Howl

Another rain in the car story. I was dropping my sister off at her therapist's place, and decided (since her sessions only run like forty minutes) to stay in the car. I hooked my trusty MP3 player, Doctor Constable, to the car's speakers and queued up Allen Ginsberg's "Howl," which I had gotten earlier that day. I liked how the poem was stationary, but I could move. I moved through the car, listening to how the poem changed as I did so. And it's such an incredible poem. This recording of it is 20 minutes long, and it becomes such an experience, listening to this dead man speak, and he sounded dead, even then, but in such a way that he remembered what being alive was like even more than we do now, experiencing it.

I was parked with a beautiful view, a small creek in front of me, with tall grasses and cattails reaching up. The sky was blue and spread open. The mountains green and bursting full with wet color from the rain. Black birds with orange shoulders flew through the vegetation, landing on the cattails. Color, is what I am saying. All around, and shining. Like an impressionistic painting, the view through my windshield. (what a brute of a word, windshield. All literalism and utility. What does this thing do? It shields us from the wind!)

And my thoughts, and the poem, and the colors of the scene, all smeared together. Such a journey, running howling through Alan's mind, and Ashland, and life, and America, and in circles over the seats in my tiny car, in the rain.




listening to an audio recording of alan ginsberg performing "howl" in my car in the rain: ****

This World...

Today, I was driving home from work to get all dolled up for a job interview. I missed my usual turn, and so had to do some improvisation to get home. On one of these strange new streets (OK, actually, it was just Normal ave. (really)) I saw what looked like a single soap bubble floating in mid air, above the road. The sky was clear, blue, and the bubble had rainbow bands twisting through it. Stunning. Totally puzzled, I looked around, but didn't see anyone there to make it. I think it might have been a glass globe or something, hung down from a powerline, but when I looked in my mirrors I couldn't see it. It might have popped.

So I don't know, team. Mystery bubble? Strange glass globe? Weather balloon? Alien probe? It was beautiful, and took my mind off my troubles.




seeing a lonely floating soap bubble (or something), thinking (in vague, general terms) of fragility and meaning, beauty, and seeing it all reflected in those rainbow whorls: ****

Rain and a Box

Aging is rough. It tears at you, attacks you, and so you build up defences; walls and barriers to make you safe. Whatever. You know all this. How all of a sudden you have to do things right and not wrong, how what other people think matters, how there's never enough time, or too much, how maybe someday you can do the thing that gets someone to have sex with you.

So all that sucks. But, sometimes, there are things, moments, water thrown onto the baked desert of the mind, that awaken childishness in you. Rain is one of those things for me.

Yesterday, I was waiting in the car for my sister to get out of school. In a strange twist for Summer, it was cool and raining, fat drops all around. My sister was late, so I was reading, and waiting, and listening to the rain. My dad (who I share this car with) keeps the back window open, and as I glanced backward and saw that open window, with (of course) the rain streaming in, getting the seats wet and drowining the trash in the cupholders. And in the moment of looking-back (which should really be a word in English. I mean, we should have a word that means that) I saw a spaceship, a crucial panel blown open, sparks flying, the void flowing in. Needless to say, I disengaged my harness and kicked myself back there, sealing the damage.




suddenly seeing the insides of my car as a spaceship, tapping childlike faculties of imagination and wonder: ****

Add to Dictionary

Whoever invents paper that throws the red squiggles under misspelled words will make a million bucks.

The observation that our life is run by technology is old hat: it started when the Luddites destroyed their first textile machine and the Amish bowed out of society because of the zipper. And hey, I just had to look that shit up on Wikipedia.

So there's something pretty rewarding when we get to strike back at our crutches, specifically, (for me) when I add a word to Microsoft Word's internal dictionary. For so long it has corrected you, that smug little pop up box... And then, for one shining moment, you get to correct it. Boom, bitch! Who's your daddy now?




forcing microsoft word to acknowledge that anterior is so a word: ***

Balloons n' Things

So, every year, there is a hot air balloon convention that takes place where I reside. It makes sense that so many balloonists would convene at such a tiny location - we have 1,000,000,000 wineries. So I'm sure they land, get smashed, and then float around in a hot air balloon. It sounds fun, and I'd like to see some cop try to slap a DUI on a balloonist.

