"...a man...can find comfort in words coming out of his own mouth."
-- Orual, in C. S. Lewis' Till We Have Faces
--
Been ill now three days. Long days. Slamming Halls Naturals, cups of double-bagged tea, and loads of Vitamin C, daily supplements. I hate being sick, that unhealthy pit of mutiny. You're stuck in the sickness, wavering through fevers and tripping on coughs, grindingly clearing your throat.
What a funny defense mechanism is mucus; like a gooey pillow for what ails you, soon to be packaged, accumulated, and expelled. Yuck.
--
Also for three days, we've had two shows, one in the morning and one in the evening. Last night we played for a local PTA, amidst the rumble of popcorn machines and with little mines of spilled juice spattered randomly around the stage. I steal sips of tea when I can, and I've been backing off the screams. Stress on the vocal chords + quitting smoking + random sickness = quiet down.
We have fired one of our actors. It was a rainy day. The new guy is awesome. In less than a week he's learned two shows and has made intriguing, fluid character choices. He knows how to rock and roll.
--
Saw The Turn of the Screw a few nights ago at Cincy Shakes; was floored. And terrified. Wonderful show, an engaging adaptation of the James novella. A fresh ghost story, a duo of talented actors, a splendid Halloween show.
One show tomorrow, our morning Halloween show, and then an entire PM segment off. I'm seeing Dracula at the Cincy Ballet, wearing red, and decidedly not trick-or-treating. Saving molars, and whatnot.
Also watched Michael Clayton today and was disappointed. Not much of a Clooney fan in general, really.
However, watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory over peppermint tea, under a Hebrew blanket, and followed by awesome talkage...that was great. It's good to chill. Takes the edge off of life, a pocket of cheery order in a swirling 'verse of shows and sweat and checks and balances, a smiling reminder that not all in life has price, some things are nice, and everything is worth looking at twice.
--
Finally, a shout-out to McDonald's, for adding the double-cheeseburger to the Value Menu. You can get a combo for under $4. With Big Mac sauce and shredded lettuce, that's a Big Mac combo for two bucks less. Check it.
10.30.2008
10.26.2008
Acquainted
"I have been one acquainted with the night."
-- Robert Frost
--
No delusions of Frost, but it was cold.
My bus came back a little after four. It is almost five now. In the morning. My heart has raced as my body walked for an hour. The most dangerous hour of my life, it feels like.
Though if I had to choose a time to walk from the heart of downtown Cinci, through the city streets and open steaming alleys, up Reading Road past the highway with the darkness of thick trees on my left, around the underbelly of Over the Rhine, stepping past faces planted on doormats (breathing bodies warm with threat) and peering desperately for police cars and taxis; if I had to pick any hour out of the entire week to make that walk, it would have to be between four and five in the morning on a Sunday.
I turned up my collar against the cold, as they say, and my shadow looked like a nerdy vampire. Hiking. On his way to the bloodsuckers convention. It was best when I passed a tall metal gate, and the slitted shadow sliced my silhouette, like a streetwise strobe.
--
The homeless sleep on street graters, absorbing heat as it vents in steam. I fingered the change in my pockets, ready to be accosted. My eyes were wide. My neck was tense. My backpack was heavy; my shoulders ache from the weight. When I farted, I farted in spurts, between steps, incidentally, contributing to the night smog. We each do our fart.
--
The hardest part was the last climb. Reading Road ascends as it winds, curving like a helix up past abandoned factory shells and gaping parking lots, up to McGregor Avenue. The hills are steep. I plodded along on tired feet.
At one point I thought I heard a gunshot and wheeled around. It was a car's tire exploding on the highway. Sucks to have that happen at this hour. Makes you feel good to be walking.
There were no luminary clocks tonight. Smog, or clouds. But there were city lights, sad lanes and far-off cries. A touchstone in the night. In the dark, in the danger. The frost appeared on windshields, growing slowly in the chill from the river, and Frost appeared in my mind.
I, too, growing slowly in the chill from the river.
-- Robert Frost
--
No delusions of Frost, but it was cold.
My bus came back a little after four. It is almost five now. In the morning. My heart has raced as my body walked for an hour. The most dangerous hour of my life, it feels like.
Though if I had to choose a time to walk from the heart of downtown Cinci, through the city streets and open steaming alleys, up Reading Road past the highway with the darkness of thick trees on my left, around the underbelly of Over the Rhine, stepping past faces planted on doormats (breathing bodies warm with threat) and peering desperately for police cars and taxis; if I had to pick any hour out of the entire week to make that walk, it would have to be between four and five in the morning on a Sunday.
