The night sky bears down on us with its scattering of diamonds on black velvet. The pale smear of the Milky Way slips in and out of vision, frustrating and captivating all at once. In the fleeting moments where the Via Lactea can be seen it is brought home with dizzying impact that everything in the Universe is either You or Not-You. Such thoughts either evoke laughter or consternation.
You or Not-You. The imperial absurdity of it comes clear if "potato" is substituted for You. Everything in the Universe is either a potato or not a potato. An internet meme thus becomes the cornerstone of a new philosophy of self-awareness. It can be safely said by us all that "I am not a potato, therefore I am!"
Silliness, indeed. Such thoughts on an icy winter night turn life into an extended Monty Python skit, a theater of the absurd in which we all star. "I am not a potato," we mutter into the cold air whilst shaking our relatively tiny fists at the sky. It all becomes meta. A conflation of the Universe in its immensity with tubers and all the things we are not but which we consume. We may not be potatoes or air or books, but these things become part of us the instant we chew, breathe, or read. Sometimes all those at once.
To stand under the stars and revel in the mundanity of a humble tuber as being you and not-you is profound and absurd. The paradoxes within can make the head spin and the mind marvel at the amount of energy we expend on the maintenance of partitions between ourselves and our circumstances. By such fiction we strive to convince ourselves we can be masters of the universe.
To see the stars above and the ground below is to know, however, that we are not potatoes. We are not the Universe. We eat the one and curse and praise the other. This assures us that we are human, even if potatoes and galaxies do not seem to know we exist. We consume them both, and are consumed by the imperial and the ridiculous.
Showing posts with label absurdity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label absurdity. Show all posts
15 January 2017
16 April 2016
Spring Madness: Irrational Angers and Other Curiosities
OBSERVATION FROM THE ROAD: CHEAP ADVERTISING AND POOR COPY
Dear wannabe triathlete/sniper/adrenaline junkie/gun whore/whatever: Changing the last letter of your plural business name from an 'S' to a 'Z' does not increase its hipness. All it does is prove a lack of imagination on your part and induce a burning desire to deface that stupid sticker on the back window of your tired-ass SUV.
P.S.: Pry open your wallet and shell out for the services of a pro graphic designer, you hack.
MIRROR, MIRROR ON YOUR FACE...
...We should spray you with some mace. Seriously, asshole, with the too big, cheap mirrored sunglasses on your head, back the hell off my bumper. You know how I can tell your sunglasses are cheap? Because you are TOO GODDAMN CLOSE to my rear bumper. Are you stoned or just stupid?
SHAME AND DEGRADATION IN THE HEARTLAND
There is no dearth of shabby stores peddling alcohol and tobacco here in many areas in which I have to drive while shaking my own money tree. "We may not have good roads or decent schools, but by God we claim lung cancer and cirrhosis as our birthright!" I imagine the hawkers of business licenses around here to be saying. There are too many to name, but today for some reason the one that caught my eye and crystallized my disgruntlement was a store named (simply) "CHEAP SMOKES AND LIQUOR". I realized that it was actually one outlet in a small, local chain of outlets selling (you guessed it) cheap smokes and liquor. My god, man, have they no pride? Can no one do better?
WHERE THEY HATE YOU WITH A GRIN
Driving around here can be a distressing experience, what with all the people trying so hard to be polite and thoughtful while driving slower than the speed limit and playing endless games of "After you!" "No, after you!" "No, really you go ahead" "Okay, I'll stop in the middle of this busy road to let your ONE car turn left across traffic from a side road during rush hour with bumper to bumper traffic piling up behind me because I don't want to be rude..."OHFORFUCKS'SAKEEXERCISESOMECOMMONSENSE.YOURNEEDTOBEPERCEIVEDASNICEANDPOLITEISSERIOUSLYFUCKINGUPTRAFFICFOREVERYONEELSETRYINGTOGETSOMEWHEREYOUMORON!"
THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED...FOR A REASON
I arrive home, pull in the driveway, and kill the engine. Fatigue washes over me and I could fall asleep on the steering wheel. But there is work to be done, pipers to be paid, and no one will do it for me. I slouch out of the car and gather my things. The sunlight filtering through the trees across the street feels good. Some of the roads I drive suck the life out of me, but the most important thing (I whisper to myself) is that I always find the road that brings me back to home. I am home.
30 May 2013
Electric Slumgullion
8:34 PM. Burning off the dross of the day, the sky is undecided. Rain is on the way, I think. But there is music.
Lately I have been looking in the mirror carefully, trying to see who might show up. Or what might show up. See, I've also been unable to shake off the notion that if I had a totem from the world of plants, it would be an onion. I stare into the silvered glass, watching the layers morph and ripple across my tired face.
