh? Again, I'm not interested in any kind of bible study, or trying to form some kind of DaVinci Codesque conspiracy theories about Joan acting out lines from the S.O.S., but the underlying credo in my artistic endeavors (and view of the universe) is that everything really is connected, somewhere down there. When I write verse, it's coming from a deep subconscious pool of thoughts and ideas that all swim together in the same water. They don't discriminate. Usually our conscious minds call these things forth in particular orders and patterns; when you speak to your friends you don't blurt out run-on sentences in stream of consciousness fashion (well, maybe Bob Dylan used to). But when you paint, or play music, or write verse, or whatever, you have the option of opening that gate, that filter, and letting it all out at once. It's hard for many people to do this. Some use L.S.D. I consider myself lucky. One could take this a step further and imagine being able to harness the information of the Collective Unconscious (you can Wiki that one yourself for a little Jungian treat), but this post has become pretentious and out-there enough so I'll just bring it all back home:
If Job is the man that god tested personally, and Joan is one whose beliefs were tested, theoretically, in a less direct fashion by god, than it seems they have a lot in common. There's a jumping off point here for a discussion of religion and gender, but it's not what I'm interested at this moment. For now I'm content to let these images and words stew a bit and see what comes out. Combined with what some of you have already given to me, it's good stuff.
Thanks for sharing, and letting me share. Feel free to discuss below, be you male, female, or somewhere in-between, and I'll certainly participate.
I'm going to post this quote from the Song of Songs below, and note that I simply asked my friends for a reflexive reaction, as women, to the words, in any kind of form.
Here you go:
**
The watchmen who patrol the city found me: "Have you seen him whom my soul loves?"
I opened for my beloved, but my beloved had hidden and was gone; my soul went out when he spoke; I sought him, but found him not; I called him, but he did not answer me.
**
Continuing along this chain of events, someone in the house today had turned on Antiques Roadshow, and one of those weird appraisal dudes was looking at a painting by Alphonse Mucha, and though the work was titled "Job", it featured a woman.
I Wikied the artist and linked to a gallery of his work, thinking maybe there would be an image that reflected the aforementioned excerpt from the S.O.S. I found a couple forlorn women (a common subject in the medium, I know), but the one that stood out was a poster advertising an actress playing Joan of Arc.
And I thought, as Joan was crazed from her visions that she was unable to fully explain or gain sympathy for, such is the plight of the woman roaming the city looking for her love in the S.O.S. And just as Joan was eventually burned at the stake for her words, deeds, and beliefs, I'll surprise you by mentioning that there's a continuation to the lines from the S.O.S. (which I excluded for conciseness, and what I believed at the time was a lack of relevance to my own ideas), and here they are:
**
The watchmen who patrol the city found me; they smote me and wounded me; the watchmen of the walls took my jewelry off me.
**
Interesting, huh? Again, I'm not interested in any kind of bible study, or trying to form some kind of DaVinci Codesque conspiracy theories about Joan acting out lines from the S.O.S., but the underlying credo in my artistic endeavors (and view of the universe) is that everything really is connected, somewhere down there. When I write verse, it's coming from a deep subconscious pool of thoughts and ideas that all swim together in the same water. They don't discriminate. Usually our conscious minds call these things forth in particular orders and patterns; when you speak to your friends you don't blurt out run-on sentences in stream of consciousness fashion (well, maybe Bob Dylan used to). But when you paint, or play music, or write verse, or whatever, you have the option of opening that gate, that filter, and letting it all out at once. It's hard for many people to do this. Some use L.S.D. I consider myself lucky. One could take this a step further and imagine being able to harness the information of the Collective Unconscious (you can Wiki that one yourself for a little Jungian treat), but this post has become pretentious and out-there enough so I'll just bring it all back home:
If Job is the man that god tested personally, and Joan is one whose beliefs were tested, theoretically, in a less direct fashion by god, than it seems they have a lot in common. There's a jumping off point here for a discussion of religion and gender, but it's not what I'm interested at this moment. For now I'm content to let these images and words stew a bit and see what comes out. Combined with what some of you have already given to me, it's good stuff.
Thanks for sharing, and letting me share. Feel free to discuss below, be you male, female, or somewhere in-between, and I'll certainly participate.
4.17.2007
Canoe in Rehearsal pt. 3
I didn't know Frank's junk could sing either. I guess he's saving that one for the next show. Again, click to enlarge, but uhh...be careful what you wish for.
Thanks to the whole band for letting me be a noisy fly on the wall.
Thanks to the whole band for letting me be a noisy fly on the wall.
Canoe in Rehearsal pt. 1
Here's the band gearing up for their big show at the Red House last Saturday:
4.10.2007
"BALLAD OF A FROGMAN"
See what a little self-pity can deliver? Again, just completed, forgive the subtle and not-so-subtle puns. Like the scorpion said, I can't help it, it's in my nature. Comments and interpretations welcome.
***
BALLAD OF A FROGMAN
I may sing rays,
discreet the sound
whisper o’er the bayou by me
hop a track and Punch-a-train
with gin mill odious odes
barbershop quartet offensive
warped vorpal sword
of vocal chords
pulled to pluck mal marrow’s arrows
at tame and tender targets
all saints dey earn der hey lows
and high falutin salutin
writhing in squid ink
on a papyrus palimpsest
hier’s sins scrubbed with aujourd’s deed
small price peddled for a pedestal
spelding is correct, gloria
fish who loved to be loaved
content to bubble unaired prayers
split the diffidence
‘tween sunbaked blessings
and fogrolled curses,
tinfoiled again.