I turned up my collar against the cold, as they say, and my shadow looked like a nerdy vampire. Hiking. On his way to the bloodsuckers convention. It was best when I passed a tall metal gate, and the slitted shadow sliced my silhouette, like a streetwise strobe.
--
The homeless sleep on street graters, absorbing heat as it vents in steam. I fingered the change in my pockets, ready to be accosted. My eyes were wide. My neck was tense. My backpack was heavy; my shoulders ache from the weight. When I farted, I farted in spurts, between steps, incidentally, contributing to the night smog. We each do our fart.
--
The hardest part was the last climb. Reading Road ascends as it winds, curving like a helix up past abandoned factory shells and gaping parking lots, up to McGregor Avenue. The hills are steep. I plodded along on tired feet.
At one point I thought I heard a gunshot and wheeled around. It was a car's tire exploding on the highway. Sucks to have that happen at this hour. Makes you feel good to be walking.
There were no luminary clocks tonight. Smog, or clouds. But there were city lights, sad lanes and far-off cries. A touchstone in the night. In the dark, in the danger. The frost appeared on windshields, growing slowly in the chill from the river, and Frost appeared in my mind.
I, too, growing slowly in the chill from the river.
10.25.2008
Dunkin
"No vans."
-- Sign outside the parking garage off Michigan Ave., Chi-Town, where we parked our family van
--
Took the Megabus over to Indianapolis, then up to Chicago last night. After the shows, after the rain, after the drama. It was a gray afternoon, pelting rain smacking windshields and umbrellas, but after some chicken teriyaki in the hidden mall on Race St., I was ready for the five-hour ride. Left the southern storms for the northern ones. An old man, a Demarco doppleganger, kept hopping among single seats. The driver played Stargate. I listened to Mae and called people. The man beside me was maybe a criminal and a father. The woman in front of me was the only one who introduced herself to the driver, and she is rich. A yuppy couple kicked me out of my single seat so they could sit together: him with his econ notebook and its many graphs and scrawl, her with her iPod and Mediterranean bread. Bus folks.
Met with Matt, hit up Greektown, threw back a few feta fries and some beer. Missy met up, too, walk-talked me to the Red Line, and on the damp and shiny corner of Church and Davis, cold and streaked with rain, the white minivan pulled up. It was almost one. I was walking squares around the intersection, trying to look like I was going someplace, the only one on the street, twirling my umbrella and humming "Singin' in the Rain" for distraction. The van in the scary dark was like an angel with GPS.
Surprised Sharon at the hotel and crashed in a double bed. Ajax is skinnier and a bit frazzled by the location change. Saw Lola, recovered from her recent (mild) heart attack, hugged and kissed her. Relaxed with the fam and jimmied open the window. Crisp air from the lake, sunlight chasing leftover clouds.
--
We ate Dunkin Donuts for a second breakfast. After the continental at LaQuinta. My return trip begins at ten, giving me a few hours left for walking, eating dinner, and feeling the sidewalks under my feet. The concrete that should own me. The air I want to breathe. The accent I want to develop.
--
We're in the Apple Store near the Disney Store. (Near a lot of stores.) They're playing Madonna now and I don't even care. We took crazy, campy webcam photos, Sharon in her Navy blacks, me in my scarf, Paige in her element, Nick in his prime. I need to earn my next laptop. Gotta start soon.
(About Sharon in uniform: It's a sharp look. I've always thought the Navy had the best dressed folks. As classy and compact as you'd like, Matrix garb for a new Navy sailor. Her school starts in a few days, and we couldn't be prouder. We've all signed the card in private and will present her with it soon. I've given her my transit card so she can get a jump on the L.)
10.23.2008
Country
"I think by the time you're grown you're as happy as you're goin to be. You'll have good times and bad times, but in the end you'll be about as happy as you was before. Or as unhappy. I've knowed people that just never did get the hang of it."
-- The Old Man in Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men
--
An interesting article worth reading (if you care about economics or the presidential election):
http://www.ldsmag.com/ideas/081017light.html.
In related news, during this horrible economic crisis, I paid $2.39 per gallon of gas today. That's down a full dollar since the summer. And I still have my job, and I'm in the arts. Just sayin.
--
That last (having a job in the arts) is a privilege. I wonder sometimes how many people wish they had a job whose sole purpose was itself, a process of creating and celebrating a craft.