To have my animal self replaced by a plant is deflating. It should not be, perhaps. We are all of us made of many things, and not all of them mammalian. The identity drawn therefrom can serve as a wellspring of strength, courage, energy. In my case, I fancied my animal self to be Panthera onca, the jaguar. Powerful, enigmatic, and possessed of a shamanic energy I crave and envy.
The jaguar has been scarce lately. I catch the occasional glimpse, but full sightings are scarce like iridium crystals. I hold the totem in my hands, but the eyes are dull. This troubles me.
The jaguar, it seems, has given way to the onion. How long this will last, none can say. All I know is that the last year has peeled away a lot from my outer surfaces, exposing even more layers within as well as creating the occasional tears. I spend a lot of time meditating on these circumstances. It is important for me to plumb my depths. I have no desire to be caught from behind by things I did not know existed within.
This is not to say that these layers are always serious. While I certainly have the tendency to be too serious, there are things I keep finding that make me laugh, or marvel at the oddities that contribute to the mass of intriguing weirdness that resides in my heart and head.
Case in point tonight: on my way home this evening, I caught a musical snippet on "World Cafe with David Dye"---an interesting radio show hosted by WXPN---that made me sit up and take notice. It was this weird but likeable mix of what sounded like Indian-inspired dance hip-hop party music. I had no clue as to genre, and I missed the name of the group, but I wanted to hear it again. I felt I had to know who, what, and why.
So I turned to our friend the Internet and looked up the play schedule for WXPN. Turns out the music I heard was by a the group Red Baraat, a Brooklyn, NY-based outfit that combines Punjabi bhangra with New Orleans-style jazz, hip-hop, and go-go music. I couldn't even begin to tell you exactly what all of those styles encompass, but I can tell you this: the music made me happy and wanting to dance. And I'm not a dancer by any stretch.
Dig this, too. The leader of the band is named Sunny Jain. Born in the United States, his parents were Punjabi immigrants. He is trained as a jazz drummer. The band is heavy on percussion and brass, including a two-headed drum---the dhol---and a sousaphone.That's right, ladies and gents, a freakin' sousaphone. And the guy who plays it also raps.
I don't know what it is about stuff like this that draws me in. It makes me wish I could play a sousaphone, for crying out loud. It is weird. It is loopy.Which some might say are accurate descriptors of me.
It is this sort of thing that gives me hope for the future, for the world, and for myself. I like to think the one who likes all this weirdness is the poet in my soul, the one hidden behind all those layers, and that doesn't get to the surface as often as I wish. What I heard made the poet smile, making me okay with my weirdness.
I bounced in my chair for a bit, listening to the music and tucking into a digital bowl of electric slumgullion. After all, the jaguar is in there, too. He is hungry, he must be fed.
Lately I have been looking in the mirror carefully, trying to see who might show up. Or what might show up. See, I've also been unable to shake off the notion that if I had a totem from the world of plants, it would be an onion. I stare into the silvered glass, watching the layers morph and ripple across my tired face.
To have my animal self replaced by a plant is deflating. It should not be, perhaps. We are all of us made of many things, and not all of them mammalian. The identity drawn therefrom can serve as a wellspring of strength, courage, energy. In my case, I fancied my animal self to be Panthera onca, the jaguar. Powerful, enigmatic, and possessed of a shamanic energy I crave and envy.
The jaguar has been scarce lately. I catch the occasional glimpse, but full sightings are scarce like iridium crystals. I hold the totem in my hands, but the eyes are dull. This troubles me.
The jaguar, it seems, has given way to the onion. How long this will last, none can say. All I know is that the last year has peeled away a lot from my outer surfaces, exposing even more layers within as well as creating the occasional tears. I spend a lot of time meditating on these circumstances. It is important for me to plumb my depths. I have no desire to be caught from behind by things I did not know existed within.
This is not to say that these layers are always serious. While I certainly have the tendency to be too serious, there are things I keep finding that make me laugh, or marvel at the oddities that contribute to the mass of intriguing weirdness that resides in my heart and head.
Case in point tonight: on my way home this evening, I caught a musical snippet on "World Cafe with David Dye"---an interesting radio show hosted by WXPN---that made me sit up and take notice. It was this weird but likeable mix of what sounded like Indian-inspired dance hip-hop party music. I had no clue as to genre, and I missed the name of the group, but I wanted to hear it again. I felt I had to know who, what, and why.
So I turned to our friend the Internet and looked up the play schedule for WXPN. Turns out the music I heard was by a the group Red Baraat, a Brooklyn, NY-based outfit that combines Punjabi bhangra with New Orleans-style jazz, hip-hop, and go-go music. I couldn't even begin to tell you exactly what all of those styles encompass, but I can tell you this: the music made me happy and wanting to dance. And I'm not a dancer by any stretch.