***
BALLAD OF A FROGMAN
I may sing rays,
discreet the sound
whisper o’er the bayou by me
hop a track and Punch-a-train
with gin mill odious odes
barbershop quartet offensive
warped vorpal sword
of vocal chords
pulled to pluck mal marrow’s arrows
at tame and tender targets
all saints dey earn der hey lows
and high falutin salutin
writhing in squid ink
on a papyrus palimpsest
hier’s sins scrubbed with aujourd’s deed
small price peddled for a pedestal
spelding is correct, gloria
fish who loved to be loaved
content to bubble unaired prayers
split the diffidence
‘tween sunbaked blessings
and fogrolled curses,
tinfoiled again.
4.09.2007
The short, happy life of a blog
Do people often begin blogs with the best intentions, only to sputter and fade weeks out of the starting gate? There are many, I imagine, who are quite content, and physically able to jot down whatever random thoughts enter their head on any given day and spew it out into the e-atmosphere, not necessarily because they're giving the people what they want, but because they just feel a need to Get It Out, and there are others (like myself, to an extent) who feel they need to make some kind of constructive entry every time they post.
While I've been a "writer" since 2nd grade, when I used to fold a sheet of paper in half, and fold it again to make a little book, ignoring whatever was being taught on the day (usually because I was ahead of the pace chosen to accomodate the slower learners, if you'll permit me a moment of egotistical confession), I haven't been one of habit since. My successes on the page have come in short bursts of inspiration, and I'll leave you to make your own Freudian metaphor with that one. I've been lazy for so long I don't have the energy to try and remember when I wasn't. It's not a point of pride, believe me, but it's the reality until I find the will to change it. I even downloaded one of a well-known motivational speaker's compact discs just to see what the fuss was about, but I haven't gotten around to listening to it yet, as I'm busy watching the entire collected episodes of various cancelled television series that may or may not be worth the time I'm investing in them, and buying used books at a rate of about 10x the speed at which I'm reading them. You see the problem?
And am I the only one whose concentration while reading has frayed a bit from the long hours logged on the internet, clicking away on half-connected whims to the point where you feel you're back on the couch again with 300 cable channels, unable to stay on anything for more than 30 seconds? It's taken a serious effort to buckle down and burrow into a book like I used to, and this last week I've made some progress, limiting my time online, and giving myself a good hour a day to read.
It hasn't helped the writing much, though. For a while I was churning out verse at a fairly decent rate, for one stretch when I was reading at a weekly open mike, and once when I was living in Paris and didn't have much use for the mostly indecipherable television stations. I've only written one thing in the last 4 months (see blog entry below), and my hopes for being more productive in that department while on the road appear to be yielding somewhere along the on-ramp, blinker desparately signalling for, well, safe conduct.
I don't think I'll ever be of a mind to come here every day and tell you what's on my mind, but I'll try and steal the odd moment when I'm at my most eloquent or thoughtful and share. After my recent Tom and Jerry posting I thought I'd go on more about the program, as I think it's fascinating for a variety of reasons, but no promises.
Anyway, here's somethingt topical that isn't about me: if you haven't seen Grindhouse, it's a hell of a good time, and worth the ticket price. See it with an audience.
While I've been a "writer" since 2nd grade, when I used to fold a sheet of paper in half, and fold it again to make a little book, ignoring whatever was being taught on the day (usually because I was ahead of the pace chosen to accomodate the slower learners, if you'll permit me a moment of egotistical confession), I haven't been one of habit since. My successes on the page have come in short bursts of inspiration, and I'll leave you to make your own Freudian metaphor with that one. I've been lazy for so long I don't have the energy to try and remember when I wasn't. It's not a point of pride, believe me, but it's the reality until I find the will to change it. I even downloaded one of a well-known motivational speaker's compact discs just to see what the fuss was about, but I haven't gotten around to listening to it yet, as I'm busy watching the entire collected episodes of various cancelled television series that may or may not be worth the time I'm investing in them, and buying used books at a rate of about 10x the speed at which I'm reading them. You see the problem?
And am I the only one whose concentration while reading has frayed a bit from the long hours logged on the internet, clicking away on half-connected whims to the point where you feel you're back on the couch again with 300 cable channels, unable to stay on anything for more than 30 seconds? It's taken a serious effort to buckle down and burrow into a book like I used to, and this last week I've made some progress, limiting my time online, and giving myself a good hour a day to read.
It hasn't helped the writing much, though. For a while I was churning out verse at a fairly decent rate, for one stretch when I was reading at a weekly open mike, and once when I was living in Paris and didn't have much use for the mostly indecipherable television stations. I've only written one thing in the last 4 months (see blog entry below), and my hopes for being more productive in that department while on the road appear to be yielding somewhere along the on-ramp, blinker desparately signalling for, well, safe conduct.
I don't think I'll ever be of a mind to come here every day and tell you what's on my mind, but I'll try and steal the odd moment when I'm at my most eloquent or thoughtful and share. After my recent Tom and Jerry posting I thought I'd go on more about the program, as I think it's fascinating for a variety of reasons, but no promises.
Anyway, here's somethingt topical that isn't about me: if you haven't seen Grindhouse, it's a hell of a good time, and worth the ticket price. See it with an audience.
3.29.2007
Museum Pix concluded
Sorry I lagged on getting the rest of these up. Writing is more constructive, no? Again, these are from the museum on Fisherman's Wharf which features an assortment of coin-operated electric machines. I plan on going back there while my friends are in town this weekend, so expect an update with the place's official (and currently forgotten) name. And is it just me or does the last one totally look like something out of that animated Yellow Submarine movie?
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