2012/05/13
05/13
The same yellow sun falls upon hands as bandaged fingers work together a tea bag, the little folded paper itself reused from an old store-bought brand and filled with scavenged plant or food parts—heads of spring flowers, bits of tree moss, crumpled fallen leaves, old coffee grounds, crushed sugar cane—to be soaked in boiled water with the morning sounds of whispering wind, talking birds, and an early drum-and-synth Kraftwerk record (one of the three that never made it to an official digital release—not that I would have bought it on CD anyhow; the decrepit music industry deserves none of what little money I do have). Seth is upstairs, still asleep. Work's not for another couple hours, but I like to prelude the day with a process of body-and-soul rejuvenation, so that my withering human parts have a slight chance of withstanding the rigors (ie: thought, labor, stress, social interaction, drug use), they soon will very likely be put through.
With the tea poured and the LP flipped, I clear a space on the book-and-ashtray-covered table to set the bird's-egg-blue typewriter; I haven't felt this clear-headed in some time, and fleeting moments like these must be taken advantage of before they are forever lost.
Through the kitchen's sliding glass door, in the back yard I see a pair of deer, moseying through tall grass, lounging in sunlight, munching on the heads of dandelions.
The same yellow sun falls upon hands as bandaged fingers work together a tea bag, the little folded paper itself reused from an old store-bought brand and filled with scavenged plant or food parts—heads of spring flowers, bits of tree moss, crumpled fallen leaves, old coffee grounds, crushed sugar cane—to be soaked in boiled water with the morning sounds of whispering wind, talking birds, and an early drum-and-synth Kraftwerk record (one of the three that never made it to an official digital release—not that I would have bought it on CD anyhow; the decrepit music industry deserves none of what little money I do have). Seth is upstairs, still asleep. Work's not for another couple hours, but I like to prelude the day with a process of body-and-soul rejuvenation, so that my withering human parts have a slight chance of withstanding the rigors (ie: thought, labor, stress, social interaction, drug use), they soon will very likely be put through.
With the tea poured and the LP flipped, I clear a space on the book-and-ashtray-covered table to set the bird's-egg-blue typewriter; I haven't felt this clear-headed in some time, and fleeting moments like these must be taken advantage of before they are forever lost.
Through the kitchen's sliding glass door, in the back yard I see a pair of deer, moseying through tall grass, lounging in sunlight, munching on the heads of dandelions.
2012/05/07
05/07
There is more to music than notes and beats, scales and signatures, bars and clefs. The transcription of music is a mere technical way of remembering or learning the components of an essentially abstract substance; it is like using mathematics to describe the colors and scents of a flower garden. Full comprehension of modern music notation is less useful than memorization of the periodic table of elements or the first fifty digits of pi (just as reading a detailed list of chemical compounds would tell you nothing about what might happen if you were to ingest all of them at once). That's not to say the learning of music theory isn't useful or necessary; understanding the physical workings of tonal relationships is invaluable to the composition process. However, a method of notation that hasn't changed much since a century or two before the invention of electricity can hardly be seen as useful, practical, or at all relevant... and that alone is without having taken musical emotion, imagery, poetry, or spontaneity into account.
There is more to music than notes and beats, scales and signatures, bars and clefs. The transcription of music is a mere technical way of remembering or learning the components of an essentially abstract substance; it is like using mathematics to describe the colors and scents of a flower garden. Full comprehension of modern music notation is less useful than memorization of the periodic table of elements or the first fifty digits of pi (just as reading a detailed list of chemical compounds would tell you nothing about what might happen if you were to ingest all of them at once). That's not to say the learning of music theory isn't useful or necessary; understanding the physical workings of tonal relationships is invaluable to the composition process. However, a method of notation that hasn't changed much since a century or two before the invention of electricity can hardly be seen as useful, practical, or at all relevant... and that alone is without having taken musical emotion, imagery, poetry, or spontaneity into account.
2012/05/01
2012/04/29
2012/04/16
04/16
Believe it or not, you can make, in your home and with your bare hands, french fries that are delicious. Just try it sometime. All you need is a potato, a knife, a pan, a stove, a spatula, some oil, some salt (I also use garlic powder, some seasoning, and pepper), some ketchup, some music, some beer, about fifteen minutes, something to read or someone to talk to, a pen, a notepad, a pair of hands, an eye or two, maybe an ear.
Believe it or not, you can make, in your home and with your bare hands, french fries that are delicious. Just try it sometime. All you need is a potato, a knife, a pan, a stove, a spatula, some oil, some salt (I also use garlic powder, some seasoning, and pepper), some ketchup, some music, some beer, about fifteen minutes, something to read or someone to talk to, a pen, a notepad, a pair of hands, an eye or two, maybe an ear.
