What if you were stuck in some bizarro commune and in order to be a participating member of said community, you had to pick a theme song that would express to everyone else living there who you are. It would be the only way for them to analyze and sort you in their plebeian brains (because I mean, c’mon, who would think up a system like that?) so it would have to be a POTENT song. Okay, pick one and explain. On your own blog, euc, howlie, and libs. Thank you.
*I have to preface my selection because, well, I’m a fan of circumlocution and my explanations need explanations. First of all, I would not live in such a community because, well, picking a theme song is fucking hard, okay? I mean, should one go with Jazz? Punk? New-wave? Something timeless? Lyrics or no? I almost had an emotional breakdown trying to decide. Really. Secondly, the fact that I am the one who came up with the idea for this post unnerves me. Maybe I secretly want to live in a community like this. Maybe I would make people wear necklaces that played their theme song. And if I didn’t like what they chose, maybe I would kick them out of the commune. This is, ultimately, why I believe in democracy. Because deep down, I’m a scary-ass motha-fucka.
**One more brief preface. I didn’t really think that hard about it. I picked the song I’ve listened to the most on my i-tunes today. If I lived in this commune, my theme song would probably change, like, every day.
My theme song: In A Sentimental Mood
Version: the one Duke Ellington & John Coltrane recorded together
Oh yeah, why?: This tune is usually syrupy and has been covered by a lot of corny acts. But the Duke/Coltrane version takes the song and turns it into something completely different. Duke plays this haunting three chord rhythm behind Coltrane’s melody, and the result is a very anxious sounding ballad. It’s the song that your mind plays when you have to say goodbye to someone you love bitterly, or when your heart fills with loving-kindness for someone/ something that you pass on the street, or any other type of situation where you’re likely to be filled with emotion so intense that it raises your awareness. You know what I’m talking about. I have been feeling very wacky lately, and the discordant feel to the song really reflects what it’s like in my body. And if those assholes at the commune don’t like it, well, you know what they can do.
31.1.06
Mushy brain like applesauce.
I haven't written. I've kept my distance. I've barely checked on you lately. It's not you, blogger, it's me. I have been so incredibly impotent in all facets of my life this past week. I feel like a peice of over-cooked spaghetti. I flop around a lot, fall down, the cats lick me, I need to sleep.
BUT, last night I made a skirt. Yesthatisright. I made it out of green courduroy fabric and I love it. Maybe I will post a picture later. Also, a week ago I made a bright orange origami fish. I was going to send it to Beth, because it looked like the clownfish that I saw and that she didn't. (Nyah nyah.) I took a shower. That was a mistake. When I came out of the shower, I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. My beautiful fish was in the cats' water bowl, soaked, halfway unfolded. Little sneak looked up at me asiftosay, "Look, I am so smart, I put that fishy in water!"
I wanted to smash his guts out. (I didn't.) It freaks me out though - a cat, putting a symbolic expression of 'fish' in a water bowl. Part of me thinks it was him trying to reveal his intelligence to me. I watch him out of the corner of my eye at all times now.
OoOoOo, I just had an idea for something creative to right. Read the next post and then follow the instructions accordingly.
O_o
BUT, last night I made a skirt. Yesthatisright. I made it out of green courduroy fabric and I love it. Maybe I will post a picture later. Also, a week ago I made a bright orange origami fish. I was going to send it to Beth, because it looked like the clownfish that I saw and that she didn't. (Nyah nyah.) I took a shower. That was a mistake. When I came out of the shower, I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. My beautiful fish was in the cats' water bowl, soaked, halfway unfolded. Little sneak looked up at me asiftosay, "Look, I am so smart, I put that fishy in water!"
I wanted to smash his guts out. (I didn't.) It freaks me out though - a cat, putting a symbolic expression of 'fish' in a water bowl. Part of me thinks it was him trying to reveal his intelligence to me. I watch him out of the corner of my eye at all times now.
OoOoOo, I just had an idea for something creative to right. Read the next post and then follow the instructions accordingly.
O_o
26.1.06
A challenge!
Ten random things:
1. I am an occasional smoker.
2. The relative I most look up to was Anton, the anarchist.
3. I'm glad I have little breasts.
4. I'm glad I have huge hands.
5. Although sometimes my lack of femininity makes me feel insecure.
6. BUT, I have curvy hips.
7. Sneak and I cuddle when no one's around. I don't do it in public because I don't want to play into his "I am the cutest cat in the world" image.
