A short response to Who Is She? by Catherine Lacey.

Obviously, anyone reading this should have read her story in Harper's Magazine first, but just to keep up with the times here’s my trigger warning: *Spoiler Alert.*

This is an insightful short story by Cathrine Lacey, layered with meaning, it reads and reads and reads into our society. A woman lies alone in a median, hoping it's not her, begging herself for it not to be her. She doesn’t want to be the cause of this one-sided gender tug-of-war. She doesn’t want to be part of the glut of emasculation. I don’t think she wants to be defended. I don’t even know if she wants to be in a safe place. If you’re lying in a boulevard median, surrounded by orange cones set up by a woman with an agenda wearing a helmet, are you in a safe place?

It’s so clever of Lacey to choose a median for her character’s resting place, somewhere we shouldn’t lay down. But here we lie, in the middle of NO MAN’s land, pegging our husbands while demi-semi-academics continue deconstructing and simultaneously worshipping gender/cultural study interpretations of existence. And maybe I shouldn’t comment, maybe I haven’t “had enough revelations while cooking and cleaning and peeking out of the window between split blinds?” Maybe I should sit my white, cis, hetero, as-yet-unpegged ass in the car like that woman’s husband? Isn’t there a better place for me too? Oops. I didn’t mean to say that. If I take the blame for my accidental offense, can I claim my accidental pun? If pretend outrage is constantly validated how can we ever move anywhere better?


The end.

My patch of median.

Forgive me, the blog moves from response to personal journaling now, but I still feel compelled to post this part too, so I will. I purposefully won’t cross it out now that I’ve stated I’m compelled to post it, plus I’ve been reading and re-reading Notes From Underground because my reading group wants to read a chapter a week, so I re-read the book every week, and now I doubly won't cross it out.

My interpretation: This is Lacey’s response to the entire cultural milieu she finds herself in. I think she started with the sexual cultural milieu--including, the #metoo movement, the gender identity interpretation of everything, the public shaming epidemic, the developments in pronouns--and let her words roll into the Church, workout culture, and the boring safety of family units constructed in a bygone era.

Who is She? She is the woman at the center of the entire movement being conducted in her name. She is the harassed coworker. She is an abused teenager. She is an exploited Hollywood actress. She is the 70 cents for every male dollar office worker. She is the twitter-handle shouting censorship. She is an academic lecturing about intolerance. She is the demi-academic becoming intolerant about intolerance. (She is also the molested Catholic schoolboy, but holds herself back with a “Reel it back in, Bucko.") She is the victim.

She doesn’t want to be this woman. She doesn’t want to be the cause of this question on "park benches, brick walls, the bottom of cans of beans, and every public library bathroom stall." The question's omnipresence indicates how ubiquitous gender-based interpretations have become. It paints itself onto everything, onto everything in her neighborhood, and everything in our culture.

She was walking away from this previous model we have for family values. This boring, old, corrupt model of social structure that is so clearly flawed. She knows she has to blow it up and she doesn’t want to blow it up. She knows she has to divorce our old values, and she doesn’t know what else to do.

So she uses a median as her analogy for where we are as a culture. The middle of a dangerous road where we shouldn’t be crossing, but not only do we cross, we lay down.

There has to be somewhere better we can go as a culture.

Connie, dangling: Thoughts on Arnold Friend

Having been warned by Ray Bradbury to “stay away from most modern anthologies of short stories, because they’re slices of life. They don’t go anywhere, they don’t have any metaphor,” I spotted an Anthology - that was misshelved, Best of the Century or something like that - when walking from the bathroom back to the desk at the library. I read the intro by Updike, and because every time I looked out the window that winter I saw Amity Gage’s reference to Joyce Carol Oates’ quote “I spend 90% of my time staring out the window" stuck in the bare tree branches outside the library window, I decided to read Where are you going? Where have you been? by Joyce Carol Oates, dedicated to Bob Dylan.

What a helpless, acquiescent tone she finds here, and what a confusing message the dedication becomes when you reach the end and lost in thought flip back through the pages only to notice the dedication and wonder what it means.

A creepy loss of innocence. #Deflowered #MeToo.

Still wondering what the dedication meant - I was associating Dylan and Friend, wondering which real-life ‘Connie’ Dylan abducted, and how Oates knew about it - I found the answer here, and had I not found that extratextual nugget Dylan would have remained in the ‘accused and silent’ pen of #MeToo predators. But having found the answer so innocent, I proceeded to listen to It’s all over now Baby Blue by Bob Dylan but actually liked the first song on that album (Subterranean Homesick Blues)  way, way better.

Strange how the story threatens to be boring: a familiar and toothless conflict (between the propriety of our mothers and the suggestive sexiness of our daughters) tingles harmlessly in my balls - blue, blue balls baby - and gives the impression it will culminate with the mild disobedience of not watching a movie, and instead having a naughty make out that deserves the mock punishment of a soft smack on the ass and a sultry fake pleading “sorry daddy” sometimes found at the beginning of bad pornography. The entire drive-in scene made me wonder if I would leave this story feeling like I read the inspiration for the movie Grease, but No! Not at all.