2012/04/15
04/15
malaise. a clock ticking over my head on the wall, clothes clanking and the hum of a dryer in the basement below, something thudding on the floor of the room above then the whine of a vacuum cleaner and distant recorded voices over speakers.
an angry buzz from the dryer. the miniature refrigerator clicks on.
time for some music and a bloody mary.
malaise. a clock ticking over my head on the wall, clothes clanking and the hum of a dryer in the basement below, something thudding on the floor of the room above then the whine of a vacuum cleaner and distant recorded voices over speakers.
an angry buzz from the dryer. the miniature refrigerator clicks on.
time for some music and a bloody mary.
2012/04/11
2012/04/07
2012/04/06
04/06
Susceptibility. In a bar with black and white squares patterning the floor, wooden table sets of varying design decorated with yellow tulips and candles in red glass holders, and tall green walls that are adorned with gold-framed mirrors and that reach up to a white ceiling from which dim lights hang on long chains. The place is full of white people wearing glasses and striped and plaid clothes, conversing about anything trivial, about themselves; things they've experienced, people they know, drama, probably. The music is corny electronica, goofy bass synths and out of place vocal samples. The waitress is cute but wearing shorts that are far too short, too exposing. The guy that's been cleaning up and taking orders is wearing a plaid shirt with cut sleeves, and since they're cut so short I've been wondering if / speculating that he's gay.
04/05
Beer and cigarettes in sunlight.
A funky beat comes bouncing from a distance. Two young men walking side by side in jeans, matching sports coats, and red ties pass us on the sidewalk, one of them carrying on his shoulder a late '80s or early '90s boombox stereo which is playing Michael Jackson at maximum volume. Beat It. Fuck yes.
Again, I'm glad to be home.
Susceptibility. In a bar with black and white squares patterning the floor, wooden table sets of varying design decorated with yellow tulips and candles in red glass holders, and tall green walls that are adorned with gold-framed mirrors and that reach up to a white ceiling from which dim lights hang on long chains. The place is full of white people wearing glasses and striped and plaid clothes, conversing about anything trivial, about themselves; things they've experienced, people they know, drama, probably. The music is corny electronica, goofy bass synths and out of place vocal samples. The waitress is cute but wearing shorts that are far too short, too exposing. The guy that's been cleaning up and taking orders is wearing a plaid shirt with cut sleeves, and since they're cut so short I've been wondering if / speculating that he's gay.
04/05
Beer and cigarettes in sunlight.
A funky beat comes bouncing from a distance. Two young men walking side by side in jeans, matching sports coats, and red ties pass us on the sidewalk, one of them carrying on his shoulder a late '80s or early '90s boombox stereo which is playing Michael Jackson at maximum volume. Beat It. Fuck yes.
Again, I'm glad to be home.
2012/04/04
04/04
Tonopah, Nevada; old friends of Jurek's, which means cigars and scotch. I don't even know who's driving anymore. Mopy Keil, I suppose.
Jurek's pal has lived in this house since childhood. There are five cats; two or three smallish ones and two that are larger, one of which is black and has a lion's mane, the other of which is like a cow; it is fat and mostly white, and its sagging bellyflesh is an udder. One dog, a pit something, has a drooling cough, and another has a crumpled tail and a mutilated and decaying face; gashes near one eye, a crusty white ball where the other eye would be, and a mouth that won't open, so its tongue flicks out the side where teeth are missing.
The son is younger than I and already has a steady job, which I do not, and the daughter is younger still and already has a baby boy, which I do not. She changes the baby on the couch, comments on the greenness of the poo, then, after cleaning him up and letting him go, instead of washing her hands reaches for a french fry.
The grandchild looks at me from beneath a table. I make faces at him, moving up eyebrows and contorting my mouth. He smiles, and his own eyebrows shift around.
04/03
Within the bowels of the house, the Sneckson family secret: a handmade red-white-and-blue quilt, “UNITED STATES OFAMERICA” depicted in the center and images of all the states chronologically occupying their own hexagons throughout the quilt's body, accompanied by state birds, state flowers, and dates of induction. No thimble used.
“Wow Vander,” I say, “you're a true American. It's in your blood.”
“Blood!” laughs his father, “we don't need blood, we need beer!”
Tonopah, Nevada; old friends of Jurek's, which means cigars and scotch. I don't even know who's driving anymore. Mopy Keil, I suppose.