Dig this, too. The leader of the band is named Sunny Jain. Born in the United States, his parents were Punjabi immigrants. He is trained as a jazz drummer. The band is heavy on percussion and brass, including a two-headed drum---the dhol---and a sousaphone.That's right, ladies and gents, a freakin' sousaphone. And the guy who plays it also raps.
I don't know what it is about stuff like this that draws me in. It makes me wish I could play a sousaphone, for crying out loud. It is weird. It is loopy.Which some might say are accurate descriptors of me.
It is this sort of thing that gives me hope for the future, for the world, and for myself. I like to think the one who likes all this weirdness is the poet in my soul, the one hidden behind all those layers, and that doesn't get to the surface as often as I wish. What I heard made the poet smile, making me okay with my weirdness.
I bounced in my chair for a bit, listening to the music and tucking into a digital bowl of electric slumgullion. After all, the jaguar is in there, too. He is hungry, he must be fed.
16 May 2013
Plumbing the Weird
8:45 PM. Long day, much to do, lots of low cursing. Then, more thoughts.
I had a chance to review what I wrote for yesterday's post. I have to say, it was pretty weird. I mean, weird even for me. Why that is, I cannot rightly say.
What I can say is that it is the result of a maxim. To wit, I have been exhorted more than once and by more than one source to write every day. Even if I do not feel like it or am not inspired. Write. Write. WRITE. I've also been told to not worry if it isn't any good, or maybe doesn't make sense. One doesn't even need to know what to write about. Just. Do. It.
So I did. It was difficult. I was in no mood to write, had no plans to do so, certainly had no big ideas laying around in the junkyard of my mind. I went to my computer with the intention of doing some research on some trivial thing I thought I needed, or maybe it was online bill-paying I meant to do. It could have been something important, for all I know now.
All of that is not what happened, as we clearly see. Instead of turning right, I turned left. I zigged instead of zagged. My fingers started typing of seemingly their own volition, I entered a fugue state---that is what it felt like---and about an hour later that story is what left my head and ended up on the digital page. I can describe the episode as channeling rather than writing. Upon completion, I felt drained and exalted.
I also laughed at myself. It seemed so strange, so not where my head was going when I logged in. Often this sort of thing unnerves me and creates a little anxiety. I am not the type of person who easily makes leaps into the unknown, because it is so...well, so unknown. I realize how ridiculous I appear to acknowledge such absurdity.
But there it is, this rare attempt to just write, with no plan, no inspiration, no map. I have no idea what it means, or even if it means anything. This is okay, I think. If I am to make good on my aspirations to be an author I'll have to get used to plumbing weird. I hope I can bring guests.
I had a chance to review what I wrote for yesterday's post. I have to say, it was pretty weird. I mean, weird even for me. Why that is, I cannot rightly say.
What I can say is that it is the result of a maxim. To wit, I have been exhorted more than once and by more than one source to write every day. Even if I do not feel like it or am not inspired. Write. Write. WRITE. I've also been told to not worry if it isn't any good, or maybe doesn't make sense. One doesn't even need to know what to write about. Just. Do. It.
So I did. It was difficult. I was in no mood to write, had no plans to do so, certainly had no big ideas laying around in the junkyard of my mind. I went to my computer with the intention of doing some research on some trivial thing I thought I needed, or maybe it was online bill-paying I meant to do. It could have been something important, for all I know now.
All of that is not what happened, as we clearly see. Instead of turning right, I turned left. I zigged instead of zagged. My fingers started typing of seemingly their own volition, I entered a fugue state---that is what it felt like---and about an hour later that story is what left my head and ended up on the digital page. I can describe the episode as channeling rather than writing. Upon completion, I felt drained and exalted.
I also laughed at myself. It seemed so strange, so not where my head was going when I logged in. Often this sort of thing unnerves me and creates a little anxiety. I am not the type of person who easily makes leaps into the unknown, because it is so...well, so unknown. I realize how ridiculous I appear to acknowledge such absurdity.
But there it is, this rare attempt to just write, with no plan, no inspiration, no map. I have no idea what it means, or even if it means anything. This is okay, I think. If I am to make good on my aspirations to be an author I'll have to get used to plumbing weird. I hope I can bring guests.
10 September 2012
Magpie Tales 134: Dawn Breaks Over the Painter's Head
Breakfast, 1921, Fernand Leger via Magpie Tales
"Care for some more coffee, hon?" said the waitress, her fangs shining in the blood-orange light streaming through the smeary plate glass of the diner window. Hobson blinked hard, swallowing a lump of dread that the coffee hadn't dislodged from his throat. The waitress smiled, or so he thought, but it didn't reach the eyes of green-gold brilliance set into the silver fur of her ruff and muzzle. Hobson stared at her, eyes watering a little, and tried to convince himself he was not looking at or having a conversation with a wolf.