This is elaborate, necessary, prologue; the story begins when Connie stays home from the barbeque. Oates quickens the pace of her writing by vacillating between chilling curiosity, and easygoing reassurance; it’s not boring at all, very interesting, unfamiliar and quite toothy.  Her beautifully jagged tension dangles like a bungee cord that isn’t being stretched: dangling on suggestion, stretching into pushy; dangling on flirtation, stretching into horniness; dangling on resistance, pushing into acquiescence; dangling on passion, stretching into rape; dangling on danger, stretching into abduction.

5 Writing Tips from Raymond Carver

Raymond Carver’s 3 by 5 cards.

“I’ll put that on a 3 by 5 card and tape it to the wall 

beside my desk. I have some 3 by 5 cards on the wall now.” 

Raymond Carver is one of history's best short story authors. He might have died over 30 years ago, but these 5 index cards are still taped on his wall beside his desk.

   

    1.“Write a little every day, without hope and without despair.” ~ Isak Dinesen

     2.“Fundamental accuracy of statement is the ONE sole morality of writing.” ~ Ezra Pound

     3.“...and suddenly, everything became clear to him.” ~ Anton Chekov

     4.“No cheap tricks.” ~ Geoffery Wolff. “‘No tricks.’ Period. I hate tricks.” ~ Raymond Carver

     5. “No iron can pierce the heart with such force as a period put just at the right place." ~Isaac Babel.

I wanted to have each 3 by 5 card as a clickable link so they could shuffle in the reader's digital hand, quickly, without loading another page, so a reader could click 5 times, and each time a new index card with the quote would shuffle to the top of the pile. But, I'm afraid you'll just have to imagine that bit.

Cutting in All Directions

I'm thinking about Cut by Catherine Lacey again (If you haven’t read it, just go read it, really, and if you stop halfway, text me and I’ll come talk about exactly how you could stop reading, and where, because I have 63 short stories to read, but I couldn’t stop reading hers, if you can’t use the New Yorker’s website walk down to the library, it’s in the periodicals on the right before you get to the Solarium, don’t waste another second here, go find it) I thought about the drapes of her labia, and the “general region of her asshole.” I thought about her dream and I thought about how her city-half moves. I thought about her friend, and her student, and the sanitizing effect of chlorine.

It occurred to me that I was moving through Cut the way Alice Munro describes:

I can start by reading them anywhere; from beginning to end, from end to beginning, from any point in between in either direction...It’s more like a house….I want to make a certain kind of structure, and I know the feeling I want to get from being inside that structure… I’ve got to build up, a house, a story, to fit around the indescribable “feeling” that is like the soul of the story.

Well, maybe I’m just too legalistic? Always starting at the beginning, but my memory of stories can work this way. I do get a certain feeling from Cut, and I can explore it in any direction, every sentence is so rich and connected. This is why I’m curious if you, or anyone, stopped reading, because where? Let’s pick that sentence and move in any direction, it’s interesting, no matter how you explore that house every step is interesting. 

Confronting Emily

      I read A Rose for Emily by William Faulkner. My professor said Faulkner’s point of view is 3rd person, ok true, and intimate, well...fair enough, but we readers are held at a considerable distance from her, which is a wonder, because the story is entirely about her. How is our vision of his subject, Miss Emily, so thoroughly obscured by the description of it? Her actions contain layers of secrets we desperately need to understand, and just like those ladies at her funeral we want to see inside her house.
 
    The mystery sprouts from a simple question about a universal taxation; taxes, why is she so special? Why doesn’t she have to pay? But in answering the question, Faulkner only waters that growing mystery; through descriptions, details and peculiarities that a reader might be forgiven for thinking are as explanatory as an ellipsis leading right up to their vanquishment “horse and foot, just as she had vanquished their fathers thirty years before about the smell.”

    Time and time again we find responsible people finding a way, many ways actually, to bend to her will. She reminds me of a character on Billions, Judge Funt, who “seemed to grow larger as he talked, the way some men can when they're not pretending to dignity and honor but they're actually made of the stuff.” But what is she made of? We don’t know, we only know that it is horribly uncomfortable to confront, and facing it requires tremendous will.

     I envision a lady in a pharmacy, buying arsenic and when Faulkner writes of “her face like a strained flag,” the entire aura of her character brings to my mind an image of her tilting her head back slightly, looking at the druggist over her nose, not condescending necessarily, just observing him shrivel, accused by her silent impervious gaze for a mortal crime of impudence, and not wishing to be impudent, we all succumb, and sell her the arsenic, nullify her taxes, secretly sniff her brickworks and slink about the night to sprinkle lime in her cellar.

Another Literary Trail

Well well, a digression indeed, another literary trail.

     The Yellow Wallpaper, House of Leaves, Nietzsche, Derrida, Keats, Milton, Petrarch.
   
