commute fiction: entry four:
(first fiction entry re-worked. study in science fiction)
Medijour morning, 15 cycles before suns cross: Wrote a new song. Two trillcycles writing drought ends with one vindictive emobrance. An achievement begotten of failure.
My failure: to please the dear ones of my art-mate. My cantankerous style disturbed them. This upset me greatly as I have struggled for three trillcycles to fit in. My life partner and I have been on this gritty cold planet a little over four trillcycles and still find our way amongst the natives inhospitable. Not all are the same. We have found sanctuary amongst the low people. But the mids, the ones who find themselves better than the lows yet who are not themselves high-ones, find us too strange for their liking. I felt my humanements expanding. I released emotions as a fungbread releases moldyrup. These I poured into song.
I must now thank the dear ones of my art-mate for bringing forth humanements who I have not been able to summon on my own. I have maintained a lowbeam level of liviliness through emo-games for a long time. It is not the same.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Morning Commute: Entry Thirty-Six:
commute fiction: entry three:
(first fiction entry re-worked. study in___.)
Sunday morning, 10 AM: wrote a vindictive dirge while Bridget out. Completely new song, first in two years.
It was a bit of carpe diem but B's absence had nothing to do with it. I was channeling gnarled up emotions towards something more useful than a nasty phone call and a few bullshit emails. The emails especially were anti-helpful; sent off into the ether to dissipate. No matter I had no "I should have said this" regrets with email. Aggressive wit just didn't translate well on the internet. B said I was making too big a deal out of the thing. Fuck, better to monopolize on it in songwriting than to attempt to erase it. So what if Lucille and her friends thought I was a jerk. I already knew that they had a lot of insecurities. I wasn't particularly interested in hanging out with them but Lucille was Henry's live-in (well, he lived with her is more precise) girlfriend; and Henry was my bandmate of four years and I've always been nice to Lucille, hell, even to her friends. Didn't B and I shell out 40 bucks a piece at Bedford's pseudo-classy birthday soiree? What the hell did I have? Oh yeah, butternut squash tomales. Henry spilled a bottle of red wine across the table which turned out to be the most entraining event of the night. Nobody else showed up. I should have gained points for showing up. Instead I was person non grata at any Lucille event. I knew going karoaking with them was a bad idea. We didn't get an invite until an hour before they left. Lucille invited Tony and his fiance so Henry invited us (Tony was our band mate). They made me out to be the bad guy from the get go. I wasn't the one who asked the Chinese decorator how she would say "saloon." You have to figure a guy who goes by "Colorado" doesn't have any class. One of his buddies shouted "hey George" when I walked through the door, thinking that would be a funny thing to say to a perfect stranger (my name btw is not George it's aq3opi2r4;q2kl3jkl). I couldn't pretend to find that funny - not that I made a stink about it. B and I out classed them so they took us as snobs. That's what it was. Anyway I didn't really care what they thought, just that Henry was upset with me for upsetting his girlfriend and her friends. And I loved Henry
When I finished the dirge, I felt like thanking all these nutcases. I didn't write songs anymore. I knew that this writer's block was a direct result of complacency which not withstanding my songwriting lull had an attractive apologia: 1) plentiful sex, 2) quality food, 3) sound sleep, 4) health insurance... I had found other means of creativity. Not long before, I heard of the Five Obstructions. It excited me. I fiddled with my old works. I had no problem using past works as building blocks for new ones. It's not like I had critics pointing out my self-derivation. I didn't even live in the same town where anyone would recognize the old material. The spin-offs didn't sound like the originals anyway. The rest of the band was in to it too. Of course it was not the same as writing a brand new song which was something, for all practical purposes, that I could only do at the hurling end of an emotional fit. I had plenty of that in my youth and now I was glad to have that sort of thing in rarified supply even while I placed high value on new songs.
(first fiction entry re-worked. study in___.)
Sunday morning, 10 AM: wrote a vindictive dirge while Bridget out. Completely new song, first in two years.