Jurek's pal has lived in this house since childhood. There are five cats; two or three smallish ones and two that are larger, one of which is black and has a lion's mane, the other of which is like a cow; it is fat and mostly white, and its sagging bellyflesh is an udder. One dog, a pit something, has a drooling cough, and another has a crumpled tail and a mutilated and decaying face; gashes near one eye, a crusty white ball where the other eye would be, and a mouth that won't open, so its tongue flicks out the side where teeth are missing.
The son is younger than I and already has a steady job, which I do not, and the daughter is younger still and already has a baby boy, which I do not. She changes the baby on the couch, comments on the greenness of the poo, then, after cleaning him up and letting him go, instead of washing her hands reaches for a french fry.
The grandchild looks at me from beneath a table. I make faces at him, moving up eyebrows and contorting my mouth. He smiles, and his own eyebrows shift around.
04/03
Within the bowels of the house, the Sneckson family secret: a handmade red-white-and-blue quilt, “UNITED STATES OFAMERICA” depicted in the center and images of all the states chronologically occupying their own hexagons throughout the quilt's body, accompanied by state birds, state flowers, and dates of induction. No thimble used.
“Wow Vander,” I say, “you're a true American. It's in your blood.”
“Blood!” laughs his father, “we don't need blood, we need beer!”
2012/04/02
04/02
“We
went out to a Chinese place and I told the boys I didn't want to hear
them saying 'flied lice' or any of that shit. Everything went okay
until dessert, when the waiter said for ice cream they had
strawberry, vanilla, and 'locky load.' We'd all been drinking, and
the boys about died. Man, that waiter was pissed. He yelled at
us:
“'China
boy got A-bomb too, you know!'”
2012/04/01
04/01
There is no hope left for white America. Currency flows out in all directions, but to no person who needs or deserves it. Hungry squirrels with long, slender flashing fingers and a hoard of stolen nuts.
There is no hope left for white America. Currency flows out in all directions, but to no person who needs or deserves it. Hungry squirrels with long, slender flashing fingers and a hoard of stolen nuts.
Case
in point: the Olive Garden. Big name, long wait, bright lights, high
price, yet box-worthy wine with negligible alcohol content and food that
looks and tastes like it was cooked in a microwave. I could make
exponentially better pasta while half-asleep and drunk.
“Spicy's
one thing, awful's another.”
Who's
idea was this? Vander's dad?
Time
to scramble. I toss down a tip for the cross-eyed, rabbit-toothed,
flair-adorned waiter—mostly out of pity—as we slip out and away, but there's no way in hell this
bill's getting paid.
2012/03/31
03/31
Somewhere on Highway 93, Nevada; ominous shadows in the dark. Monstrous, terrifying earthen muscles that rise hulking into the night sky to be silhouetted by the moon and stars through wispy strands of cloud.
107 miles to Las Vegas. A round of shots. Coffee in a can. CCR on the stereo.
The approach is a long crawl through more desert abyss, moon hiding, sky clear. The faint glow I first take to be a distant dawn sun reaching over the mountain horizon is the city itself, a shining box of fool's gold, visual pollution seeping into the atmosphere.
We're caught in their tractor beam. No choice now but to venture through the mouth, down into the beast's belly.
Somewhere on Highway 93, Nevada; ominous shadows in the dark. Monstrous, terrifying earthen muscles that rise hulking into the night sky to be silhouetted by the moon and stars through wispy strands of cloud.
107 miles to Las Vegas. A round of shots. Coffee in a can. CCR on the stereo.
The approach is a long crawl through more desert abyss, moon hiding, sky clear. The faint glow I first take to be a distant dawn sun reaching over the mountain horizon is the city itself, a shining box of fool's gold, visual pollution seeping into the atmosphere.
We're caught in their tractor beam. No choice now but to venture through the mouth, down into the beast's belly.
2012/03/30
03/30
Ontario, Oregon; pubes in the urinal. How did they get there? What the fuck do you have to do to get your own ball hair to fall out while you pee?
Maybe I should ask Elvis. He does seem to know I'm a hound dog. To me, that's proof enough of his wisdom.
Wasn't Elvis found dead on a toilet? And here I am, in a gas station toilet, hearing his voice. His ghost remains, haunting toilet users across America. The bastard.
A dog in the parking lot. Fat. Brown. Confused.
Robot men from the anus of Mars.
Ontario, Oregon; pubes in the urinal. How did they get there? What the fuck do you have to do to get your own ball hair to fall out while you pee?
Maybe I should ask Elvis. He does seem to know I'm a hound dog. To me, that's proof enough of his wisdom.
Wasn't Elvis found dead on a toilet? And here I am, in a gas station toilet, hearing his voice. His ghost remains, haunting toilet users across America. The bastard.
A dog in the parking lot. Fat. Brown. Confused.
Robot men from the anus of Mars.
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