     The journey from The Yellow Wallpaper to House of Leaves crept through the shadows of my mind, and you might find a technical explanation of a creeping moonlit shadow in House of Leaves, or you might not; from there, a direct Nietzsche quote on page 332, and then, lost somewhere in Nietzsche’s online vicinity (not his actual presence, which is captivating and marvelous, but his online presence, which is like a desert speckled with buried portals to Hanging Gardens, [in deserts people die, delirious and dehydrated - a desert for example: ad heavy “quotes” sites intended to bash your impressionable brain into spending oblivion - or find oases and bask in orgiastic delight, if the Hanging Gardens ever did exist there was certainly an orgy there, with a combination of fig trees growing next to pools overflowing into deeper pools creating a mist in the cool breezy shade beneath waterfalls that overlook iridescent glimmering sun rays illuminating me eating figs and tanned probably Persian belly dancers - an oasis for example: reading a black and white pdf version of Beyond Good and Evil.]) found Derrida deconstructing everything; and like so many of my literary trails, it should end there, with me not quite understanding Derrida, examining a braid unspun, but fortunately Bradbury’s mirthful admonition struck! “Read Poetry every day of your life!” And so I did, snatching that small Romantic volume tucked away in my backpack and this time skipped Blake and landed on poor confused Keats, who referenced Milton and Petrarch, who kept me satisfied there under his laureled greenery for several hours.

To the Lovely Dark and the Lovely White

John Keats:

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise —
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

      I can only read Fagles myself… The Wikipedia entry for Darien, at this time 4/17/19 anyways, suggests Darien is a province in Panama from where you can apparently see the Valley of Mexico but not the Pacific, and that Keats conflates Cortes’s viewing of the valley with Balboa’s finding of the Pacific.  Maybe then, just as he is mistaken in the poem, he is mistaken in his reading of Chapman? If he reads Chapman as carefully as he reads William Robertson’s History of America, we may well offer a different interpretation.
      So like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific (he never did) and all his men looked at each other with a wild surmise (perhaps bewildered at what Cortez thought he saw) silent upon a peak in Darien.  So… delirious, on a mountaintop.   Reading Chapman’s Homer is like hallucinating, while your followers look at you in shock, on a peak overlooking Mexico City.

New words: ken

SONNET: KEEN, FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHISP'RING.

KEEN, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
    Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
    The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
    Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
    Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:
For I am brimfull of the friendliness
    That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
    And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
    And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.

     So many false trails online (if only a respectable corporation with a search engine algorithm could find a way to bring the best information to the top...) Look here, for a brilliant resource on Keats, Adilegian by James Howell, who explains Lycid drowned, go look there if you’re interested, and Laura in her light green dress, who interests me more than dead college roommates, led me down a path I didn’t want to explore, which is apparently what she does; because having read the line “as beautifully as she who robs me of my will,” I found my loose will restrained by Petrarch language, I want to stop reading #29, but humbly, can not.
      Laura is an uncommon dominatrix, not a boring leather-clad pretender whipping others for payment, she is a real tyrant. Petrarch “cannot even tolerate a lighter yoke,” only her cruelty will do, she makes “all disdain sweet,” and “humiliates” him.  He’s bleeding, with arrow tips piercing his chest, but he won’t cry because it would show he regrets his submission, so his soul sighs, he contemplates suicide but doesn’t want freedom.  He remains shackled, she remains chaste.
      Laurels are an uncommon reward. Petrarch “cannot even tolerate a lighter yoke,” only the ultimate (will to) power of language will do, language makes “all disdain sweet,” and “humiliates” him. He’s bleeding with arrow tips piercing his heart, but he won’t cry because it would show he regrets his submission, so his soul sighs, he contemplates suicide but doesn’t want freedom. He continues writing, writing remains unconquered.

Answered Prayers

Essay: 

What Makes Us Happy?

Is there a formula—some mix of love, work, and psychological adaptation—for a good life? By Joshua Shenk, The Atlantic June 2009

While reading, and afterward, I’m enveloped in a ponderous melancholic mood, sadly reading about happiness with a smile on my face, a meditative sadness of an observational type, tragedy trimmed with curiosity.   Lessons? Value connections in life, use altruistic and humorous defense mechanisms, don’t drink, don’t smoke, do stay healthy, stay close to family.  But still I find the essay heartwarming, and I want to be No. 47.  New words: Palimpsest, Inveigh.

Poem: 

If by Rudyard Kipling

A sincere, well-intended, paean to moderation.

Short Story:

Sredni Vashtar by H.H. Munro (SAKI) in Chronicles of Clovis

Wow, now that is a short story! I was tired and questioning whether or not to read a short story before bed, and what a huge payoff. During the first couple paragraphs, I nearly quit, but after reading on I discover and become deeply intrigued by “And one day, out of Heaven knows what material, he spun the beast a wonderful name, and from that moment it grew into a god and a religion.” It all comes together so well, and I love this little violent boy. 

