It is so permanent here,
like when you're dead you are dead.
So many hurdles it feels like One,
that I have draped myself over,
Verge of getting up, this pastoral scene looked different when it was Antietam,
or when they built these mounds.
The flood was not a myth but a continuing reality, the waves of earth mounded by extinct cultures, rolling over our psyche like invisible tsunamis.
The terrible fog in mountains the terrible cumulus slow like Plath's mushroom fists. Rolls over us.
Scurrying, our entire life sometimes, as when the sun went down in time lapse and the men on the shore did not watch, for they had no nets to tend, or earth to turn.
Imagine that, them not looking up from their nets, silver with fish, silver with salmon. Unheard of, I think. Not looking up at the slow, slow dance.
Rolls over us, the soft insistent pulse of the dead before us, the ancient dead, the long slow dead, a wave crashing like earthworms on callused eardrums, a soft murmur of agony of a dead outnumbered by the living, dead men outnumbered by dead animals and the living men. Dead animals outnumbering living animals. Dead passenger pigeons, fluttering about our soundtracks, unheard.
Imagine that this week not once...
They did not look up from their hands, they did not look up from each other, the living, they did not look up at the dead blowing slowly over the setting sun, breathing its breath on the damp grass, stirring itself out of the soil, opening its warm guts to the soil, the dead and the never living circle in arabesque grooves, between the roots, and in the water, the dead gurgle, asking us to slow,
asking us to sleep.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
The Complaint
Part One
The fucking lawnmower, with blades as dull as the handle of a butterknife, stalls unless advanced at such an infintesimal velocity that time itself seems to reverse, sucking one's throbbing eardrums into an abyss of a sound that was never meant to happen, the lawn, much less the lawnmower is an unnatural thing, a sick vestige of richman envy, just like Versaille, every single Joe Whiteguy has got this wasteful status symbol, and even when one shakes it off or let's go of that branding iron of a "safety bar" that causes the engine to stop, one notices that the cut on the finger, which was a result of starting the infernal machine the previous day, now appears to be infected and hurts like hell, it doesn't help that the saftey bar digs right into the cut, even after shaking that off and straightening one's back to look at what one hasn't been looking at while pushing through the tall grass or removing fetid chunks of pulverised grass and upstart blackberry vines, which drive infectious juices into the finger cut, straightening up and stretching the back, one thinks, "I always forget to 'lift from the knees'...stupid saying, my knees hurt too, fuck," and despite the lengthening shadows that one loves to watch, and the brilliant water reflecting the well proportioned cloud cover (the blue sky spots like mange on the sheepdog of the universe), one only thinks, "I should be enjoying this," but hears that fucking your-an-adult-now voice and the grass ain't gonna stop growing, despite the property itself, that one is only mowing because it is a requirement of the lease, despite the cheap rent, even after the attractive neighbor came by, or perhaps in spite of, because she shortly was joined by her friend and they walked down the hill and into the adjacent lot that acts as a kind of public space, because it is a shorcut from the neighborhood up the hill, now they are sitting in the short grass, which probably doesn't grow because it is sitting on barely living soil clinging to a pile of fill, that our town's founders piled on the rich salmon breeding waters that used to be here, and now one feels like one is putting on a lawnmowing show, except it is a clown show, because this lawnmower is just not cutting it, and one is too annoyed to notice the pun, or perhaps too self-conscious or indulgent with vain fantasies of being admired, in fact, one notices, quite ridiculous fantasies, because the characteristics for which one would like to be admired are completely absent, but instead, one is being lusted after because of one skill, that of lawnmowing, and this divergence of thought reminds one of the days multitude of attractions, and how one was so lustful for them, in spring clothes, on bikes, and meeting each other in the campus square, just like these neighbors, except they met in one's yard, and are now possibly annoyed by the lawnmower, which has been started and stalled several times since they have been trying to enjoy the otherwise pastoral scene, "and besides," one thinks, "you are old," way too old for them, and one's back begins to hurt, even after letting that foray into self-depreciation fade into a more even-headed perspective, one thinks again about age, and although the bartender said the year's have treated you well, one is left with the harsh edge of doubt that one is not behaving as an adult should, that even though one has decided to do many adult things, is usually on time, makes enough money to pay one's bills, sooner or later, which reminds one of a $900 dollar dental bill and student loans coming due at the end of the year, even with the garden that one has been maintaining and the full time plus the part time