It was a bit of carpe diem but B's absence had nothing to do with it. I was channeling gnarled up emotions towards something more useful than a nasty phone call and a few bullshit emails. The emails especially were anti-helpful; sent off into the ether to dissipate. No matter I had no "I should have said this" regrets with email. Aggressive wit just didn't translate well on the internet. B said I was making too big a deal out of the thing. Fuck, better to monopolize on it in songwriting than to attempt to erase it. So what if Lucille and her friends thought I was a jerk. I already knew that they had a lot of insecurities. I wasn't particularly interested in hanging out with them but Lucille was Henry's live-in (well, he lived with her is more precise) girlfriend; and Henry was my bandmate of four years and I've always been nice to Lucille, hell, even to her friends. Didn't B and I shell out 40 bucks a piece at Bedford's pseudo-classy birthday soiree? What the hell did I have? Oh yeah, butternut squash tomales. Henry spilled a bottle of red wine across the table which turned out to be the most entraining event of the night. Nobody else showed up. I should have gained points for showing up. Instead I was person non grata at any Lucille event. I knew going karoaking with them was a bad idea. We didn't get an invite until an hour before they left. Lucille invited Tony and his fiance so Henry invited us (Tony was our band mate). They made me out to be the bad guy from the get go. I wasn't the one who asked the Chinese decorator how she would say "saloon." You have to figure a guy who goes by "Colorado" doesn't have any class. One of his buddies shouted "hey George" when I walked through the door, thinking that would be a funny thing to say to a perfect stranger (my name btw is not George it's aq3opi2r4;q2kl3jkl). I couldn't pretend to find that funny - not that I made a stink about it. B and I out classed them so they took us as snobs. That's what it was. Anyway I didn't really care what they thought, just that Henry was upset with me for upsetting his girlfriend and her friends. And I loved Henry
When I finished the dirge, I felt like thanking all these nutcases. I didn't write songs anymore. I knew that this writer's block was a direct result of complacency which not withstanding my songwriting lull had an attractive apologia: 1) plentiful sex, 2) quality food, 3) sound sleep, 4) health insurance... I had found other means of creativity. Not long before, I heard of the Five Obstructions. It excited me. I fiddled with my old works. I had no problem using past works as building blocks for new ones. It's not like I had critics pointing out my self-derivation. I didn't even live in the same town where anyone would recognize the old material. The spin-offs didn't sound like the originals anyway. The rest of the band was in to it too. Of course it was not the same as writing a brand new song which was something, for all practical purposes, that I could only do at the hurling end of an emotional fit. I had plenty of that in my youth and now I was glad to have that sort of thing in rarified supply even while I placed high value on new songs.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Morning Commute: Entry Thirty-Five:
commute fiction: entry two:
(first fiction entry re-worked. study in style, gender reversal.)
Sunday morning, 10 AM, wrote a song - a vindictive mountain dirge - while Bridget ran errands.
I grasped the moment, not that the "moment" was Bridget's abscence. We had plenty of time apart. Songwriting was healthfully regurgitative. It was a form of absolvement from a painful experience. I was in the midst of a painful experience; painful enough to chuck up one monotonal lament anyway.
I'm not a jerk but I certainly can come across that way. I'm not even sure why. It's embarassing really; makes me always on edge. Being this way is like owning an obnoxious dog. I'd lock myself in the car when I go out if I could. Worse, like a puppy I can't get over the stupid desire to be liked by everyone, which doesn't mesh well with my involuntary ability to piss people off. That's why when my band mate, Missy, called upset with me for upsetting her boyfriend and his friends, I was upset myself - but only for a moment surprised. Apparently Missy's boyfriend thought I was acting like an asshole at Sleazefest. When Missy told me this, I immediately lashed out at her and put the blame on everybody else. Hell, I made a conscious effort to be liked by these people. They had not even offered up a decent invite, only telling me about the show an hour before we left. Missy wanted me to go, I don't doubt that, but not Rick. Even if I was the victim (which I was), wasn't there always some truth behind the accusation? Missy knew me pretty well. She wouldn't have been upset if she didn't find it believable. That was why mostly I was upset with Missy (for believing it) and of course, with myself. In any case, I got off a string of emails to all guilty parties. After that little Yahoo! barrage and a loud phone call to Missy on my way to work, I re-directed my anger to the dirge.
In the end, I felt like thanking everybody. I didn't write songs too often by then and I knew that this writer's block was a direct result of complacency which not withstanding my songwriting lull had an attractive apologia: 1)plentiful sex, 2)quality food, 3)sound sleep, 4)health insurance... I had other means of creativity anyway. Not long before, I heard of the Five Obstructions. This perked me up. I fiddled with my old works. I had no problem using past works as building blocks for new ones. It's not like I had critics pointing out my self-derivation. I didn't even live in the same town where anyone would recognize the old material. The spin-offs didn't sound like the originals anyway. The rest of the band was in to it too. Of course it was not the same as writing a brand new song which was something, for all practical purposes, that I could only do at the hurling end of an emotional fit. I had plenty of that in my youth and now I was glad to have that sort of thing in rarified supply even while I placed high value on new songs.