8. I like to anthropomorphize animals.
9. I think that someday computers WILL become self aware.
10. I don't think it would be the worst thing in the world if humans went extinct because of global warming. I mean, we've made quite a mess of it. Maybe a different species would rise and be better at not destroying the world.
OKAY, I'm tagging three people to write ten random things about themselves: Euc, Howling Monkey, and Libby. Come on, Libby, it's high time we saw a new post on your blog.
If you don't comply your computer will blow up in ten days. I swear to god. 'Cause I'ma come over with my crowbar.
1. I am an occasional smoker.
2. The relative I most look up to was Anton, the anarchist.
3. I'm glad I have little breasts.
4. I'm glad I have huge hands.
5. Although sometimes my lack of femininity makes me feel insecure.
6. BUT, I have curvy hips.
7. Sneak and I cuddle when no one's around. I don't do it in public because I don't want to play into his "I am the cutest cat in the world" image.
8. I like to anthropomorphize animals.
9. I think that someday computers WILL become self aware.
10. I don't think it would be the worst thing in the world if humans went extinct because of global warming. I mean, we've made quite a mess of it. Maybe a different species would rise and be better at not destroying the world.
OKAY, I'm tagging three people to write ten random things about themselves: Euc, Howling Monkey, and Libby. Come on, Libby, it's high time we saw a new post on your blog.
If you don't comply your computer will blow up in ten days. I swear to god. 'Cause I'ma come over with my crowbar.
Free write.
When we were younger most Friday and Saturday nights had to do with Jazz somehow, either trying to fake it like we were college students at the cat in the cream, or listening to vinyls of the musicians our teachers admired or accompanying each other in what were occasionally some pretty dischordant improvisations. Sometimes we'd go to the Feve and order hot fries and tang and the memory of it always smells like it's just finished raining. And there's all this extra energy hanging around in the air. Once I remember going to The Mandarin just for two bowls of egg drop soup that set us back a dollar each. My memory replays it and we're constantly surrounded by this powerful magic, this smell in the air that assured us we had the entire world in store for us. Josh and Rudy used to play in the Java Zone for food which is a ridiculous idea now. We would stumble upon them and they always thought it was some kind of miracle that we were twins. The universal ice-breaker. And Farnell, I remember him doing a little student teaching in Mr. Arco's class and me being mortified when they discovered I was just a high schooler. The cover blown. The senior recital series of 1996 where Dave played Devotion and I've never again heard brushes on a snare drum like that. I gave a little piece of my insides as an offering to that night so that I'd never forget it. Dave was the best act, and that was a big surprise. And all those professors who sat in the back row on broken down couches who were too cool to even let on how proud they were of their almost graduated students. Then back to the Feve for a coffee or maybe just to a semi-obscure vantage point to smoke. When I remember it the nights lasted for 20 hours each and even that wasn't long enough.
I miss it.
I miss it.
24.1.06
Continued, not as good.
It was not long before Jane broke through the low clouds into the bright VFR airspace. The 150 climbed to 4500 feet and Jane guided its nose southeast. The sun was endless above the clouds, and the world seemed encouragingly far away. Time passes gently in the sky, and Jane let herself slip into the somnambulistic rhythm of flight. Her first stop was an easy three hours and the morning aloft was beautiful.
As she sailed through the azure, her thoughts drifted among the bric-a-brac she kept stored up in the dusty areas of her mind; they were made of memories she had tried to forget, adventures she planned but never lived, and emotions suppressed by her habit of hiding from others what she thought made herself look weak. Mostly they were about her father. For two hours of self-indulgent day dreaming she let her awareness wane. The remembrance of her father crashed down on her, washed her out to a vulnerable place, and left her, unguarded. He used to let me take the controls once we were up, as long as I promised to not tell mother. If it was cold, he would pour me hot chocolate while he drank coffee in the pilots’ lounge while we waited for the weather to clear up. Once the memories started coming Jane didn’t fight them. After my first solo he told everyone at the airport that I’d be a famous pilot someday. Just like her old man, he had boasted. The empty place inside her glowed for a moment and Jane unearthed her most sacred childhood yearning. Someday I will be flying and in an instant the steel and gas and circuitry will turn into flesh and bone and feather and there will be no more of life, no more of death, just an endless expanse of horizon.
A shudder and a bang snapped Jane violently back into the cockpit. The left magneto seemed to be misfiring and the engine responded by running rough and choking on too much fuel. Jane tried thinning out the mixture, then tried running the engine on full, then – with a silent prayer to gods of aviation – switched off the engine entirely. For a second before she turned the ignition back over, a thick silence filled her ears and she imagined stretching out her arms, freeing her body from the plane, gliding on the edge of the air currents, riding them down. She cranked the key and the 150 spirited back to life, but not without the turbulent misfiring. She felt trapped and upset and decided to land; there were always more options on the ground.