Munro sets the stage with a dying boy, we immediately empathize with him and despise his cousin, "The Woman," he portrays Conradin as imaginative, and her as the overbearing guardian. We root for him to find a place away from her, and when god and religion are introduced the story becomes really interesting. We don’t know what he prays for, but Munro wonderfully gives us a sinister sense.

There is no way this name, "Sredni Vashtar," is an accident. It's too unusual, too fitting, definitely intentional. To me personally, it just looks foreign and exotic, middle eastern, Persian maybe, maybe an ancient Zoroastrian nemesis or something, but after reading the story the name made me think of the sound 'sredniy palets' which is the phonetic notation of middle finger in Russian, and Vashtar reminds me of Ishtar. So for me, basking in my ignorance, without any evidence or research it makes perfect sense; Sredni Vashtar is a God who shows the middle finger to everything, especially to overbearing authority and brings death and "red thoughts" to the hated world of the "necessary, disagreeable and real."

Joan Didion, John Updike & Louis Menand

Louis Wain's Schizophrenic Cats

The not schizophrenic, not hallucinatory Didion, receives the shimmering pictures and transmits them as dutifully as she can, she writes to discover “the I inside.”  Here it is again, somebody finding some immutable expression coming out of her, something that cannot be ignored or denied, a part of her she discovers as she writes.



In Why Write by Updike, the theme of the writer as conduit, not source, continues; a "rapturous child drawing" in a "swollen orb of my excitement," not generous, not altruistic, perhaps not anything at all, aspiring to be a pencil.

What begins as a blast against “Eats, shoots and leaves,” and no I’m not going to spend any time consulting the book itself attempting perfect quotation, ends as a confirmation of the theme presented by Didion and Updike, something is coming out of us, something inside is directing the verbiage, the voice, the flow of words, and artists are simply trying to make the words fit the story it can so clearly express if only they could get out of its way,  or let it out.  It is the writer’s responsibility to let it out and it can only be released.


In choosing a single sentence to respond to, I suppose it would be this one by Menand: “Writers labor constantly under the anxiety that this voice, though they have found it a hundred times before, has disappeared forever, and that they will never hear it again.” But actually, and I hope this doesn’t fail the requirements of the assignment, I intend to respond to the theme presented by all three writers.  Which is, in my estimation, there is a “voice” (Menand), the I (Didion), a picture (Updike, and Didion) that is trying to get out of the writer.  Trying to be unleashed, and none of these writers feel wholly responsible for it.  They feel as if it comes from within them but is somehow removed from their identity as a human being.  It is either larger or smaller than them but it is not the same as who they identify to be as a person.  It is a voice, that wants to get out and express itself in the perfect fashion.  It has a point of view, a picture, a message, a thought or a symbol, that exists clearly, perfectly, and the author is just the vessel in which the message is trapped.  The only one who can let it out and the only one who can be responsible for releasing it in the correct way.  A way that as Updike says is like “being a pencil.”

Karen Boiko. 21W.730-2 The Creative Spark. Fall 2004. Massachusetts Institute of Technology: MIT OpenCourseWare, https://ocw.mit.edu. License: Creative Commons BY-NC-SA.

Didion, Joan. "Why I Write" from Joan Didion: Essays and Conversations. Edited by Ellen G. Friedman. Princeton: Ontario Review Press, 1984, p. 5-10. ISBN: 086538035X. (note: This essay is also frequently anthologized.)

 Updike, John. "Why Write?" from Picked-up Pieces. New York: Knopf, 1975. p. 29-39. ISBN: 9780394498492.

Menand, Louis. "Bad Comma." The New Yorker, June 2004, 102-104.

Creative Spark: MIT OCW Notes

Again, the desire to share my responses inspired further thoroughness, then, frustrated at the inability to 'properly' submit an assignment or view the submissions of others, I revisited every nook and cranny of the Creative Spark's site hoping I overlooked a forum, a transcript of lectures, something, anything, to imitate the dialogue the assignments so clearly hope to initiate.

I found nothing, and so my random scattershot shoot-sharing of homework assignments begins here, inflicting casualties indiscriminately, on the eyes of innocents, of readers seeking no artistic spark, and it appears it will continue indefinitely, until I, the wanna-be literary shooter, run out of will or ammunition, and turn the barrel on myself, or am apprehended by the ATF, who for secret reasons I believe may be forcing one or two reluctant agents to continue monitoring these posts.

This nearly non-existent blog is actually already the third method of firing.  First, without invitation or encouragement, I mailed Homework #1 to Dr. Karen Boiko, rather like a madman's first target when he enters the school or mosque, at the first MIT address I saw.  What else could I do with a letter to her? Leave it in my Google Docs? 

I'm quite satisfied with the first firing, it strikes me as well suited to the theme of writing done as selfish action, with practically no consideration of where I mailed it, or what any recipient might choose to do with it, an action for me, focused on the satisfaction of the initial mailing, without hope of response or communication.  