(first fiction entry re-worked. study in style, gender reversal.)
Sunday morning, 10 AM, wrote a song - a vindictive mountain dirge - while Bridget ran errands.
I grasped the moment, not that the "moment" was Bridget's abscence. We had plenty of time apart. Songwriting was healthfully regurgitative. It was a form of absolvement from a painful experience. I was in the midst of a painful experience; painful enough to chuck up one monotonal lament anyway.
I'm not a jerk but I certainly can come across that way. I'm not even sure why. It's embarassing really; makes me always on edge. Being this way is like owning an obnoxious dog. I'd lock myself in the car when I go out if I could. Worse, like a puppy I can't get over the stupid desire to be liked by everyone, which doesn't mesh well with my involuntary ability to piss people off. That's why when my band mate, Missy, called upset with me for upsetting her boyfriend and his friends, I was upset myself - but only for a moment surprised. Apparently Missy's boyfriend thought I was acting like an asshole at Sleazefest. When Missy told me this, I immediately lashed out at her and put the blame on everybody else. Hell, I made a conscious effort to be liked by these people. They had not even offered up a decent invite, only telling me about the show an hour before we left. Missy wanted me to go, I don't doubt that, but not Rick. Even if I was the victim (which I was), wasn't there always some truth behind the accusation? Missy knew me pretty well. She wouldn't have been upset if she didn't find it believable. That was why mostly I was upset with Missy (for believing it) and of course, with myself. In any case, I got off a string of emails to all guilty parties. After that little Yahoo! barrage and a loud phone call to Missy on my way to work, I re-directed my anger to the dirge.
In the end, I felt like thanking everybody. I didn't write songs too often by then and I knew that this writer's block was a direct result of complacency which not withstanding my songwriting lull had an attractive apologia: 1)plentiful sex, 2)quality food, 3)sound sleep, 4)health insurance... I had other means of creativity anyway. Not long before, I heard of the Five Obstructions. This perked me up. I fiddled with my old works. I had no problem using past works as building blocks for new ones. It's not like I had critics pointing out my self-derivation. I didn't even live in the same town where anyone would recognize the old material. The spin-offs didn't sound like the originals anyway. The rest of the band was in to it too. Of course it was not the same as writing a brand new song which was something, for all practical purposes, that I could only do at the hurling end of an emotional fit. I had plenty of that in my youth and now I was glad to have that sort of thing in rarified supply even while I placed high value on new songs.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Morning Commute: Entry Thirty-Four:
commute fiction: entry one:
(a study in style and gender reversal)
In the quick hours of a Sunday morning while Patrick (my husband) was out running errands, I wrote a vindictive mountain dirge. I was being opportunistic. Er, the "opportunity" was not being home alone. I had plenty of time away from Patrick. Songwriting was a purging process that helped me deal with trouble. Recently, I had a little trouble, enough anyway to bring up one song.
I can come across as a bitch which I'm not. This is not a source of pride. It makes me a little uneasy. It's like owning a temperamental dog (I'm 36 so the old dog/new trick aphorism might as well apply too). I'm not so ill at ease that I will lash out, teeth bared, at somebody's character. No, I don't do that anymore. What I can't rid myself of is the stupid desire to be liked by everyone. That's why when my band mate, Henry, called upset with me for upsetting his girlfriend and her friends, I was upset and momentarily surprised. Apparently they thought I was an asshole at Sleazefest. I immediately lashed out at Henry, putting the blame on anything and everybody other than me. Had I not made a conscious effort to be liked by these people? I certainly had not received a genuine invitation. Henry wanted me there, I do believe that, but not Lucille. Still, even if I was the victim of a character attack (and I was), wasn't there always some truth behind the accusation? Besides Henry knew me pretty well. He wouldn't have been upset if he didn't find it believable. That was why I was mostly upset with Henry (for believing it) and of course, myself. In any case, I got off a string of verbose emails to all parties. After that little Yahoo! barrage and a loud phone call to Henry on my way to work, I re-directed the emotional energy to the dirge.
I felt like thanking everybody. I didn't write songs too often by then and I knew that this writer's block was a direct result of complacency which not withstanding my songwriting lull had some attractive justifications: safe (and plentiful) sex, quality food, sound sleep, health insurance... I had other means of creativity. Not long before, I heard of the Five Obstructions which energized my creative will. I re-tooled my old works. I had no problem using past works as building blocks for new. It's not like I had critics pointing out my self-derivation. I didn't even live in the same town where anyone would recognize the old material. The spin-offs didn't sound like the originals anyway. It was not the same as writing a brand new song which was something, by and large, that I could only do at the hurling end of an emotional fit. I had plenty of that in my youth and now I was glad to have that sort of thing in rarified supply.