He corrected himself. It wasn't a wolf. It was a woman's body with the head of a wolf. A very attractive wolf-woman, or was it woman-wolf, the curves of which he had not failed to notice when had stumbled into the Sip 'N' Chew for his morning usual. "Damnit, when did Roxy start with the wolf head?" he thought, frantically trying to respond to her before she got pissed and walked off, leaving no coffee. His mouth opened and closed like a fish cast up out of the tide line. Roxy stared at him, eye arching up in annoyance.
"Uh...eh...more coffee, I guess, Roxy. And what happened to your head?" he sputtered.
Roxy leaned over to pour him another cup, inadvertently gapping her blouse and giving Hobson an eyeful of what he considered to be an ample bosom. He gulped. Those almond eyes of hers bore into him, and he swore he caught a whiff of musky scent, like warm fur in sunlight.
"Whaddya mean, what happened to my head? My head is fine. Just had my hair cut two days ago, that's all. Jesus, Hobbsy, if you aren't going to finish your eggs, at least go home and sleep it off. Come back when you get some manners."
Roxy spun on a comfortably soled heel to amble back to the counter. Hobson watched her hips sway, feeling a tiny surge of lust, but then shook his head violently in an effort to clear his eyes while holding them tightly shut. Eggs. He forgot he had been eating eggs. He lowered his head, afraid to open his eyes, but cracking them all the same.
His breakfast was nearly gone. Only a small crescent of orangey-yellow eggs lay on the edge of the plate. He recalled it was an omelet he had ordered, instead of the usual scrambled eggs. A few flecks of ragged mushroom bits lay embedded in the crescent. Hobson was puzzled; he didn't especially like mushrooms.
The conversation swirling around him dipped into a lull. Hobson felt a prickling sensation at the base of his neck, that weird feeling like he was being stared at. Which in this case turned out to be correct. Looking up, he saw Roxy standing in the swinging doors leading to the rear kitchen. Her wolf mouth was open, tongue lolling a bit as she talked in low tones with Jake, the fire-plug shaped morning cook in the diner. Roxy was glancing over at Hobson, tilting her head little in his direction. Jake was nodding his head, the shiny black beak dipping up and down as he nodded to something Roxy said. Jake's beady black eyes were looking Hobson over.
The painter nearly fainted. "Raven head, raven head, Jake has a raven head..." the words began looping around in Hobson's head in a maniacal chorus. He must have made a sound, because the other patrons in the diner were all staring to gawk and stare, their faces a menagerie. Hobson stood up, the colors in his head breaking over him in a rainbow wave, and he began to twitch and laugh. The diner swirled around him. As he pitched forward, grabbing his chest, he watched the little crescent of egg coming up fast to meet his face. Just before his chin crashed into the plate, he wondered just what kind of mushrooms were in that omelet he had eaten.
Hobson hit the table, bounced, and fell out of the booth. He landed on his back, shaking and laughing his way into unconsciousness. The last thing Roxy heard him say was "I can see myself before I see myself, and after I see myself, past and future its all in one..."
17 August 2012
EHarMatchonyBlog.com
August 15th, 8:16 PM. Preparing to crack the seal on the raku kiln that is my mind.
Skipping through the electronic poppy field that is the Internet this fine day, I caught a blurb that made me nervous and made me laugh. I think it was in an email newsletter from a website devoted to the craft and business of writing, a 'Tip Of The Day' type thing that is supposed to reel you in to spend more time on the site. No problem with that, but I was skimming and distracted so I didn't go beyond the tagline.
The tagline was this: "Your blog posts should be like dating-site profile information..."
'Scuse me? (nervous laughter)...good thing I'm not writing to get a date.
I am not (fortunately for me) out on the dating scene, so I will not worry about that aspect. But I get the perspective being out forth by the writer of that little gem: if you want your blog to attract others, then it must be written to maximize your attractiveness. Am I understanding that correctly?
Hmm. This does present a bit of a quandary. We are told on the one hand to write authentically, to be ourselves and to write from what we know. Supposedly this is what "blogging" (in its nascent sense) is at its core. Yet dating sites, to some degree, are about salesmanship and packaging. They are about being attractive enough to attract ideal partners for whatever motivation one chooses.
So to push the analogy, in order to make my blog more attractive to ideal partners, I should write only the things that would increase my 'dateability' vis-a-vis the readership. The implication is that potentially less desirable things (quirks, foibles, emotionally-charged topics) should perhaps be avoided. Heavens, we wouldn't anyone to know those "real" things, would we?
This begs the question of authenticity, does it not? I'm all for maximizing the positive, but for what one hopes to be a long-term relationship, how can we ignore the reality of ourselves? It seems a bit misleading to put hyperbole before truth. Yet that little dot on an otherwise pristine page could lead to heartache and regret down the road. I know this to be true.