Similar in some ways to this blog, an aimless firing for the sake of letting it out, letting it out of the barrel.  The writer inside.  And maybe it's fitting that a mass shooting metaphor struck my fancy, "an aggressive, even a hostile act," according to Joan Didion, that I will now inflict on you, dear reader.  Proceed if you wish, you will find each homework assignment posted individually, each one aching to create that dialogue its creator intended to provoke. 

Thank you to Dr. Boiko and MIT's OpenCourseWare.

Karen Boiko. 21W.730-2 The Creative Spark. Fall 2004. Massachusetts Institute of Technology: MIT OpenCourseWare, https://ocw.mit.edu. License: Creative Commons BY-NC-SA.

The Hunger Games

A teasing flirt of a read.

A fast-paced, easy to read, "can't put it down" type of a novel.  Simple and well-crafted, it's a teasing glimpse of the first confusing moments we imagine a more naive prettier version of a next door neighbor's daughter's friend might have when discovering what it is to be loved.

Some ways we might describe the Hunger Games

The start of a feeling.  The tip of a feeling.  Learning love.  What is love?  A juvenile romance.

The second book is a B+ bridge book, I didn't get the same satisfaction as from the first in any aspect.

In Mockingjay, I find myself bored with this world, with the war, with the romance, or lack thereof.  I put it down, and have to force myself to pick it up and keep reading.

My favorite part in Mockingjay, by far, is the start of chapter 25: "...knows only a single sensation.... unrelenting burning of flesh.... can't find refuge... I am Cinna's bird, ignited, ... feathers of flame... I consume myself, but to no end"

I read, and reread, and reread again the brilliant first nine paragraphs of chapter 25.

A mental image

Suzanne Collins tells a story to a group of young adults, seated cross-legged in a semi-circle, fidgeting with the carpet or wondering about reaching for cell phones. Self-aware and anxious about keeping her audience, she describes the world at our level, unchallenged and accepting we sit, distracted and amused when she loses herself in the moment. Immediately elevating her form, we glimpse real talent; blissfully unaware and present in her narration, her creativity rises to the luminous.  Metaphor, narration, symbolism, depth, and layers of meaning emerge in a beautiful blend of description and poetry that reminds me of Oppenheimer quoting the Bhagavad Gita after atomic bomb tests, and of a Buddhist monk seated, in lotus pose, burning.

Challenged, her audience now shuffles and reconsiders themselves, some mouths open in awe, some brows furrow with confusion, some glance furtively at their peers wondering how they should react, and some protest by redirecting their attention to other fruitless, mind-numbing and unchallenging distractions.  But beauty has been created, thank you, Suzanne Collins.

Good Morning

I would wake up in that cold stinking sweat, with the sheets that aren’t exactly wet, but they aren’t dry either, just heavy with stink.  Step into the shower, and if I shower for too long I’d throw up in there, right in the shower. Which I actually preferred because I didn’t have to clean it up, just press any undigested food down the drain with my toes, and anyway, the trashcan next to my bed is already full of vomit from …? Was it yesterday? Or the day before? And the bathmats in front of the toilet are stained with orange splotches of throw up that I’ve never tried to clean, so I don't like kneeling on them in front of the pot for half an hour on my Tuesday morning.  

Then get out of the shower and throw up if I didn’t do it in the shower already. For some reason, I started wrapping myself in that one particular towel and I wouldn’t get back in bed because I didn’t want to sleep, I wanted to go to work, but obviously, I couldn’t. Wrapped in a towel lying on the unvacuumed carpet waiting to feel better. I’d be cold and beaded with sweat, press my forehead into the carpet. Wipe my temples down with the towel or the carpet or whatever felt right.  

Then after retching, I’d decide I couldn’t stand it any longer and go for the whiskey, mixed with coke, always mixed. One full tumbler wasn’t enough, two full glasses, half whiskey half coke, was the right amount, but it took me a few miserable mornings of trial and error to figure that out. Drink one and I'd end up waiting far too long before knowing it's not enough, then taking the second drink and rolling into work between 10 and 11 AM, and a few more mornings of trying three around 8 AM and then skipping work to sing by myself in my room, paying girls on MFC to play naked charades or flip me off and be smashed again by 3 PM.  By then… well fuck it, passed out drunk again by 4 or 5 PM, catch a few hours of sleep while my roommates come home and watch a movie or hang out in the living room.

After that, I'd sneak out of my room and grab another bottle from my stash in the kitchen, take the whole handle back into my room. Continue drinking, this time quicker, with a purpose, until I passed out again and then wake up shaking, with somehow more vomit in the trash can at my bedside, or was it always that full? Why doesn’t it stink anymore? Look inside, god fucking dammit! It does stink. Just go throw up in the shower and get it over with already, take 2 glassfuls this time.  Fill a few Gatorade bottles in the car, half with vodka half with Gatorade, and the Yeti thermos also, half and half, in the driver's cup holder.

Drive to work feeling light-headed, concentrating on how my eyes feel, knowing I shouldn’t be drunk driving on my way into work. Get there, avoid eye contact, stay at least a few feet away from everyone so they won’t smell my sweat. Can I hold down an egg sausage sandwich from the cafe? No, stick with the bread, just a plain bagel.

