Category Archives: Idiocy

30 Days Later

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I’m fudging that number a bit, only because I needed a title, and my mind is already by-and-large a desert wasteland today.

Which is unfortunate, because there’s a poem lurking somewhere just beneath the surface, and I strongly suspect it’s gonna decide to break the skin when I don’t have easy access to paper.

I’ve been trying to read more, and am currently in the middle of (I think?) 6 books, which is not the way I prefer or am used to reading, but hey, it’s what works for me right now. I’m getting a lot of recommendations (finally) from Natalie, and also from Warren Ellis’ newsletter (you can read a sample – I can not recommend subscribing highly enough. Without this and the NYT crossword, no Sunday starts off right.) which almost weekly has something new that I’ll enjoy.

Part that I realize I’ve spent too much time glued to a TV for the past decade (no totally complaining, as I’ve witness some phenomenal story-telling), and not enough letting the printed word stimulate my imagination; part too that I want (need) to start creating again. Music, writing, whatever — I’ve been uninspired for too long and far too fucking lazy for longer.

So that’s part of this year. The other is a resurgence of discovering new music. I’m not sure how I stopped that for so long — perhaps a lingering bitterness over losing (The Show With No Name), perhaps I just wasn’t tuned into the right sources. Regardless, this has been a banner three months, in which I’ve stumbled across Wilderun, Zeal & Ardor, Astronoid, Chelsea Wolfe, Oceans of Slumber, Nilufer Yanya, Rolo Tomassi and Persefone, along with new discs by known quantities — fucking fantastic for these ears. And Natalie is introducing me to a wider range of pop and (fuck me) country, some of which I find actually sticking.

It doesn’t help that my YouTube algorithm is forever shattered at this point.

Let’s hope I can make some headway into a reread of Cat’s Cradle today, for inspiration (if not to whittle down my number of concurrent reads…).

when i call you beautiful

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when i call you beautiful
what do you hear?

when i call you beautiful,
do you hear me talking about your surface
your exterior
your outer shell?
am i complimenting your smile
so radiant and infectious
your eyes
supernovae, like staring directly into the face of god
your porcelain skin
soft as cool satin breeze in summer
your fingers
electric soothing touch
your body
a shape that fits against mine, a tantalizing view?

do you think me shallow
(because I am, at times, on levels)
or is it flattering, deep praise that touches your core
(because it is, at times, on levels)

when i call you beautiful
do you understand that i am paying respect to
your choral voice
your joyous laugh
your humor, as dark and irreverent as my interior monologue
your intelligence and creativity
your determination and ambition
your empathy and concern and care for others
your endless well of literary and lyrical references
your country music
your memes
your competitive spirit
your night twitches and one-sided conversations
your everything i have yet to discover?

do you think me sappy and overly rose-visioned
(because i am, at times, on levels)
or do you know that i’m speaking from a place that strains for language
(because i am, most times, on most levels)

when i call you beautiful
do you see that i’m saying that i love you
that i love all these things about you and more
that i love the good and the bad
that every time i’m around you, i want to tell you all this
like teenagers studying for an exam
until you know it all by heart

it’s a catch-all statement, i know, and i’m not proud to admit it
(most times, on most levels)
and i should never hesitate to tell you any and all of this
but maybe that’s why these words
to explain what i mean
when i call you beautiful

i wish i was there for the sunrise

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i wish i was there for the sunrise
rainbow shards my window creates
dancing across your porcelain freckled skin
your eyes and fingertips twitching like they do
pondering our first word
tracing your shape with my hands
shivering above the touch of you

i wish i was there for the morning
waking to the sound of your laughter
or hearing you whisper that you love me
that first kiss of the new day
that first touch
all these whetting my appetite
for the hours in front of me

i wish i was there for the weekend
fresh warmth of coffee
your scent a blanket i wear smiling
sharing crosswords
making and abandoning plans
ultimately content in your arms
under my sheets