Ironic, isn't it, that so many people in the arts complain so much about it. As if the world is a mass of babysitters for the grown. As if talent is a get-out-of-work-free card. It's not hard, folks, whatever you may want to convince yourselves of to the opposite. You provide a vital but not entirely helpful service to a society whose people operate and survive on a daily basis without your contributions. Only occasionally do your lofty ideas about lessons, rebellion and change have any effect upon the actual bump and grind of your work.
And in the case of live performers, most people now wonder why you persist in the unrecordable when a CD and DVD can do just as much for a lot less. Unrecordable does not mean irreplaceable, either. Get it, keep it.
As OK Go sings, "Get get get get get over it." Do your job, and try to remember how glad you are to have it.
--
Just returned from a four-day stretch on the road. Interesting tracks. Some, muddy, murky, mildewy. A hike through a forest, not a stroll on the beach.
Had a long conversation with a hotel manager (Neshnabeck) from India. Old man, fascinating white hair on his ears. We were watching the news in the lobby,
(an old woman in blue ash, oh, stole a neighborhood boy's football after it landed one too many times in her lawn and refused to give it back so the police arrested her on charges of theft; charges have been dropped, thank god; a woman asks what has happened to respect of elders and who cares about a stupid football anyway; wheaties might ask this old hag to do a photo shoot for their cereal boxes... and apparently a big chunk of cincinnati voters are actually fraudulent liberals from new york who "moved" to the swing state, registered, voted early, and returned to new york, where they registered and voted again...)
and he kept glancing at me and grinning. Finally, he spoke. He wondered whether we were working for Obama, and I laughed. "Not exactly," I said. "We're in children's theatre."
"Oh. I thought you young people loved Barack. McCain's so old."
"I don't know how the others feel."
"You do shows, eh?"
"Lots. We had two today, two more tomorrow."
He frowned. "What else do you do?"
"Sorry?"
"I mean, for your real job."
"This is our real job."
"Really?"
"Really-really."
"Oh. No wonder you like Barack."
--
(A bit north of Cinci there's a road called Chaucer Road. It looks pleasant.)
We did our show for a house of challenged children. Amid the whoops and hollers there were keen and willing eyes, ears tucked forward like mice listening for hunters, minds straining to understand. We did the show for them as well as the whoopers and hollerers. Perhaps even for the teachers, thankful for a breather.
Lots of walks lately, and the late nights are cold. Stars are brightest in the cold. Everywhere, it seems. The cold keeps me up some nights, blocks my sleep. I've got that space-heater heating up my space, swiveling slowly from bed to desk to bed again, like a spotlight watching my movements. Or a robot, awaiting instruction. Or a bored, silent pet. Morning walks to the meeting point are uphill halfway and will soon be icy. There was frost in a Sprinfield cornfield on Tuesday morning. The harvest is here for the late corn crop. Rows of stalks disappear in the wake of machines. There is nothing but crispness in the air these days, along with the promise of big changes, the churning seasons like a fierce tide, a surf of wonders.
-- The Old Man in Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men
--
An interesting article worth reading (if you care about economics or the presidential election):
http://www.ldsmag.com/ideas/081017light.html.
In related news, during this horrible economic crisis, I paid $2.39 per gallon of gas today. That's down a full dollar since the summer. And I still have my job, and I'm in the arts. Just sayin.
--
That last (having a job in the arts) is a privilege. I wonder sometimes how many people wish they had a job whose sole purpose was itself, a process of creating and celebrating a craft.
Ironic, isn't it, that so many people in the arts complain so much about it. As if the world is a mass of babysitters for the grown. As if talent is a get-out-of-work-free card. It's not hard, folks, whatever you may want to convince yourselves of to the opposite. You provide a vital but not entirely helpful service to a society whose people operate and survive on a daily basis without your contributions. Only occasionally do your lofty ideas about lessons, rebellion and change have any effect upon the actual bump and grind of your work.
And in the case of live performers, most people now wonder why you persist in the unrecordable when a CD and DVD can do just as much for a lot less. Unrecordable does not mean irreplaceable, either. Get it, keep it.
As OK Go sings, "Get get get get get over it." Do your job, and try to remember how glad you are to have it.
--
Just returned from a four-day stretch on the road. Interesting tracks. Some, muddy, murky, mildewy. A hike through a forest, not a stroll on the beach.