Check my work calendar for any meetings I have scheduled, If I have a meeting I'll need to have had just a few. I can’t go into a meeting if I might start sweating and shaking.  So if there’s a meeting at 11 AM I'd go sit in my Jeep at about 10:15 and drink in the parking lot for 10 minutes with the air conditioner running. If the meetings at 1PM I’d make sure to have at least half a Gatorade bottle at lunch, but not too much, was that too much? Will I be visibly intoxicated?

Sitting in a meeting looking around, absolutely shocked at how good I feel, I feel totally normal. Am I slurring or speaking clearly? I can’t tell from anyone’s expressions, they are reacting normally, I must sound fine, I can’t look fine, but maybe my new normal looks this hungover?

Another day's done and nobody said anything, that counts as a success. Stop at the mini-mart on the way home and get another handle of whiskey, and more vodka for the car, get home and I can finally relax, just drink what I want for a few hours.    

Homeless In Portland

Face directly on the concrete.

This is a pretty rough night even for the 'high'est of us, but look what a hospitable city! No one even steals his boots.

A casual lunch meeting to discuss local bicycle events. 

Marshmello Fortnite Concert Review - Marshmello Rocks An Absolutely Awesome Show @ Fortnite's Pleasant Park.

At 2 PM 2/2/2018 Marshmello played the largest live music event ever from a stage set up inside the popular game Fortnite.  It will go down in history as the first ever virtual live concert with over 10 million in-game characters in attendance.  Streamers and gamers were blown away by the interactive fan participation in the concert.  Marshmello asked them to jump and on the beat the game switched to low gravity letting millions jump 30 feet into the air, high above the stage and holographic characters dancing on and on top of the stage where Marshmello continued to play. Right on queue with the lyrics "I can Fly" the dance floor and area all around the stage instantly let all the players skydive as if being dropped from the bus.  For 10 minutes the most popular game in the world was Marshmello's personal dance party.

Marshmello, Fortnite and the team at Epic flawlessly delivered a new mixed-medium artform, an in-game virtual concert performed live with interactive fan participation.

You can easily find the show on YouTube but the in-game experience was completely mind-blowing, there is a huge future in virtual music concerts and festivals, whether it takes place within a massively popular game like Fortnite or if artists begin finding ways and locations to host their own shows, there is no denying the fun of attending and participating in a live event from your living room instead of just watching it like a spectator.

No Man's Sky - Viewing the Grave

Monstrosity!
Die!
Leave me be!
Here lies me.

How can I react when viewing my own grave? Would you not immediately return to the scene? I might try to pretend I would sit and consider the wisest course of action but it was instinctual if I could live and see the scene I would immediately return. And what a beautiful game! It leaves my grave permanently marked on the spot those monstrosities ripped my flesh from my limbs.

I had more than 20 hours of gameplay in before my character died.  I hadn't played intentionally cautiously, I wasn't trying to play the entire game without dying, it was just the natural way I progressed through the game.  I foolishly opened the egg (how could I not? I was always going to open it) and suddenly was jumping running shooting at those monstrosities attacking me from seemingly all directions, I ran away, not any direction just away, turning then backing away and shooting and turning again and only managed to die in this natural crater. 

My resources, weapons, and equipment were gone, I couldn't resist. I had to go back to the site of my death.  On finding the grave I became quiet and reflective.  What a beautiful moment the game gave me. 

In video games, I've died thousands, maybe millions of deaths and it's usually the same thing. A black screen, a restart, a reload of a save, some lost progress or a moment of frustration, but this is the first time a game made me think.  And it didn't happen when my character died, it happened when I got back to the grave. What other games do this? 

Revisit this idea, replay another No man's sky death, screenshot the experience and capture the feelings along the way.

When God created Pedro the Lion

When God created Pedro the Lion

From a commiserating fan

Then the Lord God formed Pedro the Lion from the evangelical dust of Phoenix, Arizona, and blessed Pedro the Lion and said, “Create beautiful songs. Your music will move the hearts of thousands, they will hear you sing of your love for the Lord God, and they will know of your relationship with Christ”  And Pedro the Lion performed ‘Lullaby’ at Cornerstone Festival 1999 and God listened and heard that it was good.

Following his purpose, Pedro played his heart out, expressing his doubts, his anger, his logic, his frustration, all the compartments of love scattered on the highway.  And it brought satisfaction and connection to thousands of fans who rejoiced in Control and simultaneously wondered if Pedro the Lion was saved or lost. So Pedro lived, and drove, and drank, and sang.  And many fans said, “but Pedro, he just says it like it is you know, nobody does that like Pedro, and Nick ‘the Greek’ Kashairis  said, “that’s just Pedro.”

I froze as I saw the notification on my phone, “New Album: Phoenix by Pedro the Lion.” Can’t be!? But yes, there it is, released as Pedro the Lion, not Bazan, not Headphones, not some other moniker I won’t remember but will always call Pedro, No, he’s Pedro the Lion again!