Anyway, as I was waking up this morning, still in the clutches of Lord Hypnogoga, I thought my sometimes roommate was downstairs, beatboxing. And he beatboxed with such POWERFUL FORCE that it warped the very dimensions of space time, resulting in this ultra-bass rumble - the ultimate beatbox move. Awesome! I thought, as I looked out the window and saw one of the balloons gently lowering. And I realized, as I came further into myself, that the sound I was hearing was the sound of air being let out of the balloon.

Whoa.



the ultimate beatboxing technique suddenly becoming a landing hot air balloon: ***

Smiles

At Dragfest this year, one of the girls (actually a girl, dressed as a girl, go figure) wasn't smiling.
"What's with her?" Someone asked.
"Oh she's being sexy, so she's not smiling," said her friend.

To quote xkcd:

FUCK.
THAT.
SHIT.

Smiling is great. It's friendly, it's sexy, it's whatever. It makes the sun shine, or the clouds rain, if that's your thing. It's hard for me to smile 'cause of my face, so I don't do it too much. I try to get my eye-smile on, know what I mean?

Anyway. I can count a hojillion (it's like a billion but with more STIs) times a smile made my life better, but I'll just relate today's. I was on my way to Reid to get some dinner when, across the stepping stones, I ran into a kind-of crush who smiled at me. We stopped and talked, it was a very short interaction, but that smile was awesome.



getting smiled at on my way to food: ***

The Precise Nature of "You"

OK, this is my last post focusing on music for a while. I hope.

As I was walking to lab last night I was listening to the latest Patrick Wolf CD, The Magic Position, specifically the title track, which is a love song.

It's one of those love songs that are sung in the second person (addressing some off-screen "you") and I experienced a sudden paradigm shift.

See, usually, I listen to these songs allied with the singer, feeling his yearning and expression towards that other "you." BUT this time, for some reason, I felt as if he was singing to me directly. That I was the "you"!

It was such a strange switch! I laughed, and felt a little flattered, and it was really quite strange and nice.




feeling like the object of patrick wolf's affection on a brisk spring night on the way to astro lab: ****

Cliche

This morning I was walking to work, listening to my precious noise rock, when the song kicked into the very definition of an anthemic riff. The archetype. The riff from which all other anthems are wrought. So it feels totally contrived, ("Hey, look everyone! It's an anthemic riff!") but I can't help feeling, you know, uplifted by it. So I'm very self-aware, keeping an eye on this feeling, my uplifted-ness, which was just manipulated into being, being watchful so it doesn't overstep its bounds into genuine emotion, when I look over to my right and see a majestic hawk soaring in a perfectly blue sky. And I burst out laughing.

It was just such a perfect conspiracy of song and nature, manipulation through symbols. Coincidental yet perfectly executed.

It was absurd, and I laughed, and I went to work.




watching man and nature work together to create a moment of such emotional manipulation that it becomes obscene, completely unforgivable in literature, yet completely coincidental in life: ****

Funks, And Climbing Out Of Them

So, I've been in a kind of funk recently. But today I was in the shower, and listening to the New Pornographer's excellent 2nd album Electric Version, and I thought of the Ben & Jerry's ice cream bar treat I had purchased earlier and put in the freezer for later consumption, and I cackled. Totally unselfconsciously, back hunched like a witch, cackled in anticipation of my stored-away dessertling. It was superfantastic! Just a very good sign about my sanity and happiness. The bar wasn't bad either.




realizing there is still some pure joy left rattling around in my brain, and that the strangest things can bring it forth: ****

Hi-ya!