Had a long conversation with a hotel manager (Neshnabeck) from India. Old man, fascinating white hair on his ears. We were watching the news in the lobby,
(an old woman in blue ash, oh, stole a neighborhood boy's football after it landed one too many times in her lawn and refused to give it back so the police arrested her on charges of theft; charges have been dropped, thank god; a woman asks what has happened to respect of elders and who cares about a stupid football anyway; wheaties might ask this old hag to do a photo shoot for their cereal boxes... and apparently a big chunk of cincinnati voters are actually fraudulent liberals from new york who "moved" to the swing state, registered, voted early, and returned to new york, where they registered and voted again...)
and he kept glancing at me and grinning. Finally, he spoke. He wondered whether we were working for Obama, and I laughed. "Not exactly," I said. "We're in children's theatre."
"Oh. I thought you young people loved Barack. McCain's so old."
"I don't know how the others feel."
"You do shows, eh?"
"Lots. We had two today, two more tomorrow."
He frowned. "What else do you do?"
"Sorry?"
"I mean, for your real job."
"This is our real job."
"Really?"
"Really-really."
"Oh. No wonder you like Barack."
--
(A bit north of Cinci there's a road called Chaucer Road. It looks pleasant.)
We did our show for a house of challenged children. Amid the whoops and hollers there were keen and willing eyes, ears tucked forward like mice listening for hunters, minds straining to understand. We did the show for them as well as the whoopers and hollerers. Perhaps even for the teachers, thankful for a breather.
Lots of walks lately, and the late nights are cold. Stars are brightest in the cold. Everywhere, it seems. The cold keeps me up some nights, blocks my sleep. I've got that space-heater heating up my space, swiveling slowly from bed to desk to bed again, like a spotlight watching my movements. Or a robot, awaiting instruction. Or a bored, silent pet. Morning walks to the meeting point are uphill halfway and will soon be icy. There was frost in a Sprinfield cornfield on Tuesday morning. The harvest is here for the late corn crop. Rows of stalks disappear in the wake of machines. There is nothing but crispness in the air these days, along with the promise of big changes, the churning seasons like a fierce tide, a surf of wonders.
10.19.2008
Overnights
Four days, four nights.
Day one: Brunswick, OH. A nearly four-hour drive northeast to the Cleveland area. I've made two mix CDs, but that'su only two hours, forty-minutes' worth of time killed. We'll probably trim out some minutes on the highway, but still. Four hours to begin four days, four nights. Then we drive to Joliet, IL. I hope to get that leg. I know the highway well. Good ol' I-80
Day two: Joliet, IL. We probably won't get to go to Chicago, but we'll drive through it.
Day three and four: Springfield, OH. More of the same. Hopes for recreation and clubbing
(i cant stand clubbing i feel lame and stupid and unless im wasted i dont dance funny or funky enough its just loud music and horny people i hate it so much id rather read a book about goats)
and fancy dinners. I brought dress slacks, but that's about all they're getting from me. I don't do scenes when I'm not onstage, you know what I mean?
--
Performed in a tent yesterday. Al fresco, hace fresco. The wind blew down our backdrop. We got sandbags. There was a pole in the middle of our scene. I leaned against it. There was wet grass. We slipped on it.
They gave us free food. Hot cider. And the river was beautiful. We were fifty feet from it. So close to beauty, we didn't mind what we were doing. You can get lost in real-life postcards; don't doubt it.
--
Talked with Sharon on the phone yesterday. First time in months. A few letters, but no talkage. It was good--really good--to hear her voice. We talked about fires, food, and fucknuts. She says she'd do boot camp again if they'd let her. That's something you don't hear everyday, and it makes me proud of her. All the more because she graduates into the Navy at the end of this week.
Day one: Brunswick, OH. A nearly four-hour drive northeast to the Cleveland area. I've made two mix CDs, but that'su only two hours, forty-minutes' worth of time killed. We'll probably trim out some minutes on the highway, but still. Four hours to begin four days, four nights. Then we drive to Joliet, IL. I hope to get that leg. I know the highway well. Good ol' I-80
Day two: Joliet, IL. We probably won't get to go to Chicago, but we'll drive through it.
Day three and four: Springfield, OH. More of the same. Hopes for recreation and clubbing
(i cant stand clubbing i feel lame and stupid and unless im wasted i dont dance funny or funky enough its just loud music and horny people i hate it so much id rather read a book about goats)
and fancy dinners. I brought dress slacks, but that's about all they're getting from me. I don't do scenes when I'm not onstage, you know what I mean?
--
Performed in a tent yesterday. Al fresco, hace fresco. The wind blew down our backdrop. We got sandbags. There was a pole in the middle of our scene. I leaned against it. There was wet grass. We slipped on it.