To be fair, I acknowledge that a blog has more latitude than a dating site. It could be said that the very idiosyncratic nature of a blog is what gives it enduring appeal; after all, it is your blog and you can do what you want with it. It doesn't have to be, and perhaps shouldn't be, perfect. That is because we are not perfect.
I didn't start my blog to attract potential partners, or set up a string of dates. I had no idea that is what I "should" (metaphorically) be doing. I started it out of a need for expression, as a way to get the noise out of my head and out into the universe. I didn't know any better than to be anything other than what I am, and hopefully the writing reflects that outlook. I don't need a date (I have great love and companionship), but I am very grateful for all of you who choose to come visit with me, and stay awhile.
And there's no need for a monthly fee, either. We are here because we genuinely want to be here. That is a lovely thing, indeed.
Skipping through the electronic poppy field that is the Internet this fine day, I caught a blurb that made me nervous and made me laugh. I think it was in an email newsletter from a website devoted to the craft and business of writing, a 'Tip Of The Day' type thing that is supposed to reel you in to spend more time on the site. No problem with that, but I was skimming and distracted so I didn't go beyond the tagline.
The tagline was this: "Your blog posts should be like dating-site profile information..."
'Scuse me? (nervous laughter)...good thing I'm not writing to get a date.
I am not (fortunately for me) out on the dating scene, so I will not worry about that aspect. But I get the perspective being out forth by the writer of that little gem: if you want your blog to attract others, then it must be written to maximize your attractiveness. Am I understanding that correctly?
Hmm. This does present a bit of a quandary. We are told on the one hand to write authentically, to be ourselves and to write from what we know. Supposedly this is what "blogging" (in its nascent sense) is at its core. Yet dating sites, to some degree, are about salesmanship and packaging. They are about being attractive enough to attract ideal partners for whatever motivation one chooses.
So to push the analogy, in order to make my blog more attractive to ideal partners, I should write only the things that would increase my 'dateability' vis-a-vis the readership. The implication is that potentially less desirable things (quirks, foibles, emotionally-charged topics) should perhaps be avoided. Heavens, we wouldn't anyone to know those "real" things, would we?
This begs the question of authenticity, does it not? I'm all for maximizing the positive, but for what one hopes to be a long-term relationship, how can we ignore the reality of ourselves? It seems a bit misleading to put hyperbole before truth. Yet that little dot on an otherwise pristine page could lead to heartache and regret down the road. I know this to be true.
To be fair, I acknowledge that a blog has more latitude than a dating site. It could be said that the very idiosyncratic nature of a blog is what gives it enduring appeal; after all, it is your blog and you can do what you want with it. It doesn't have to be, and perhaps shouldn't be, perfect. That is because we are not perfect.
I didn't start my blog to attract potential partners, or set up a string of dates. I had no idea that is what I "should" (metaphorically) be doing. I started it out of a need for expression, as a way to get the noise out of my head and out into the universe. I didn't know any better than to be anything other than what I am, and hopefully the writing reflects that outlook. I don't need a date (I have great love and companionship), but I am very grateful for all of you who choose to come visit with me, and stay awhile.
And there's no need for a monthly fee, either. We are here because we genuinely want to be here. That is a lovely thing, indeed.
16 August 2012
Walkin' In the Park and EWWWMAHGAHD!
August 14th, 2012. Lovely evening for a stroll in the park, admiring ducks, enjoying the shadows and sidestepping used condoms.
To be fair, it was only one condom. I saw no others the entire hour or so I was there. This particular park is clean, busy, and not of the sort where one expects to find such...artifacts...of human interaction. I suppose that is why when I spied it on the pavement it caused me to do a double-take.
A condom. In the parking lot. Used. Eeeep.
I was on my way to a nearby trash can, wrapping up after a thoroughly enjoyable evening of shooting black-and-white film photos (with my two favorite cameras) and there it was in all its dirty un-glory. The condom (hereinafter known as The Artifact) gave me pause. I mean, really, I actually stopped walking to get a better look so I my eyes could verify what my brain was telling me was there. It was in between two cars, not far from the bumper of what I think was a little red sports car. I looked up quickly to see if anyone was in the car.
Nope. No one there. Plus, The Artifact was looking begrimed and weathered, suggesting it had been in its current location for some days at least. I looked around again to see if anyone was watching me and perhaps wondering what I was doing leaning over and staring at the ground. There were couples strolling by, some with kids, joggers, and other folks just out for an evening constitutional. No one was looking at me. And everyone but me seemed perfectly oblivious to The Artifact. I started to chuckle.
Why is I notice such things? Furthermore, why do I feel compelled to document such things? Not that I spend my days seeking out empty liquor bottles, smashed light bulbs and discarded prophylactics. I'd much rather spend time seeking out trains in motion, animals in light, the diffraction of sunlight through leaves. Such things are much more uplifting and edifying, in the main.