(a study in style and gender reversal)
In the quick hours of a Sunday morning while Patrick (my husband) was out running errands, I wrote a vindictive mountain dirge. I was being opportunistic. Er, the "opportunity" was not being home alone. I had plenty of time away from Patrick. Songwriting was a purging process that helped me deal with trouble. Recently, I had a little trouble, enough anyway to bring up one song.
I can come across as a bitch which I'm not. This is not a source of pride. It makes me a little uneasy. It's like owning a temperamental dog (I'm 36 so the old dog/new trick aphorism might as well apply too). I'm not so ill at ease that I will lash out, teeth bared, at somebody's character. No, I don't do that anymore. What I can't rid myself of is the stupid desire to be liked by everyone. That's why when my band mate, Henry, called upset with me for upsetting his girlfriend and her friends, I was upset and momentarily surprised. Apparently they thought I was an asshole at Sleazefest. I immediately lashed out at Henry, putting the blame on anything and everybody other than me. Had I not made a conscious effort to be liked by these people? I certainly had not received a genuine invitation. Henry wanted me there, I do believe that, but not Lucille. Still, even if I was the victim of a character attack (and I was), wasn't there always some truth behind the accusation? Besides Henry knew me pretty well. He wouldn't have been upset if he didn't find it believable. That was why I was mostly upset with Henry (for believing it) and of course, myself. In any case, I got off a string of verbose emails to all parties. After that little Yahoo! barrage and a loud phone call to Henry on my way to work, I re-directed the emotional energy to the dirge.
I felt like thanking everybody. I didn't write songs too often by then and I knew that this writer's block was a direct result of complacency which not withstanding my songwriting lull had some attractive justifications: safe (and plentiful) sex, quality food, sound sleep, health insurance... I had other means of creativity. Not long before, I heard of the Five Obstructions which energized my creative will. I re-tooled my old works. I had no problem using past works as building blocks for new. It's not like I had critics pointing out my self-derivation. I didn't even live in the same town where anyone would recognize the old material. The spin-offs didn't sound like the originals anyway. It was not the same as writing a brand new song which was something, by and large, that I could only do at the hurling end of an emotional fit. I had plenty of that in my youth and now I was glad to have that sort of thing in rarified supply.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Morning Commute: Entry Thirty Three:
Commute Reading
Title: Ulysses
Author: James Joyce
Title: Ulysses
Author: James Joyce
Year Published: 1918
Overview and Reviews:
Good write up about Joyce and Bloomsday from last year's Village Voice.
http://www.villagevoice.com/news/0424,essay,54321,1.html
Personal Comment: Today is Bloomsday, the fictional date Joyce used in his epic day-in-the-life account of "everyman" Leopold Bloom. Ulysses was the first book I read when I started commuting to work. I quickly realized that the long commute early in the morning, wide awake with nothing to do, was the perfect time to study something that I long wanted to but never found the time. I had to read five books of analysis and criticism simultaneously to understand it but it was well worth the endeavor. Provided one finds oneself with a few hours a day with nothing to do and sleep really isn't an option, this is a good use of that time.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Morning Commute: Entry Thirty-Two:
Commute Reading
Title: Humboldt's Gift
Author: Saul Bellow
Title: Humboldt's Gift
Author: Saul Bellow
Year Published: 1975
Overview and Reviews:
excellent tribute from former student -
http://www.scoop.co.nz/stories/HL0504/S00063.htm
novel overview -
http://www.saulbellow.org/NovelOverviews/HumboldtsGift.html
Philip Roth's Rereading Saul Bellow (the New Yorker review also offers some explanation as to why Bellow chose to stay in Chicago) - http://www.newyorker.com/printables/archive/050411fr_archive02
Personal Comment: Saul Bellow died this year. I read a Bellow's short story when I first moved to Chicago and always meant to read more. Salon did a nice couple of obit. pieces which reminded me. I sought out Humbodlt's Gift (because it is set in Chicago) and found an inexpensive paperback copy at Myopic Books in Wicker Park. Saul Bellow lived most of his life in Chicago although in his old age (in the early 1990's) he moved to Massachusetts, not without opining negatively on Chicago's violent racial discord.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Morning Commute: Entry Thirty-One:
muggy heat pervades the city
steaming heads, to be pithy
stirring stench from winter's rest
predicates the hornet's nest
steaming heads, to be pithy
stirring stench from winter's rest
predicates the hornet's nest
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