job (the reason why the grass is so long, although it also had to do with the trip to Phoenix, where the family reunion drained one of emotional energy, in a good way, but left one susceptible to the harsh apocalyptic and sometimes incessant thoughts about man as a parasite on the earth, teeming across the desert in pods of strip malls and adobe colored homes in an infinite progression of cul-de-sacs, unrecognizable from each other, which one's uncle described as the background of a Hanna Barbara cartoon, unconsciously likening all the people living there to Shaggy and Scooby and the gang, chased by monsters, who are just crooks in masks, who, in this metaphor, are each and every one of us who has two nickels to rub together, fleeing past a background that repeats and repeats, and of course there were the terrible conversations with the parents about one's drinking, and the earlier one with the cousins and siblings, that took place after they had all been drinking, and the whole sanctity of getting drunk with loved ones is tainted, because perhaps one shouldn't be drinking at all, in fact, it occurs to one, the promise one's mother elicited to stop for two weeks is going well, it is over one week already) still doesn't relieve the guilty feeling that one is not living up to the standards that one has set for oneself, although, one realizes, the standards aren't necessarily written down anywhere, are in continual flux and revision, even if perhaps one has engaged in a vigorous course of self-improvement on some fronts, one has let other fronts crumble and recede, this whole drinking thing a perfect example, the increased productivity has created a hectic edge to life, and awareness sometimes hurts, like too much sun, even when all these things recede into one's consciousness, replaced by the music from one's ipod, and the breeze coming off East Bay, the lawn is still only one tenth mowed...
The fucking lawnmower, with blades as dull as the handle of a butterknife, stalls unless advanced at such an infintesimal velocity that time itself seems to reverse, sucking one's throbbing eardrums into an abyss of a sound that was never meant to happen, the lawn, much less the lawnmower is an unnatural thing, a sick vestige of richman envy, just like Versaille, every single Joe Whiteguy has got this wasteful status symbol, and even when one shakes it off or let's go of that branding iron of a "safety bar" that causes the engine to stop, one notices that the cut on the finger, which was a result of starting the infernal machine the previous day, now appears to be infected and hurts like hell, it doesn't help that the saftey bar digs right into the cut, even after shaking that off and straightening one's back to look at what one hasn't been looking at while pushing through the tall grass or removing fetid chunks of pulverised grass and upstart blackberry vines, which drive infectious juices into the finger cut, straightening up and stretching the back, one thinks, "I always forget to 'lift from the knees'...stupid saying, my knees hurt too, fuck," and despite the lengthening shadows that one loves to watch, and the brilliant water reflecting the well proportioned cloud cover (the blue sky spots like mange on the sheepdog of the universe), one only thinks, "I should be enjoying this," but hears that fucking your-an-adult-now voice and the grass ain't gonna stop growing, despite the property itself, that one is only mowing because it is a requirement of the lease, despite the cheap rent, even after the attractive neighbor came by, or perhaps in spite of, because she shortly was joined by her friend and they walked down the hill and into the adjacent lot that acts as a kind of public space, because it is a shorcut from the neighborhood up the hill, now they are sitting in the short grass, which probably doesn't grow because it is sitting on barely living soil clinging to a pile of fill, that our town's founders piled on the rich salmon breeding waters that used to be here, and now one feels like one is putting on a lawnmowing show, except it is a clown show, because this lawnmower is just not cutting it, and one is too annoyed to notice the pun, or perhaps too self-conscious or indulgent with vain fantasies of being admired, in fact, one notices, quite ridiculous fantasies, because the characteristics for which one would like to be admired are completely absent, but instead, one is being lusted after because of one skill, that of lawnmowing, and this divergence of thought reminds one of the days multitude of attractions, and how one was so lustful for them, in spring clothes, on bikes, and meeting each other in the campus square, just like these neighbors, except they met in one's yard, and are now possibly annoyed by the lawnmower, which has been started and stalled several times since they have been trying to enjoy the otherwise pastoral scene, "and besides," one thinks, "you are old," way too old for them, and one's back begins to hurt, even after letting that foray into self-depreciation fade into a more even-headed perspective, one thinks again about age, and although the bartender said the year's have treated you well, one is left with the harsh edge of doubt that one is not behaving as an adult should, that even though one has decided to do many adult things, is usually on time, makes enough money to pay one's