i wish I was there for the sunset
pouring first drinks
wines and bourbons
choosing games
and talking, always talking
and laughing, always laughing
and connecting, always connecting

i wish i was there for the starshine
sharing music
sharing histories
sharing secrets and promises and bodies
raw naked openness
levels of connection
never before experienced

whenever i’m away from you,
i wish i was there

how many stars

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how many stars are in the sky
she asks gently
breath on my cheek but light years away
counting
one by one by one
blades of infinite grass combed by
paintbrush fingers

child believed the night sky
just another illusion
sleeping sun
a blanket with pinholes
ever to be carried away by dawn

how many stars are in the sky
she questions raptly
travelling from one galaxy
across the universe
tallying silently so not to disturb
the sleeping birds and trees
i am hypnotized by her satin lips counting
and want nothing more in the now
than to feel them on mine.

it is always now
a fourth-dimension prank
forward and backward meaningless
different names for the same direction
except to memories and dreams
a parlor trick of the universe

how many stars are in the sky
she murmurs, sleeping
naked skin hugged tightly to mine
dreaming kitten twitches,
whispers questions in alien tongue
she in her curious travels
a waking vision from which i cannot turn away

revelation, a gift of knowledge
dreams can bend
like water
holds no memory
neither manipulative illusion nor trick of misdirection
but true magic
cause and effect unbound by physics

how many stars are in the sky
she asks childlike
smile exploding darkness
eyes ablaze with wonder and joy
under her spell
i count exactly one

rebirth: on wasted education and second chances

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For the last eight years, a thought has haunted me: that there is possibly nothing sadder, more tragic, cripplingly awful, than having obtained rare and important knowledge through experience, painful experience, blood and sweat and tears and agonizing self-inventory… only for the situations to do things right never to happen again.

I used to relate the concept to that of the quarterback who spends his entire career (and likely the better part of his life) who finally makes it to the Super Bowl, and makes a mistake that costs the team the championship, but learns from that and practices and studies and works impossibly hard to correct his technique and mindset, only to suffer a career ending injury in the first game of the next season.

I’ve spent my life in pursuit of knowledge. Sometimes the knowledge is book knowledge in whatever specific arena my ADD-riddled squirrel brain picks — music, astronomy, literature. Much more is experiential, especially concerning myself.

In my early twenties, I found myself very suddenly without any idea of who I was (coming out of a badly co-dependent relationship, where I had become convinced that I needed to be someone entirely different than myself to make her happy). It was truly the hardest time of my life (thanks, clinical depression!), but turns out in hindsight that hitting rock bottom means that you have nowhere to go but up. I was able to rediscover who and more importantly why I am, to discard the parts of me that weren’t valuable or meaningful or joyful, to redefine myself as I wanted to be seen, as opposed to how I thought others wanted to see me.

My last relationship was wonderful for my learning. I had developed some bad traits over my last marriage, and was completely unaware of them until M pointed them out to me. And some of those traits led to absolutely horrible, brutal fights, which eventually led to us splitting (but still remaining close friends, thankfully). But those fights, as awful and in some ways scarring as they were, led me to learning – about myself, about relating to others, about what I want and need and how to communicate better.

And then… I spent nearly a decade alone, and that thought – of wasted knowledge – would creep in often.

Look, there’s gonna be a final everything, and eventually unused knowledge. On a long enough timescale, the survivability rate of everything is reduced to zero. There will be a last song heard, a last book read, a final sentence written, one last ‘I love you’ spoken and meant. I know this in my logical brain, but my primal lizard headmeat fights it tooth and claw.

But in my current case, I’ve been given a second chance, and I’m grateful beyond expression to the universe for that. And like the fabled Phoenix (or in my case, her distant relative the Dumpster Phoenix), I will treat it as my last — using all my learned knowledge to make it the best it can be, and to learn everything I can to make it even better still.