And here we go, Bazan and his ‘Yellow Bike,’ right off the bat, conjuring memories of my own first two-wheel bicycle standing by the Christmas tree, drums thumping in my chest, guitar riffs rushing past my cheeks as I remember what it was like, speeding downhill, my own memories blurring in between Bazan’s words, then comes the lonely heartache he knows so well.  Hoping for that astonishing, blatant, emotional scalping of Christianity I’ve come to expect from Pedro I listen to him admonish us to ‘Clean Up’ and wonder if I’ll ever feel the same way I felt when I first heard ‘Rapture’ and ‘Magazine.’ Wonderfully throwing me from ‘Yellow Bike’ into reminiscence, and keeping me there, in that thoughtful, reflective frame of mind, I hear him sing “grown-up mess, I wish I’d….” and I smile at the best line on the album: “I tried eternity and a couple of other drugs."



In ‘Powerful Taboo,’ the ex-Evangelical Christian now turned agnostic listening to, and traveling on a similar path to Bazan’s can thoughtfully nod along, nursing the anger fueled by past repression of “wits” and “good vibrations,” reminding ourselves not to bow in ignorance or fear, that we can accept ourselves for who we are, what we think, and what we do. Reminding ourselves that the painful self-repression suffered for the sake of vicious evangelical dogma is man-made taboo, not eternal, not flawless, but banned by miscalculating simpletons sacrificing logic for the perception of unity with the divine.

A glimmer of oppositional hope rises in the lyrics of ‘Model Homes,’ looking forward, hoping if, not when, and then Pedro invites us to sit with him on the Church pew, in this row of reluctant attendee’s  and consider the beauty on that Piano Bench, try to appreciate the good, quietly listen to a hymn and find that meditative mood before moving on.

Deep slow tones continue to hold childhood in mind and sadden us as we discover with Bazan that it was all spent at ‘Circle K,’ and still, then as now, and when our sons had their jail shoes on, the good Lord smiles and looks the other way.

I haven’t grasped the characters in the ‘Quietest Friend,’ but am quite leery of this “listening.”  Are you wavering Pedro the Lion? I wonder if Bazan wanders back to his Christianity will I watch and feel the same as those Christians who watched him wander this way with us?

Another way home? Where are you going Bazan, the album now turns ominous.  This mysterious “another way” home with someone calling, following and listening scares the calm reflective atheist.

Black Canyon is the standout song on the album, it has humor, depth of meaning, layered meanings and is open for interpretation. My take? The truck is my relationship with God, it killed me and compartmentalized me and through the entire struggle the gory details isolate me further and further, my feelings spread out here on this Hellish road, dead inside but still living alone with this on my back.

‘My Phoenix’ is a terrifying teaser.  Will Bazan try his own version of Christianity?  Does he really now think a Phoenix lies in those evangelical ashes? The dust of Phoenix whipped up inside of him, rising for another shot at love, Bazan teases us, just like the rumor of 5 albums, it piques curiosity.  Are you emotionally prepared for another attempt my good singer friend? If so, let’s hear it.  Good luck to you. Stay honest. Stay true.

Lip Service

I listen attentively to the French professor’s voice, slowly annunciating the question and scanning the room for an eager student, I follow his gaze and see her sitting in the front row. Plaid black and red skirt resting on her perfectly tanned legs, the top two unbuttoned buttons of her shirt tempt my gaze onto her chest and the professor’s voice fades into a background that didn’t exist a split second ago,

I’m mesmerized by her mouth. Her hand guards the professor’s view of her lips as she practices the French phrase silently to herself. Her forefinger rests just above the upper lip in a thoughtful pose and I can see the texture of her lips, the tiny hairs on her finger catch the glint of the light as my eyesight seems to miraculously improve and find a previously unknown precision of focus. I watch her lips move slowly, intentionally, forming the unfamiliar movements of brand new words. Involuntarily my breath deepens and slows, I watch as her thumb gently grazes her parting lips and now notice the detail on her polished thumbnail next to the shape of her upper lips.

My eyelids lower and close ever so slowly, the longest blink of my life sears the image on my mind, I breath out and as I open my eyes she’s still there, now bringing her bottom lip underneath the top and into her mouth and I can tell she’s about to wet her lips and practice the phrase again. She lets the tip of her tongue touch the knuckle of her thumb and mouths the words.  A string of spittle clings to her upper lip and then stretches and breaks as she opens her mouth, her tongue retreats into her mouth and as she feels the spit she quickly closes her mouth, purses and licks her lips clean of any excess, looks at her thumb to see if any got on her finger and then raises her hand to utter the phrase for the professor and the class. I don’t hear a word, none of my other senses work, sight jealously claims this moment as it’s exclusive property, shares it only with the memory, and I know I’ll never forget the gorgeous scene of young curly haired brunette silently practicing her French in the front row.

BLVD

A socially awkward, depressed man fakes a heroin addiction to get out of his office job and into a recovery program.