She had been in the air for a little over two hours and her charts showed that she was about 80 nautical miles from her intended first stop. There was no way she would risk life and limb to fulfill her flight plan, and she located an airstrip on a small island five miles to the east. She radioed her intention to land, entered downwind, and set the 150 down on a stretch of sand that overlooked a few stands of palm trees, two small buildings, and an expanse of turquoise ocean that was broken, in all directions, by the horizon. Dear god let them have a mechanic, Jane thought to herself as she climbed out of the cockpit.
*************************
To be continued.
As she sailed through the azure, her thoughts drifted among the bric-a-brac she kept stored up in the dusty areas of her mind; they were made of memories she had tried to forget, adventures she planned but never lived, and emotions suppressed by her habit of hiding from others what she thought made herself look weak. Mostly they were about her father. For two hours of self-indulgent day dreaming she let her awareness wane. The remembrance of her father crashed down on her, washed her out to a vulnerable place, and left her, unguarded. He used to let me take the controls once we were up, as long as I promised to not tell mother. If it was cold, he would pour me hot chocolate while he drank coffee in the pilots’ lounge while we waited for the weather to clear up. Once the memories started coming Jane didn’t fight them. After my first solo he told everyone at the airport that I’d be a famous pilot someday. Just like her old man, he had boasted. The empty place inside her glowed for a moment and Jane unearthed her most sacred childhood yearning. Someday I will be flying and in an instant the steel and gas and circuitry will turn into flesh and bone and feather and there will be no more of life, no more of death, just an endless expanse of horizon.
A shudder and a bang snapped Jane violently back into the cockpit. The left magneto seemed to be misfiring and the engine responded by running rough and choking on too much fuel. Jane tried thinning out the mixture, then tried running the engine on full, then – with a silent prayer to gods of aviation – switched off the engine entirely. For a second before she turned the ignition back over, a thick silence filled her ears and she imagined stretching out her arms, freeing her body from the plane, gliding on the edge of the air currents, riding them down. She cranked the key and the 150 spirited back to life, but not without the turbulent misfiring. She felt trapped and upset and decided to land; there were always more options on the ground.
She had been in the air for a little over two hours and her charts showed that she was about 80 nautical miles from her intended first stop. There was no way she would risk life and limb to fulfill her flight plan, and she located an airstrip on a small island five miles to the east. She radioed her intention to land, entered downwind, and set the 150 down on a stretch of sand that overlooked a few stands of palm trees, two small buildings, and an expanse of turquoise ocean that was broken, in all directions, by the horizon. Dear god let them have a mechanic, Jane thought to herself as she climbed out of the cockpit.
*************************
To be continued.
Caffeinated ramble
The days are getting longer and it’s starting to feel like spring, although fleetingly – it is still only January, after all. The walk to work this morning was illuminated by a pink and gold and orange sky, the sun and clouds were showing off. I got to the square and, even though I told myself it was silly, I looked for the red-tail that watched me yesterday. He wasn’t there and I couldn’t blame him for his absence, the town was unusually noisy for that early in the morning. I missed him anyway.
When I was a kid I used to tell myself that I’d like to come back as a hawk.
Sometimes when I’m in the shower, eyes closed, rinsing my hair, I see a shadow move across the inside of my eyelids and feel the presence of someone else, with me. I open my eyes and he’s never there, but I’ve become almost convinced that it’s my grandfather. I close my eyes again and he whispers things that I can’t make out, information that is important I understand. I never do. It makes me feel guilty for all the time I haven’t spent with my grandmother. All the phone calls I’ve not picked up. Then again, I should never spend time with another person to ease my conscience. It would only make it worse.
The house is quiet, empty; I go for long stretches in silence and then realize it’s been hours since I used my voice. The past two nights I’ve been jarred awake by the death-calls of my two ferocious allies – the cats. The first night it was Sneak, defending the house from invaders, last night it was the two of them fighting each other. They go on their nocturnal prowls and then come back to melt into the fluffy down of my comforter. When I lay down the bed is our ship, and the three of us sail to different ports together. We fly a pirate flag, and anything could happen.