On the nature of time, perspective, and self-awareness

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”One of the most important things in life is to have people who care about you, and you care about, you know… Love is the magic word, it is, you know? If it wasn’t for love I wouldn’t be here today”
– Our Lady Peace, ‘Mettle’

I’ve been — accused? called out? give it a name — of taking things with Natalie too fast. And that statement (and the concept behind it) confuses me to no end.

First and foremost, this is me. I am the way I am, and I’ve spent enough time self-analyzing to know why I do the things that I do, and to have changed the behaviors that I don’t like, don’t work for me, don’t make me happy. I’m not sure why people continue to question this about me (I have theories, sure, but the more I know, the more I’m certain I have no a clue about).

But on a exterior note: this moment is all that I’m guaranteed. It’s all that any of us are guaranteed. If there is something that I find that makes me happy, I embrace it with every fiber of my being – be it art, sport, or people. Conversely, if something leaves me empty, causes me discomfort, or generally leaves me less-off, why would I stick with it? We only have so many heartbeats; shouldn’t they all count for the most they can?

(Let me note that some short-term discomfort, for me, is critical to a longer-term goal or desire; just because I have a disagreement with a friend does not mean I discard them. The difficulty and displeasure that come with learning a new skill don’t mean I give up learning a new instrument, or writing a new piece.)

Before I digress completely…

Spending time with Natalie makes me indescribably happy. No matter whether we’re chatting in between customers at the bar, wandering aimlessly through the museum, hanging out in bigger groups of friends, or spending an entire weekend day in bed, shooting the shit about whatever idiocy crosses one of our minds, she makes me glow (other people’s words, not mine — though I can feel what they’re talking about, so we’ll roll with that). We connect on a level that I don’t recall ever experiencing . We have so many commonalities, both surface and core, but we also have such different upbringings and backgrounds and experiences that she has an endless fount of things that I can learn from her.

There is no guarantee of tomorrow. There is no guarantee that I’ll finish typing this sentence. Why should I not wrap my arms around things that make me happy with every ounce of strength and enthusiasm that I am capable of?

This concept of too fast, too much — it’s foreign. Why not grab life by the balls and run? Why not introduce someone who has grabbed your heart to your friends, to your family, shout their names and how they make you feel from the rooftops, find every stranger and passer-by and tell them how wonderful life can be? Circumstances, life, the everything could change a minute from now. The world can fall apart. Strokes, heart attacks, bus accidents and plane crashes and lightning strikes happen. Live your life, and do so with no concern of the opinions of others. Do what makes you happy.

Do what makes you happy.

*your mileage may vary. no representation is made that this advice or my point of view is any better or worse than similar services offered by opinionated idiots on the Interwebs. But seriously, unless it involves kids or harm to others: do what makes you happy.

Salt

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Let me walk under weight like waves,
and find the fool in the courage craved
I’ll run into the house as it’s burning
I can make it to the morning
So I’ll find the revolution in a breath
Square one always felt like the start of something beautiful
I have been here before
I can stand in my body like I own it

So bring me my tomorrow
I swear by my sorrow, her hopeful hands to bear me
Bring me my tomorrow

Light my sins in the lens of fault
Let my edges blur as I stand like salt
This dead head vessel blind to the curtain
Let the siren sing certain
If I could be rid of this, I would in a breath
My words are a whisper,
but at least I can call them mine
Call out the warning
More than a mantra,
I can make it to the morning

So bring me my tomorrow
I swear by my sorrow, her hopeful hands to bear me
Bring me my tomorrow

I know every word,
all this cold talk of redemption,
but the night can’t hold a candle to shadows that I can’t overcome
It was always there
Growing louder yet
Give me sight in the silence,
and god help me, give me sleep

This softness I’m waiting weightless for,
with only one thing more to ask these fragile bones in the end

Was it gentle?
‘Cause I need her to know
But tomorrow hangs like a promise
I can’t keep it alone,
but I’ll meet you there

This softness I’m waiting weightless for,
with only one thing more to ask these fragile bones

Stand, and bring me my tomorrow
Bring me my tomorrow
I swear by my sorrow, her hopeful hands to bear me
Bring me my tomorrow

More
More than the sum of scars
More than the rope’s end
More
More than a call to arms
More than the harm
You’re more
More than the damage done
More than the hopeless
More
More than the dawn
More than the end
More than a mantra
You.