They gave us free food. Hot cider. And the river was beautiful. We were fifty feet from it. So close to beauty, we didn't mind what we were doing. You can get lost in real-life postcards; don't doubt it.
--
Talked with Sharon on the phone yesterday. First time in months. A few letters, but no talkage. It was good--really good--to hear her voice. We talked about fires, food, and fucknuts. She says she'd do boot camp again if they'd let her. That's something you don't hear everyday, and it makes me proud of her. All the more because she graduates into the Navy at the end of this week.
10.17.2008
Signs
"People complain about the bad things that happen to em that they dont deserve but they seldom mention the good. About what they done to deserve them things. I dont recall that I ever give the good Lord all that much cause to smile on me. But he did."
-- Sheriff Bell, in Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men
--
Drove past the University today, en route to Chinese food after a daylong fast. Westward, on Taft, around the time it turns into Calhoun (a feast for you history buffs), I saw a young guy in a blinding white hoody standing beside another young guy in a snazzy camouflage outfit. They were speaking to each other but facing in different directions. Not looking at each other. As I passed, I saw their hands meet, and between their fingers was a wad of green dollar bills and a small baggy of something white. I checked the mirror when I was past them, and the first guy was already gone.
It's not the first time I've seen people around town and thought to myself that they might be dealing. But it is the first time I've seen stuff change hands like that. I don't know how to feel about that.
At the University, too.
--
When I first moved in my landlady told me that there wasn't any crime that lived on my street that didn't come from someplace else. She said that any break-ins, violence, or theft was the result of drugs. Just drugs. Not poverty or lethargy. Drugs.
She and I were smoking one night on our front porch. "That woman across the street," she told me, "runs a small dealing ring. I seen her do it. Her whole family, all dealers. And she's got some relatives living in a house on the other side of us, down that way a few houses. They're moving in, one by one, and I think soon they're going to force the landlord to sell. They're going to take that house, too. Crack. That's what they sell. Crack and weed, sometimes. I seen people drive up, hit the brakes for a few seconds, someone comes to talk to them, and something changes hands, and off the car goes, screeching. Every time, I call the police, but they don't do anything."
"Bigger fish to fry."
"I guess."
--
Cinci is up there in terms of drug use. Just take a walk in Over the Rhine. You'll see some cool cats, and some not-so-cool cats. Boards in the windows. There's a section of East McMillan where tons of streetfolk gather in and around the street, watching. For what I don't know. But they sit, and they watch, and I only go through that part of town if I have a craving for McDonald's. Otherwise, it's hell's bells, sirens in my head, thumps in my chest.
--
Mae is playing the Mad Hatter on Monday, and I'll be in Illinois, traveling. One of my favorite bands, and I'm missing them by hours. Shucks.
--
It's a payday, and in an hour I'm hitting downtown's Music Hall for another symphony concert. Some culture to go with the...culture. Mussorgsky's Night on Bald Mountain, tonight, at that lovable student rate. Puttin' on the ritz, in a way, but for a price--a small, small price.
Tomorrow, we're performing in a tent three hours away. Hopefully, if we get back in time, I'll have my choice of what show to see in the evening: Hamlet at Cincy Shakes, Noises Off twenty minutes away, or Death of a Salesman fifteen away. Gotta love a city with some class and spaces.
-- Sheriff Bell, in Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men
--
Drove past the University today, en route to Chinese food after a daylong fast. Westward, on Taft, around the time it turns into Calhoun (a feast for you history buffs), I saw a young guy in a blinding white hoody standing beside another young guy in a snazzy camouflage outfit. They were speaking to each other but facing in different directions. Not looking at each other. As I passed, I saw their hands meet, and between their fingers was a wad of green dollar bills and a small baggy of something white. I checked the mirror when I was past them, and the first guy was already gone.
It's not the first time I've seen people around town and thought to myself that they might be dealing. But it is the first time I've seen stuff change hands like that. I don't know how to feel about that.
At the University, too.
--
When I first moved in my landlady told me that there wasn't any crime that lived on my street that didn't come from someplace else. She said that any break-ins, violence, or theft was the result of drugs. Just drugs. Not poverty or lethargy. Drugs.
She and I were smoking one night on our front porch. "That woman across the street," she told me, "runs a small dealing ring. I seen her do it. Her whole family, all dealers. And she's got some relatives living in a house on the other side of us, down that way a few houses. They're moving in, one by one, and I think soon they're going to force the landlord to sell. They're going to take that house, too. Crack. That's what they sell. Crack and weed, sometimes. I seen people drive up, hit the brakes for a few seconds, someone comes to talk to them, and something changes hands, and off the car goes, screeching. Every time, I call the police, but they don't do anything."