Ninja kicks. They're awesome. Here's what I'm talking about: I run a few steps, then jump into the air, left knee up, right leg straight down. Then I pull my left leg down straight as I bring my right knee up before I extend the right leg forward in a ferocious kick, just in time to land on my left foot. There's a moment in this maneuver, the moment when I'm letting my left leg drop and lifting my right, a moment that coincides with the apex of the jump, just before I left my right foot fly forward, where I feel like all coiled energy and everything slows down. It is one of the few times when I feel graceful, powerful. And it means I'm about to take down some uppity ninja.



feeling the slowness of time and ready energy of my body as i tuck into myself at the apex of a jump just before I drop a sweet kick: ****

Spring Break

So this Spring Break was the first time my ex and I saw each other after our breakup. We met up and decided to take a walk down to the park. I was a bit wary of her, not touching, making small talk and looking around. We sat down on some grass and kind of, I don't know, settled. I snaked my hand along the ground to rest between us, palm up, inviting. She reached out and took it, and began to cry. For me, it was an absolutely terrible moment, the kind of suffering that there is no value in and nothing to learn from.



watching my ex cry at our situation, feeling sad and powerless and just plain shitty:

300

OK, so. Today I saw 300, and it was just fantastic. My day was a perfect storm designed to put me in the mood to enjoy that film.

For the past week I've been stressing about midterms, working on essays and studying for exams. This morning I had my astro exam, (which I think I did very well on!), so that was exciting and put me in a triumphant mood. I then danced around in my room and listened to The Go! Team which was awesome. The day was nice and I was feeling really good. Then my roommate started playing guitar and that was awesome.

Everything was awesome! Life was awesome.

So, we all go see 300. AND IT IS SO BAD. I mean, I have no idea what the other people in the audience went in expecting. But me and my friend went in expecting two hours loaded with misguided hilarity, interspersed with moments of beauty. And full of bad dialogue. And we were right on the money. I had such a good time.



having a great day and feeling flush and full of life with great friends and then watching a fantastically bad yet beautiful movie and laughing at every line: *****

Fuck fuck FUCK

OVERSLEPT my astro review this morning. What the FUCK is wrong with me. SAW the damn clack (sic, bitches) say 9:40 and went right on lying there. GAAAAAAH.



zzzzzin' right through a review session that I need to not fail and become a janitor: *

Yearnings

So, I have this class. It happens once a week, at night, for three hours. It's about politics and ethics, and I love it. I love the readings, I love the discussions, I love walking out of my house in the dark and the rain and going to talk philosophy for hours. There are seven of us in the class, and I have a huge crush on the professor. Part of it is erotic (I think she's very sexy) and part of it is mental (she's very smart and has an excellent personality). I divide it like that because in this case, I am very aware of the separateness of each part. I mean, usually there is an attraction to both. But in this case each feels very separate from each other. Anywaya.

I also have a crush on a cute redhead in that class. So it is a time of yearnings for me. Neither of the crushes are very pressing (and obviously having a crush on a professor is problematic), so it's a pleasant sort of ache. The conversations are highly intellectual and I see sides of these ladies I wouldn't otherwise. I guess I find it pleasant because it lets me know it's there, that desire for connection with other people, a vast empty space I want to fill. Like, I just want to sit down and chat with them for a long time. Learn about them. And if there are kisses, well, bonus. It doesn't need to be romantic, though. I just don't know how to say: "you seem interesting, let's go for a walk sometime and chat" without sounding threatening or weird. So I'll go on yearning.



sitting and chatting about politics and philosophy for hours, sneaking glances at my professor and a cute redhead, wondering what they are like all opened up and laid out, and you can take that as sexually as you want: ****

New Music

Today was the release of the new Arcade Fire album, something I had been looking forward to since the release of their debut, Funeral, back in 2004. So this morning, early, like around 9, I downloaded it from emusic, my primary music source, transferred it to my MP3 player, and crawled back into bed for a dedicated listen.

It was hard to get comfortable (wearing earbuds and all), but I managed, my wonderful thick covers pulled up over me, staring half-focused at nothing, letting the music pour inside me. It's good stuff, nicely different from Funeral. And of course it was that one unique listen when each note and tremor is new, unexpected, sometimes surprising. A great way to start the day.



listening to an eagerly-awaited, damn fine album (arcade fire's neon bible) in the comfort of my own bed and for the first time: ***

Sleep

Here's the thing about sleep: I hate it. I hate lying in bed and trying not to think about my impending loss of consciousness, I hate losing a third of my life to the void, I hate the foul taste in my mouth when I wake up, I hate waking early in the morning only to fitfully masturbate and suffer hallucinations and exhausted.