bills, sooner or later, which reminds one of a $900 dollar dental bill and student loans coming due at the end of the year, even with the garden that one has been maintaining and the full time plus the part time job (the reason why the grass is so long, although it also had to do with the trip to Phoenix, where the family reunion drained one of emotional energy, in a good way, but left one susceptible to the harsh apocalyptic and sometimes incessant thoughts about man as a parasite on the earth, teeming across the desert in pods of strip malls and adobe colored homes in an infinite progression of cul-de-sacs, unrecognizable from each other, which one's uncle described as the background of a Hanna Barbara cartoon, unconsciously likening all the people living there to Shaggy and Scooby and the gang, chased by monsters, who are just crooks in masks, who, in this metaphor, are each and every one of us who has two nickels to rub together, fleeing past a background that repeats and repeats, and of course there were the terrible conversations with the parents about one's drinking, and the earlier one with the cousins and siblings, that took place after they had all been drinking, and the whole sanctity of getting drunk with loved ones is tainted, because perhaps one shouldn't be drinking at all, in fact, it occurs to one, the promise one's mother elicited to stop for two weeks is going well, it is over one week already) still doesn't relieve the guilty feeling that one is not living up to the standards that one has set for oneself, although, one realizes, the standards aren't necessarily written down anywhere, are in continual flux and revision, even if perhaps one has engaged in a vigorous course of self-improvement on some fronts, one has let other fronts crumble and recede, this whole drinking thing a perfect example, the increased productivity has created a hectic edge to life, and awareness sometimes hurts, like too much sun, even when all these things recede into one's consciousness, replaced by the music from one's ipod, and the breeze coming off East Bay, the lawn is still only one tenth mowed...
Friday, May 2, 2008
The Music Conundrum
I haven't posted for a while for many reasons, but the most significant obstacle has been music. Too much of it. My love for music is so great that I did not want to do it injustice by writing cliche or misleading things about it.
But that is a bullshit reason to not do it. So, here it is: my first music post.
I made a mix for my friend that I am calling Thirds because it is supposed to be, vaguely, one third danceable, one third rocking, and one third heartfelt or melancholy.
And it goes a little something like this:
Anyway, I just read their, or should I say, his, myspace blurb, and it seems that there is a collaboration in the works with another great band from Arizona - French Quarter. I think we should all keep our ears tilted that way because I've been wearing out the French Quarter CD.
One more band to drop in your ears, because the aforementioned bands remind me of the first Olympia band I fell in love with: Kickball
But that is a bullshit reason to not do it. So, here it is: my first music post.
I made a mix for my friend that I am calling Thirds because it is supposed to be, vaguely, one third danceable, one third rocking, and one third heartfelt or melancholy.
And it goes a little something like this:
- A.C. Newman - Miracle Drug
- Curtis Mayfield - Do Do Wap Is Strong In Here
- GB feat Steve Spacek - Simply So (SA-RA Vocal Remix)
- Hot Chip - Keep Fallin'
- MC Paul Barman - Vulture Shark Skulpture Park
- Les Savy Fav - Patty Lee
- Les Savy Fav - What Would Wolves Do?
- The Black Angels - Black Grease
- Nouvelle Vague - Heart Of Glass
- Grizzly Bear - Colorado
- Fionn Regan - Hey Rabbit
- Fionn Regan - Snowy Atlas Mountain - .mp3
- Joan As Police Woman - The Ride
- Lambchop - Is A Woman
- Bjorn Torske - Dub Vendors
- Stevie Wonder - Masterblaster
- Beirut - Nantes
- Of Montreal - We Were Born the Mutants Again With Leafling
Tonight I went downtown (Oly, WA) and was treated to a cultural tour unlike any I have embarked on in quite a while. The highlight had to be the show on tagged up school bus from Tuscon, AZ, driven by Mr. Free and the Satellite Freakout.
The guy in the face paint is Mr. Free.
I wasn't as excited about Mr. Free and the Satellite Freakout as I was about Mad River Glen.
I recommend the songs "Cross Ventilation" and "Sticks Stones". Imagine them playing on a school bus with no seats, only amps, a crappy couch, and an ashtray, parked out in front of the local gay bar.
The guy in the face paint is Mr. Free.
I wasn't as excited about Mr. Free and the Satellite Freakout as I was about Mad River Glen.
I recommend the songs "Cross Ventilation" and "Sticks Stones". Imagine them playing on a school bus with no seats, only amps, a crappy couch, and an ashtray, parked out in front of the local gay bar.
Anyway, I just read their, or should I say, his, myspace blurb, and it seems that there is a collaboration in the works with another great band from Arizona - French Quarter. I think we should all keep our ears tilted that way because I've been wearing out the French Quarter CD.
One more band to drop in your ears, because the aforementioned bands remind me of the first Olympia band I fell in love with: Kickball
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