Adrian Goleby / James Grey / Samuel Vallen (Caligula’s Horse / © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.)

… just another batch of rambling …

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“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.”
– Anaïs Nin

“How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.”
– Henry David Thoreau

For what feels like an eternity*, I haven’t felt like I had anything worthwhile to say. Now, I can’t type or write nearly fast enough. Worse still, my brain races so far ahead of my fingers that I’m not sure that anything I’m putting down will make sense later.

…and maybe that’s okay, in and of itself. If my only detailed memories from this period are the overwhelming elation and explosions of sensations and ideas and emotion overload, then that means that this was an age of really, truly, honestly being alive.

A writer’s voice is a strange thing. I’m still, after all these years, trying to find mine. For a long time* I had one, but in hindsight it was really just me subconsciously parroting writers that I love reading — a bit of Palahniuk, more than a little Warren Ellis, a heavy-handed dose of Vonnegut. I guess that’s a natural thing — we hoomans naturally pay homage to those who influence us, no matter what the chosen medium is for communication.

(Come to think of it, my musical playing on all the instruments I play is an obvious tribute, if you are familiar with the musicians I grew up listening to…)

I know that my shorter pieces have a signature tone. I also know that that tone is affected both by what I’m writing about, and whatever I’m listening to during the actual writing process (I’m a music-first person, rather than naturally hearing lyrics, like most people that I know do, so — fortunately, as much as I use music to help me focus past my ADD — the words to the songs don’t really creep into my writing [unless intentional, which is more than occasional]). But I wonder if I will ever settle on a set, identifiable voice, or if it will continue to shift and evolve over time?

Beautiful day. Way too warm and breezy and blue sky to be inside typing.

“Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.”
-Franz Kafka

* It should be noted for the record that I am really bad with time, and so words like ‘eternity’ are utterly meaningless at the end of the day.

(re)awakening

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Vacation. Mid-winter February, another city somewhere in America. The world is dull, muted. Colors are dirty faded versions of themselves. Sounds are distant and staticky. Touch is like being separated from the world by a thin wool body suit, taste is bland no matter how much spice is added.

Nothing feels like it should. Maybe memory lies, or romanticizes the past. The only thing that feels real, the only spark of life is brought by negative — anger, sadness, nostalgia. All of which quickly spiral out of control too often to a sense of hopelessness, nihilism, some sort of Nietzschean cage.

On a whim, a text is sent. Questionable purpose, maybe none at all, outside of seeking connection. And another is received, and poetry is shared, and suddenly things start to make some sense — a vague, shapeless, probably imagined sense, but enough so that it feels like a lifeline, or maybe a voice calling out from safety.

A memory:

A crossword puzzle, appropriate for ages 8-14 probably. A picture of galaxies and star clusters and other astronomical bodies set against starry black, probably meant to inspire said pre-teens to learn more about the heavens. The end picture was likely cartoonish, or clearly hand-painted. But it stuck, and eventually became a dream dreamt twice through a life: once the night after completing the puzzle, and once more. The dream was set at night, though you had to just know in your bones that it was night, because it was bright out, the entire globe of the sky filled from one horizon to the other with the puzzle image — galaxies, supernovae, moons, planets, comets — so close that they seem palable if it were actually advisable to touch, say, a red giant or the heart of Andromeda.

It’s close, but honestly, no image can capture that dream

That dream was broken by a new day, begun with the strangest mix of raw elation and crushing sorrow, of having been touched by something uniquely beautiful that will never come one’s way again. But the memory, as they say, remains.

Home, current day. Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel, only it’s not. Because the dream recurred, as vivid and hyperreal and tactile as memory served. Only on waking, the sense of once-in-a-lifetime enjoyment is lessened. Because the dream returned, for a second and maybe not the last time. Because the waking world is more like remembered from long ago.