Yet there is this curiosity about the cast-offs of human behavior that leads me to notice that which many others would rather not see. Maybe it is just my crow mind tendency to believe that almost anything can be interesting, can exhibit some form of attraction if only we can catch it at just the right moment. At the very least, we can gain some insight or clarification into some aspect of the world or humanity that fascinates or repulses us.
This is what occurred to me, standing in the parking lot and meditating on an object that most of us would agree was not something with which we care to contemplate. Because I am the photographer that I am, I couldn't resist snapping a picture of it with my phone, being out of film. I laughed again, thinking that while I certainly wanted nothing more to do with The Artifact, I had to admire the caution of whoever had left it there for some hapless soul to discover.
01 August 2012
19 July 2012
Billy Blaze Is Beating The Crap Out of Chuck Lumley. Maybe.
Monday, July 16th, 2012. 4:38 PM. Thirsty and nervous.
A problem with writing, sometimes and at least for me, is that there is an excess of voices in my head. Not in a "I've-lost-my-grip-and-become-unhinged" sort of way. It resembles a cacophony. A circus. The trading floor of a particularly eccentric, bizarre stock exchange.
Plus, there is the subtle yet pervasive odor of fear in the atmosphere. Fear makes me nervous.
The voices, they often make it hard for me to get anything done. Today is a case in point. I've been bouncing back and forth between trying to cobble together an effective job search, and attempting to suss out the thread of something my inner voice insists I write. Doing two complex tasks at once, and doing neither very well. I mean, just look at the drivel I'm putting on the page!
Gahhh. It is a first world problem that strikes at the root of my dilemma. I have been pursuing what I know how to do*, with unfortunately little usable results. I have also pursued what I don't know how to do**, with results even less impressive. All of this against a backdrop of a life in whirling flux. So many changes, so many things new and outside of the fragile snow globe I used to inhabit.
Well, that glass is broken now. A leap into the wild blue after years of habit broken by personal upheaval. It has affected my concentration. My creativity. My resolve to produce something worthwhile. The ideas come like stones skipping over the surface of the ocean. Tracking them all makes it own exhaustion, especially since I have aspirations to be more than just a hobbyist. As an architect, I should know more than many that in order to build anything, you need a solid plan.
So the joke seems to be on me. For reasons I have yet to understand, I have been unable to formulate a solid plan for any path I want to follow. I think about it, I make tentative steps in certain directions, and then I get distracted by the Stuff and the Things. I have lost focus far more times than I care to count. This is anxious-making, because I'm painfully aware I need to get it together.
The pragmatic, practical side of me, the one that is fond of structure and routine is banging heads with the creative, artistic side that is desperate to bloom and explore. There has to be a way to reconcile the two. All the more critical as I hope to find a way to make a living out of the beautiful mess of my life. I need my one big idea.
Remember the movie Night Shift which came out in 1982, with Michael Keaton and Henry Winkler? As some may know, Michael Keaton played William Blazejowski aka 'Billy Blaze'. He was the feckless numbskull, always carrying a miniature tape recorder so he could capture the big ideas that were constantly springing forth from his overheated mind.*** Henry Winkler played Chuck Lumley, the sad-sack, straight-laced guy who quit Wall Street for a low-stress job in a morgue. They both end up on the night shift, and hilarity ensues. The Creative and the Steward in comic tension.
Chuck Lumley and Billy Blaze are slugging it out in my head, cheered on by a crowd of reprobates, hangers-on and clowns. I'm not sure who is ahead in this contest, but I can tell you it is noisy, it is frenetic and it is exhausting. Chuck wants me to settle down and take the first, safest thing that comes up. Billy wants me to keep cranking out the ideas until we have that One Big Idea.
I want that One Big Idea, too, dear readers. I'm just not sure how much longer I can hold out.
---
*The wonderful if exceedingly frustrating world of architecture.
**In other words, writing and photography. By 'don't know how to do' I mean I was not formally educated in, nor do I have professional credentials in, either area of artistic/professional endeavor.
***My favorite is the one where Billy is eating a fast food burger. He stops to stare at the wrapper, then whips out the recorder to say "Idea to reduce garbage:edible paper!" The look on his face was hilarious.
A problem with writing, sometimes and at least for me, is that there is an excess of voices in my head. Not in a "I've-lost-my-grip-and-become-unhinged" sort of way. It resembles a cacophony. A circus. The trading floor of a particularly eccentric, bizarre stock exchange.
Plus, there is the subtle yet pervasive odor of fear in the atmosphere. Fear makes me nervous.
The voices, they often make it hard for me to get anything done. Today is a case in point. I've been bouncing back and forth between trying to cobble together an effective job search, and attempting to suss out the thread of something my inner voice insists I write. Doing two complex tasks at once, and doing neither very well. I mean, just look at the drivel I'm putting on the page!