Last night I had a dream that my face swelled, well, no, actually it was just my nose. It started out in my left nostril, and then the whole left side of my nose filled to horrendous proportion. It looked like someone had taken a Twinkie and buried it under the skin. I was panicked, and yelled to Pat to find an antihistamine for me to take. I looked in the mirror and my brain started to swim, and I couldn’t make sense of the thoughts that were piling up, unprocessed by fried synapses. I woke up and it was only with great difficulty that I shook the dream from my mind. I am still slightly worried that it’s my body’s way of telling me I have a brain tumor.
Wherever you are, I hope you’re smiling.
When I was a kid I used to tell myself that I’d like to come back as a hawk.
Sometimes when I’m in the shower, eyes closed, rinsing my hair, I see a shadow move across the inside of my eyelids and feel the presence of someone else, with me. I open my eyes and he’s never there, but I’ve become almost convinced that it’s my grandfather. I close my eyes again and he whispers things that I can’t make out, information that is important I understand. I never do. It makes me feel guilty for all the time I haven’t spent with my grandmother. All the phone calls I’ve not picked up. Then again, I should never spend time with another person to ease my conscience. It would only make it worse.
The house is quiet, empty; I go for long stretches in silence and then realize it’s been hours since I used my voice. The past two nights I’ve been jarred awake by the death-calls of my two ferocious allies – the cats. The first night it was Sneak, defending the house from invaders, last night it was the two of them fighting each other. They go on their nocturnal prowls and then come back to melt into the fluffy down of my comforter. When I lay down the bed is our ship, and the three of us sail to different ports together. We fly a pirate flag, and anything could happen.
Last night I had a dream that my face swelled, well, no, actually it was just my nose. It started out in my left nostril, and then the whole left side of my nose filled to horrendous proportion. It looked like someone had taken a Twinkie and buried it under the skin. I was panicked, and yelled to Pat to find an antihistamine for me to take. I looked in the mirror and my brain started to swim, and I couldn’t make sense of the thoughts that were piling up, unprocessed by fried synapses. I woke up and it was only with great difficulty that I shook the dream from my mind. I am still slightly worried that it’s my body’s way of telling me I have a brain tumor.
Wherever you are, I hope you’re smiling.
19.1.06
A beginning.
Winter clouds hovered low to the ground and covered everything in an oppressive dampness -- the worst kind of weather for flying, Jane thought as she fumbled through the early morning darkness towards her 1960 Cessna 150. The cherry-red airplane was a college graduation gift from her father, and was Jane's last remaining proof of his existence. More of him was in the plane than all of the memories that she carried – he had worked in secret for a year to bring the 150 back to life, and then died two weeks after their first flight together. But that was more than ten years ago and the recollection won’t help me get this plane off the ground, Jane told herself as she tried to force his ghost from her mind. Her hands went to work on the pre-flight checklist and her mind let the memory of him slowly fade to nothing.
There had been no other pilots at the small airport when Jane arrived, and the garage was still dark, which meant that Deacon, the mechanic, had probably slept in. Jane could find no fault with him for that – if it hadn’t been for the flight plan already on file she would most likely have spent the day in her pajamas. She imagined herself still asleep in a warm bed, then inhaled a deep and intentional breath to fill her lungs with winter and ground her body to the tarmac. In nine hours she would be in an eighty-degree sun.
Jane taxied out to the end of the runway, radioed for clearance to depart and steeled herself for her least favorite part of flying – the takeoff. The moment that the 150’s wings overcame gravity and lifted itself free of the runway was glorious to her, but the long seconds before taking off, when she and the plane went 50 knots down a bumpy stretch of asphalt on rickety wheels, always made her nervous. She indulged herself another deep breath, then eased the throttle all the way open. The 150 traveled like a sparrow, and she had to hold steady pressure on the yoke to keep the plane from jumping into the sky. Halfway down the runway and the windsock looked like a deflated balloon. With a quick glance at the airspeed indicator, Jane eased up on the yoke and the world immediately fell away.
******************
To be continued.
There had been no other pilots at the small airport when Jane arrived, and the garage was still dark, which meant that Deacon, the mechanic, had probably slept in. Jane could find no fault with him for that – if it hadn’t been for the flight plan already on file she would most likely have spent the day in her pajamas. She imagined herself still asleep in a warm bed, then inhaled a deep and intentional breath to fill her lungs with winter and ground her body to the tarmac. In nine hours she would be in an eighty-degree sun.