Frustrated with his life as office worker, a man decides to fake a heroin addiction to con his employer and insurance company into paying him to go to recovery.

Dean is lonely, depressed, and trudging aimlessly through his life as an office worker, exasperated and stressed-out he decides he cannot struggle on and decides to kill himself.  At the critical moment, he realizes he lacks the courage to commit suicide and stumbles upon an idea that will change his life and take him on an unexpected journey through the world of addiction, recovery, and the search for the meaning of life.  He fakes a heroin addiction and checks himself into a residential recovery clinic; he admits the "truth" of his “hidden” addiction to his family and friends and begins a year of "recovery.” 

Dean is lonely, depressed, and trudging aimlessly through his life as an office worker, exasperated and stressed-out he decides he cannot struggle on and decides to kill himself.  At the critical moment, he realizes he lacks the courage to commit suicide and stumbles upon an idea that will change his life and take him on an unexpected journey through the world of addiction, recovery, and the search for the meaning of life.  He fakes a heroin addiction and checks himself into a residential recovery clinic; he admits the "truth" of his “hidden” addiction to his family and friends and begins a year of "recovery.” Relating to other addicts at their most vulnerable, he goes through therapy, sober living, treatment and reintegration into society all the while hiding his true self and motives from everyone around him

Logline: Finding cubicle life in corporate America meaningless and empty, Dean wants to die, but lacking the courage to kill himself he decides to fake a heroin addiction hoping to pull off an insurance scam that will keep his paychecks rolling in while he begins his quest for a purpose in life.

In the blackness of Dean’s dreaming thoughts, the words “Everything is Meaningless” swirl in wispy circles like cirrus clouds, they form a whitening whirlpool and POP! Dean wakes up with a jump and walks directly to the kitchen, pours and swallows a whiskey shot and pours another; the clock reads 7:33 AM.  He blinks and in fast forward, he visualizes last night: She smiled and asked: “Hey, so when are we all going to have that ‘picnic on ice’ you were talking about?” WIth a racing mind and suddenly sweaty palms Dean looks to his friend for help, he has no idea who she is, “Yeah, bro I thought you were setting that up?” His friend said with a knowing look.  Dean met her 2 times before but introduces himself again. How many friendships can you make in a drunken blackout? In fast forward, Dean wastes his days away, drink, TV, drink, video games, drink, bathroom, drink, vomit, drink, sleep, drink, bathroom, drink, TV, drink.

Today he dies. Tomorrow is nothing.  Dean is lying on his stomach on a hotel bed, sideways across the bed with his head hanging off the edge in despair, staring at the floor in that gap between the bed and wall. He raises his head and bares his neck, ready to slit his throat he raises the knife and his hand trembles, he cannot finish it.  Vaguely hoping for any type of help he googles and calls a rehab center, the voice on the other end of the phone asks “What’s your drug of choice?” and the lie is out of his mouth before he knows it, he hears himself say, “Heroin.”

Neural Link

Mt. Tabor

I approach the park from the West and am struck by the defensive posture of the gatehouse and iron fence on the hill, but the fortress becomes a cartoony farce once I ascend the first flight of stairs and see the public warning signs posted on and around this braggadocios little castle. It's menacing and mighty masonry requiring reinforcement from routine city ordinances designed to prevent middle schooler's and drunks from chucking objects or urinating into the water supply.  

The sight elicits a sigh and a smile.

On the far side of the reservoir is a forested embankment and another gatehouse sitting impressively on the hill, perhaps less laughable from a distance, it again boasts defensive prowess as a watchtower with a view of any would be attackers seeking high ground.

To the right and left of the reservoirs are paved and unpaved trails winding up the mountain. Tennis courts and neighborhood homes line the border of the park. Chilly and sunny, the perfect Portland weather invites it's residents for an outing in the park and they accept in number.  I find people jogging, cycling, skateboarding, hiking, yoga-ing, face-timing, snapping, and photographing the scenery. Life abounds and feels full for an absurd moment.

Taking the steepest trails, I attempt to achieve the highest elevation as rapidly as possible over the objections of my racing heart. A well placed bench provides timely respite and I want to doze underneath the giant Sequoias, but resist and continue the ascent.  I reach the summit and find a serene circle of shade. One can't help but be observant and mindful as the cool air gently moves the trees. People are everywhere but still distant, all engaged in their own activities: dog-walking, frisbee, hand-holding, reading on benches and beneath tree trunks, sleeping, conversing, necking, baby stroller jogging and even some ignoring the splendor of nature for another few minutes on their smartphone or laptop.

Summit

A big bronze statue of a forgotten statesman points toward Portland and leaves me with mixed feelings: imposing in the negative, it exists halfway between grand and unassuming, indecorous he stands wanting to be more than he is. Probably commissioned, it finds the artistic equivalent of unwanted homework, minimal effort, yet satisfactory. I imagine the commissioning family signing the check reluctantly, quizzically looking it over and handing it to the sculptor with a sigh, wondering if the honored dead would consider it a waste of money.