Gahhh. It is a first world problem that strikes at the root of my dilemma. I have been pursuing what I know how to do*, with unfortunately little usable results. I have also pursued what I don't know how to do**, with results even less impressive. All of this against a backdrop of a life in whirling flux. So many changes, so many things new and outside of the fragile snow globe I used to inhabit.
Well, that glass is broken now. A leap into the wild blue after years of habit broken by personal upheaval. It has affected my concentration. My creativity. My resolve to produce something worthwhile. The ideas come like stones skipping over the surface of the ocean. Tracking them all makes it own exhaustion, especially since I have aspirations to be more than just a hobbyist. As an architect, I should know more than many that in order to build anything, you need a solid plan.
So the joke seems to be on me. For reasons I have yet to understand, I have been unable to formulate a solid plan for any path I want to follow. I think about it, I make tentative steps in certain directions, and then I get distracted by the Stuff and the Things. I have lost focus far more times than I care to count. This is anxious-making, because I'm painfully aware I need to get it together.
The pragmatic, practical side of me, the one that is fond of structure and routine is banging heads with the creative, artistic side that is desperate to bloom and explore. There has to be a way to reconcile the two. All the more critical as I hope to find a way to make a living out of the beautiful mess of my life. I need my one big idea.
Remember the movie Night Shift which came out in 1982, with Michael Keaton and Henry Winkler? As some may know, Michael Keaton played William Blazejowski aka 'Billy Blaze'. He was the feckless numbskull, always carrying a miniature tape recorder so he could capture the big ideas that were constantly springing forth from his overheated mind.*** Henry Winkler played Chuck Lumley, the sad-sack, straight-laced guy who quit Wall Street for a low-stress job in a morgue. They both end up on the night shift, and hilarity ensues. The Creative and the Steward in comic tension.
Chuck Lumley and Billy Blaze are slugging it out in my head, cheered on by a crowd of reprobates, hangers-on and clowns. I'm not sure who is ahead in this contest, but I can tell you it is noisy, it is frenetic and it is exhausting. Chuck wants me to settle down and take the first, safest thing that comes up. Billy wants me to keep cranking out the ideas until we have that One Big Idea.
I want that One Big Idea, too, dear readers. I'm just not sure how much longer I can hold out.
---
*The wonderful if exceedingly frustrating world of architecture.
**In other words, writing and photography. By 'don't know how to do' I mean I was not formally educated in, nor do I have professional credentials in, either area of artistic/professional endeavor.
***My favorite is the one where Billy is eating a fast food burger. He stops to stare at the wrapper, then whips out the recorder to say "Idea to reduce garbage:edible paper!" The look on his face was hilarious.
21 April 2012
Bennie Beats A Cougar
"The fuck...!" There was a cougar in the door.
All Bennie Doyle wanted was a corned beef sandwich from Richler's. A short walk, the old green door and a corned beef so good it could make you hurt yourself. So the cougar scared the shit out of him, and he stumbled back. The animal sprang.
Bennie's right foot went looking for concrete. In his fright he forgot there were two steps up into the deli. With nothing under his boot, he tipped and began a slow fall to the sidewalk. He was too scared to know it but the fall had bought him some time.
The writer looked up, round-eyed and shaking, thinking two things. First, the cougar seemed a little on the small side; he was unsure what made him think that, not being an expert on large predators cats. Second, he thought about an interview he read, with Jim Harrison, where the grizzled author said his problem with being a writer is that he could not see a cow without thinking the word 'cow'.
Bennie Doyle had 'cougar' stuck in his mind. He sensed the cold grit of concrete rapidly approaching his back, the cougar streaking towards him. Concrete. Cougar. ConcreteCougarconcretecougarconcrete. The words formed a rhythm in his mind. Bracing for impact but trying not to laugh, he coughed in a strangled whinny. The cougars paws reached for him, rippled golden-brown muscle tipped with pain.
Bennie slammed into the sidewalk. He was never so thankful as then to have the wind knocked out him. The fall had thrown off the cougar's timing; the wiry beast failed to latch on to Bennie's throat. The change in arc allowed him time to bring his arms up and grab the cougar by its own throat. The cougar choked and chuffed under the pressure of Bennie's shaking hands. His arms were locked in a rigid 'A' to hold the snout as far away as he could get the beast. He shook the stars out of his eyes, drawing a deep breath.
The cougar swatted at Bennie's sweating face. He felt a tug and a burn as a claw ripped into his cheek. Behind the cougar the door to the deli opened again. Mort Richler stood there, eyes wide and with a face the color of a raw pierogi.
"Bennie! The fuck you doin'?"
"What's it look like, Morty? Tryin' to kill this fuckin' cougar before it kills me!"
Bennie could feel his arms beginning to buckle. The snarling beast thrashed frantically, sensing freedom. Mort shouted again. "Cougar? What? That's not a cougar, dumbass! That's my wife's cat. Lay off!"