Where only weeks before was the cinema of the ’40s, the album quality of the ’50s, the food quality of those horrible ads for Jello and ham and black olive casseroles of the 1970s magazines aimed at lonely housewives chained to their husbands’ bidding — now, here, rich and glorious color in high-definition 8K at 60 frames per second on an IMAX screen, full bullet-time surround sound with a sub-woofer that rattles one’s very soul. The air has that quality of the immediately-post-rain wonder: clean, clear, as though the gods had just finished their weekly washing chores, colors brighter than anyone can remember, that springtime petrichor freeing the mind of everything but the here, the now.

It doesn’t matter so much where we are, as much as: we’re not in Kansas anymore.

The sound of the floodgates opening

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One of the most powerful moments of acting I’ve ever seen came in an episode of The Nevers. Specifically, Laura Donnelly as Amalia True, in the song translation scene (potential spoilers, but you’ve had plenty of time to watch it by now):

If this manages to stay embedded, I’ll be amazed.

Context would probably help there, but I’ll instead encourage you to watch the show (the scene above appears in season one, episode four: ‘Undertaking’); it’s (so far) a lovely piece of fiction with a wonderful cast and crew. Out of context, though, watching the sadness build behind a steely stone gaze, only to break free – but even then only within the confines of True’s controlled exterior… I was watching live and it punched me in the gut, and I think I might have immediately texted a friend in Boston to tell her to watch the show based purely on this scene, and the way it affected me. And then, the next week, during the recap (‘Previously on…’), they showed the scene, completely free of context, and it still got me. Again.

(There’s a similar moment in, of all places, Mythic Quest — I guess it’s technically the first season, but it’s the pandemic episode “Quarantine”. You’ll know what I’m talking about when you see it.)

I can’t help it. I’m a sucker for both the Duran Duran original and that eighties hair metal sound. It’s the perfect cover.

Duran Duran’s Ordinary World, off the self-titled 1993 album (commonly known as ‘The Wedding Album’), is one of the most affecting songs I’ve ever heard. Simon Le Bon write the lyric as a message to his best friend, who had passed away some years before, and you can absolutely hear both the determination to accept the loss and move forward as well as the lingering grief that Le Bon carries (“Where is my friend when I need you most? (Gone away)”). The first time I heard it — and I was somehow a huge Duran Duran fan in the midst of listening primarily to guitar heroes and prog metal — it registered with me as a song that would resonate in my heart for a long time, and I was right.

I’ve been a George Lynch fan since the early ’80s — it’s less embarrassing than it probably should be that I was really into Dokken for a while — and got really excited when it was announced that he and Jeff Pilson (Dokken’s bassist and currently also playing with Foreigner) would be releasing an album of cover tunes that they both dug. The disc is a mixed bag for me — Tracy Chapman’s One of Us is a nice reinvention, while I could go the rest of my life without hearing Champagne Supernova quite happily — but it’s Ordinary World that stands out to me. There’s the obvious — one of my favorite songs combined with slick hair metal production (It’s BIG! It’s heavy! It’s cinematic!) — but it’s the solo that kills me. I mean — kills.

Look, what Lynch does to the main riff — the first guitar break, after the second chorus — I kinda hate. It’s a personal opinion (as all things music are, y’know), but the noisier take on one of the most identifiable ‘pop guitar riffs’ just hits wrong for me. I get that. But then, after the repeats of “Any world is my world,” when the lead guitar kicks in at 4:30… the first time I heard this, I was frozen, speechless, and probably got that weird creeping chill at the base of my skull that I get every now and then.

It’s that same feeling that I pull from The Nevers moment, when that mask you wear starts to crack, when your internalization and validation and rationalization of your sadness stops working so well — when the waters create too much pressure, and the control is no longer possible, suddenly, if only for a brief moment.

(BTW, There’s another surprisingly (if you’re me, or know my musical tastes) great cover of the tunes by The Pierces at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZACv6qObR0s)