But most of all, I hate needing to sleep more than I have to. Like today. I lost 3-5pm roiling about in my bed, hypnagogic, confused, slipping into and out of sleep, exciting the demons of the Sandman rather than placating them. Ugh. I'm gonna chug vallium from now on.



losing two hours of my life to an ill-fated nap that only made me more tired, and included a variety of confusing and uncomfortable hallucinations and half-remembered dreams: *

A Long Conversation

Last night I ended up staying awake until six in the morning, talking with a fellow housemate by the heater downstairs. What began as a simple exchange quickly ballooned into an intelligent, fascinating, and really quite funny discussion of life, the universe, and everything. The contents of the conversation revolved around dealing with the meaningless and arbitrary nature of life - the variety of chemical urges that force us to do things, the warping powers of society, the complete inability to truly communicate with another.

Life is a series of consumptions and productions: a taking in of ideas, of images and sounds and thoughts and sensations, matched in turn by expression through thought or art or interactions.

I consumed much that night, a rare and opulent feast, taking into me a whole worldview, conclusions and assumptions related to yet different from my own, new attitudes: a seismic moment, our continents colliding, the edges of worlds inside of us tangling with each other, each sharing its beasts and its fowl, its own weather patterns, the northern lights!

I can feel it within me, spreading, and I am excited to think of the productions this will stir in me, the grand new mountains to be thrown up by this buckling of earth.



chatting for like a million years with someone great about the fundamental nature of the universe and man's place in it, why we live and how we should die, about sex, hope, society, free will and freshmen: *****

Ready... FIGHT!

One of my friends is running for president of student government, and he organized a debate which took place tonight. I was in attendance.

There were four candidates, each one uniquely dressed to suit his style: a nice suit for the serious Politician, dumpy clothes for the Everyman, casual clothes for the laid-back Intellectual, and prep threads for the Frat boy.

Fratty was a particularly amusing spectacle; sidestepping questions, tacking "right?" onto the end of every sentence, ending each speech with an unbearable shit-eating grin. Ugh. The Everyman also provided some entertainment, looking wide-eyed and confused yet determined to make his message heard.

The Politician and the Intellectual I was very impressed by: both of them spoke well and had clear, intelligible platforms.

I went semi-dreading it, but I have to say I actually enjoyed it: entertained when Fratty and Everyman spoke, and engaged when Intellectual and Politician spoke. It was good times.



watching 50% of presidential debate participants act foolish while the other 50% carry on meaningful discussion: ***

Endings

Finishing a book is usually, for me, bittersweet; I am glad to have finished the thing and seen the story whole, but I am also sad to say goodbye forever to the characters, the newness, the barreling-along that reading a book is.

Today, I finished Little, Big John Crowley's fantasy masterpiece. I first saw it in Powell's: Lord Byron's Novel: The Evening Land, another book by Crowley, caught my eye, but I passed it over. I went on to check out other books, and the jacket blurb of one mentioned how it reminded him of Little, Big by John Crowley. Having just looked at a Crowley book I felt compelled to go back and see if they had this one. They did, a single copy. The cover is gorgeous, a sepia-toned photograph of a young woman holding a birdcage, standing on a path that leads to a monstrous house. It felt good in my hands. I held it and continued my book-hunt.

Ready to purchase, I had to decide between that and Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys. Choosing the Gaiman book, I handed Little, Big to my then-girlfriend to reshelve and got in line for the register. I waited for a few moments and then something in me turned all the way around and I dashed out of the line, passing my now-ex on the stairs, giving her a look of ridiculous helplessness.

Finishing that book today, I was left breathless and tearful, considering my own life, how every moment is gone and never never happens again, which is a shame since some of it can be so goddamn beautiful, and decided to take a walk.

I went through a nearby park, reading the carved hearts on the trees, looking at everyone walking by. I was listening to music, the sun was setting, and I wanted to tell everyone that they were beautiful.