Bennie laughed hysterically. If it was a cat, it was a monster. He thought frantically, desperate for way to stop it. Choke it to death? Not likely, his hands were beginning to slip. Punch it in the nose? Wasn't that what you did to stop a shark?
Fuck. Think, Bennie. Think!
Above on the steps, Mort was babbling about his wife being pissed, she'd kill him, just stop, you crazy bastardstopstopstop...
Bennie blinked. It came to him. All he had to do was poke out the cougar's eyes. He choked back bile at the thought. It was do that, or the beast would rip his throat out. Bennie shouted and reached up a hand, thumb aimed at an eye socket. Mort jumped off the step, making a grab at the cat, which launched a frantic bite at Bennie's hand. It missed.
Bennie sank his thumb deep into the eye, screaming. The cougar howled like a doomed soul, vitreous humor gushing out of its ruined eye. Mort grabbed the cat and yanked, pulling it off, hurling curses at the writer laying sprawled on the sidewalk.
Bennie stared at the bloody mess of his hand. Blackness crept into his vision, fading into unconsciousness. He heard the faint wail of sirens approaching. The last thing he felt was a sense of relief, and he wondered a bit to know that he was no longer thinking 'cougar'. He only felt it. He slipped under the surface, passing out.
Everyone who came to see him in the hospital could only wonder at his smile.
All Bennie Doyle wanted was a corned beef sandwich from Richler's. A short walk, the old green door and a corned beef so good it could make you hurt yourself. So the cougar scared the shit out of him, and he stumbled back. The animal sprang.
Bennie's right foot went looking for concrete. In his fright he forgot there were two steps up into the deli. With nothing under his boot, he tipped and began a slow fall to the sidewalk. He was too scared to know it but the fall had bought him some time.
The writer looked up, round-eyed and shaking, thinking two things. First, the cougar seemed a little on the small side; he was unsure what made him think that, not being an expert on large predators cats. Second, he thought about an interview he read, with Jim Harrison, where the grizzled author said his problem with being a writer is that he could not see a cow without thinking the word 'cow'.
Bennie Doyle had 'cougar' stuck in his mind. He sensed the cold grit of concrete rapidly approaching his back, the cougar streaking towards him. Concrete. Cougar. ConcreteCougarconcretecougarconcrete. The words formed a rhythm in his mind. Bracing for impact but trying not to laugh, he coughed in a strangled whinny. The cougars paws reached for him, rippled golden-brown muscle tipped with pain.
Bennie slammed into the sidewalk. He was never so thankful as then to have the wind knocked out him. The fall had thrown off the cougar's timing; the wiry beast failed to latch on to Bennie's throat. The change in arc allowed him time to bring his arms up and grab the cougar by its own throat. The cougar choked and chuffed under the pressure of Bennie's shaking hands. His arms were locked in a rigid 'A' to hold the snout as far away as he could get the beast. He shook the stars out of his eyes, drawing a deep breath.
The cougar swatted at Bennie's sweating face. He felt a tug and a burn as a claw ripped into his cheek. Behind the cougar the door to the deli opened again. Mort Richler stood there, eyes wide and with a face the color of a raw pierogi.
"Bennie! The fuck you doin'?"
"What's it look like, Morty? Tryin' to kill this fuckin' cougar before it kills me!"
Bennie could feel his arms beginning to buckle. The snarling beast thrashed frantically, sensing freedom. Mort shouted again. "Cougar? What? That's not a cougar, dumbass! That's my wife's cat. Lay off!"
Bennie laughed hysterically. If it was a cat, it was a monster. He thought frantically, desperate for way to stop it. Choke it to death? Not likely, his hands were beginning to slip. Punch it in the nose? Wasn't that what you did to stop a shark?
Fuck. Think, Bennie. Think!
Above on the steps, Mort was babbling about his wife being pissed, she'd kill him, just stop, you crazy bastardstopstopstop...
Bennie blinked. It came to him. All he had to do was poke out the cougar's eyes. He choked back bile at the thought. It was do that, or the beast would rip his throat out. Bennie shouted and reached up a hand, thumb aimed at an eye socket. Mort jumped off the step, making a grab at the cat, which launched a frantic bite at Bennie's hand. It missed.
Bennie sank his thumb deep into the eye, screaming. The cougar howled like a doomed soul, vitreous humor gushing out of its ruined eye. Mort grabbed the cat and yanked, pulling it off, hurling curses at the writer laying sprawled on the sidewalk.
Bennie stared at the bloody mess of his hand. Blackness crept into his vision, fading into unconsciousness. He heard the faint wail of sirens approaching. The last thing he felt was a sense of relief, and he wondered a bit to know that he was no longer thinking 'cougar'. He only felt it. He slipped under the surface, passing out.
Everyone who came to see him in the hospital could only wonder at his smile.
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