Jane taxied out to the end of the runway, radioed for clearance to depart and steeled herself for her least favorite part of flying – the takeoff. The moment that the 150’s wings overcame gravity and lifted itself free of the runway was glorious to her, but the long seconds before taking off, when she and the plane went 50 knots down a bumpy stretch of asphalt on rickety wheels, always made her nervous. She indulged herself another deep breath, then eased the throttle all the way open. The 150 traveled like a sparrow, and she had to hold steady pressure on the yoke to keep the plane from jumping into the sky. Halfway down the runway and the windsock looked like a deflated balloon. With a quick glance at the airspeed indicator, Jane eased up on the yoke and the world immediately fell away.
******************
To be continued.
12.1.06
Night Flight
I have occupied such a strange head-space these past two days. Sometimes I feel dizzy, sometimes disoriented, my perception is off and I've had a little trouble with spatial orientation. My theory is that I've had a small stroke (always the worst!) while Patrick maintains that I've caught his head cold, and that my internal gyroscope has been a bit affected. It's worst at night.
Last evening we had to pick up a co-worker of his from the airport and return an out-of-town video rental, so we made a triangular journey around a dark and windy northern Ohio. Part of the drive was on a rural two-lane highway, and every time a car came toward us from the other direction my mind convinced my body that it was going to come careening into us, that we were both moments away from death, that life was just one short moment away from changing completely. (Obviously nothing happened.) It made me consider how obscene all of it is, though, the impermanence of this life. It can end so quickly and unimportantly. Like a wave in the middle of the night it will recede back into the sea quietly, without anyone watching. Even if you have plans for tomorrow.
It's obvious, I know, but worth remembering.
The lights at night with my broken gyroscope were beautiful, though. The airport was a sea of color and flash which I'm not sure I've ever completely appreciated. And there was a man standing on a hill watching planes land. Their final descent started a few miles behind him, so when they got close he was shrouded in a runway's worth of backlight. He looked like Jesus, or Saskwatch, standing tall on the hill, a sillhouette in black, with light pouring out in all directions from his back.
Last evening we had to pick up a co-worker of his from the airport and return an out-of-town video rental, so we made a triangular journey around a dark and windy northern Ohio. Part of the drive was on a rural two-lane highway, and every time a car came toward us from the other direction my mind convinced my body that it was going to come careening into us, that we were both moments away from death, that life was just one short moment away from changing completely. (Obviously nothing happened.) It made me consider how obscene all of it is, though, the impermanence of this life. It can end so quickly and unimportantly. Like a wave in the middle of the night it will recede back into the sea quietly, without anyone watching. Even if you have plans for tomorrow.
It's obvious, I know, but worth remembering.
The lights at night with my broken gyroscope were beautiful, though. The airport was a sea of color and flash which I'm not sure I've ever completely appreciated. And there was a man standing on a hill watching planes land. Their final descent started a few miles behind him, so when they got close he was shrouded in a runway's worth of backlight. He looked like Jesus, or Saskwatch, standing tall on the hill, a sillhouette in black, with light pouring out in all directions from his back.
6.1.06
4.1.06
Finney's bell
Like my dad said about my grandmother, my eyes feel like two piss holes in the snow. The computer has been emitting a high-pitched whirr sound all day and the air is thick with the smell of toner. Half an hour to go, my head is full of rocks.
Sometimes, when I am here, I feel like a pirate. I have sabotaged this office. The photos of children are not mine, the music files are strange, and the inspirational posters make me think of euc and I smile mischeviously each time I read them. I've bivouaced under a foreign desk, and it's a constant job to make sure the wind remains strong in my sails and that I steer myself into the waves. Lest one should broadside me. Lest the boat should rot away and sink all the way to the bottom.
I had this image of myself, standing tall and dark and proud in the middle of the night, outside the exit doors of a far-away airport. A black duffel in one hand, flanked by my companions, all of us making our way like gods into the foreign darkness. We will live like stray dogs on the beach, we will follow the milky way to its end.
Just don't let me lose my conviction.
Sometimes, when I am here, I feel like a pirate. I have sabotaged this office. The photos of children are not mine, the music files are strange, and the inspirational posters make me think of euc and I smile mischeviously each time I read them. I've bivouaced under a foreign desk, and it's a constant job to make sure the wind remains strong in my sails and that I steer myself into the waves. Lest one should broadside me. Lest the boat should rot away and sink all the way to the bottom.
I had this image of myself, standing tall and dark and proud in the middle of the night, outside the exit doors of a far-away airport. A black duffel in one hand, flanked by my companions, all of us making our way like gods into the foreign darkness. We will live like stray dogs on the beach, we will follow the milky way to its end.
Just don't let me lose my conviction.
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