I felt Little, I felt Big.



finishing little, big and then taking a long walk through a beautiful landscape, reading devotions and watching the sun set, listening to music and thinking of my loves (past, present, and future), of my parents, my sister, of my friends and how our lives intersect, of how shit-they're-not-kidding, this is the only life i've got: *****

Flauntin' What My Momma Gave Me

So, I am giving a presentation at my college's undergraduate conference. Basically, I examine the ethics of genetic alteration using arguments from abortion philosophers, as well as some identity-rights guys. It's pretty cool.

Anywaya, I'm going to be part of a poster to showcase the event, which means they have to take my picture. So, today, they did. "They" in this case refers to my school's official photographer, a nice-seeming pregnant lady who is a master at hunting down every minority on campus and taking their picture.

So.

We met by a big ol' statue, one that looks like a woman's torso from one angle, and a penis from another. And I brought tools! I thought they could represent genetic alteration. So I was holding a hammer, in front of this statue, and she took pictures of me looking silly. We traded jokes, it was fun.



getting photographed by a fun pregnant lady for an undergraduate conference poster while wielding a hammer: ****

Dealing With an Excess

I like ice in my water. This is because I like my water cold. So after I finish a refreshing glass of H2O, I am often left with a tumble of ice in my glass. My dentist has bred in me a respectful fear of "microfissures" - small cracks in your teeth that allow another entry for hateful plaque. All together this means that after I am finished with a glass of water I have an amount of ice to deal with. If I am outside, or near to it, and especially at night, I like to launch the ice into the air (just jerk up the cup so it spits all the cubes out). The ice glitters prettily in the air, brief and falling stars, and the sound they make when they hit the ground is always rewarding.

Tonight, after watching a play, my friends and I went to the campus center to enjoy some ice cream and camaraderie. Finished with my glass of water, I walked to the edge of the patio and cast the ice into the air.



launching ice from my water glass during a night out with my friends and watching the cubes roll and shine in the air and hearing their muffled smacks on the grassy lawn: ***

Mah Johbe

In exchange for legal tender (well, digital tender - that is, credit) I work in my college library's cataloguing department. I process newly-received books so they are fit to go on the library's shelves. That means I affix the Library of Congress labels to the side, put in the "date due" card, the little thing that makes the security system know when you're stealing a book, etc. It's alright. There are other grunts in there - one a total babe. Which is nice. When we all talk it's pleasant, and when we don't I listen to music. I get to glance through the books as I process them, which can be rewarding.

The soul-draining aspect of it is that ANYONE could do this job. As someone who wants to be an artist (an endeavour which by definition requires the essence of the individual) I find this particularly devastating. I feel like a machine. It grinds me down.

So next time you check out a library book, think of me, think of me.



sitting in a little chair, listening to music / talking while affixing labels, stamping, writing down numbers, looking at books, etc.: **

Emotional Trauma

Last week, the relationship between me and my ex-girlfriend imploded. We had broken up a month before, and continued a sometimes-difficult but always rewarding friendship. Until she stopped emailing me for a week (we go to different colleges). When we finally talked, I exploded at her unexplained silence, and the resulting conversation ended with us deciding not to communicate with each other for a couple weeks, until we see each other in person at home during Spring Break.

Hurt, angry, feeling unloved and unnecessary, I had to go to my Astro lab, across campus. During that long walk I listened to The Besnard Lakes' "Because Tonight," feeling more alive and present and rooted in the world than I had for a long time. I was aware of myself because that self had been flayed, but that awareness itself, in the anguish and frustration, was such a powerful and beautiful thing, available only at heights of emotional trauma and rapture.



suffering a relationship breakdown with my ex-girlfriend and walking through the cold to astro lab while listening to the besnard lakes' "because tonight": *****

Bon Appetit and its Failures

Tonight, Bon Appetit maliciously withheld most of the food we had ordered. We received some peanut butter, some jelly, some ham gristle, and cheerios. The rest, I believe, was actually intended to be sent to the nearby Umatilla weapon dump.

Anyway, we just went to Prentiss and had dinner there, which was pretty good. I had pepperoni pizza and we talked about our first fights and lecherous Europeans.



when the bins fail to yield a dinner and we all go to Prentiss to get our own: ***

Welcome

This is my new blog, where I will rate things I do on a five-star scale. Simple, yet absurd.

Please enjoy!