"Bigger fish to fry."
"I guess."
--
Cinci is up there in terms of drug use. Just take a walk in Over the Rhine. You'll see some cool cats, and some not-so-cool cats. Boards in the windows. There's a section of East McMillan where tons of streetfolk gather in and around the street, watching. For what I don't know. But they sit, and they watch, and I only go through that part of town if I have a craving for McDonald's. Otherwise, it's hell's bells, sirens in my head, thumps in my chest.
--
Mae is playing the Mad Hatter on Monday, and I'll be in Illinois, traveling. One of my favorite bands, and I'm missing them by hours. Shucks.
--
It's a payday, and in an hour I'm hitting downtown's Music Hall for another symphony concert. Some culture to go with the...culture. Mussorgsky's Night on Bald Mountain, tonight, at that lovable student rate. Puttin' on the ritz, in a way, but for a price--a small, small price.
Tomorrow, we're performing in a tent three hours away. Hopefully, if we get back in time, I'll have my choice of what show to see in the evening: Hamlet at Cincy Shakes, Noises Off twenty minutes away, or Death of a Salesman fifteen away. Gotta love a city with some class and spaces.
10.16.2008
Glue
"Anything can be an instrument, Chigurh said. Small things. Things you wouldnt even notice. They pass from hand to hand. People dont pay attention. And then one day there's an accounting. And after that nothing is the same. Well, you say. It's just a coin. For instance. Nothing special there. What could that be an instrument of? You see the problem. To separate the act from the thing. As if the parts of some moment in history might be interchangeable with the parts of some other moment. How could that be? Well, it's just a coin. Yes. That's true. Is it?"
-- Cormac McCarthy, No Country for Old Men
--
Two shows today. Early morning, gray morning. Felt groggy through the first show, ate much and tried to rest before the second show, lying in the thick black costume on the cold tile floor of the cafeteria stage, staring at the ceiling, trying to relax my lower spine, feeling the stress ebbing away into the floor and spreading away like mop water. Not that it was really stressful; I was just tired. I tried some warmup Pilates moves and felt the cracks and pops, joints snapping to attention, nerves sliding into at-ease. It's like a controlled earthquake in your back, your hips.
Some people believe a good chiropractor can replace a good shrink, that mood problems and the ache of daily toil can be relieved by skilled hands applying centrifugal force in the oddest places on your body. I might believe that, too.
--
I needed a stick to stoke the fire. My fire-stoking stick was nowhere to be found, and the show was starting soon.
So I peeled the feathers off an arrow. It was just a prop arrow, didn't even have a head, just a long stick white and skinny as bone with some clipped wings at one end. Razor edges of blue. The feathers had been hot-glued in place, and I cursed my recently-trimmed nails as I pried the soft plastic away. I must have stood there for five minutes, breaking off pieces of synthetic feather, flicking it out from under my fingernails, going back for more, scraping at that space on the end of the stick, brows furrowed, mind stopped, teeth grit. The glue clung to the wood, unwilling. Finally, it wiggled, flecked, and came off in an unbroken strip, like a miniature creek of dented gray plastic, peeling away bit by bit. It was a small victory in a long day, but for those five minutes, it was my entire world: me, the feathers, the glue and the stick.
Funny, how the smallest of things can consume you.
--
Over lunch, I confessed that I can never tell if a girl is legitimately interested in me or is just being nice. "Been wrong too many times," I said, munching a fry. "That's why I move slow." I came away from the table with an odd sinking feeling, like the indent in a pillow. I felt like that. They tried to instruct me in the ways of the flirt--or rather, the ways of detecting it--but I felt immune to it. Unwilling to learn, clinging to the plainness of my naivete with all the petty force of that small strip of cooled glue. The glue that was once hot, now cooled, now stubborn and well-used, now comfortable in its niche, holding onto itself and its host. You can pull that strip apart if you wish, but like a rubber band, once it breaks, it ceases to be what it was. Better to leave the glue on the stick, perhaps?
"Maybe you should move fast," someone said. "Maybe then they'll be impressed. They'll be caught off-guard."
(but i dont want her to be caught off her guard, i want her to lower it, to drop her guard willingly, i dont want to grab and tossle, id rather coax and relax, revel, reveal; its not the speed im after but the rest stop)
"Maybe," I said.
-- Cormac McCarthy, No Country for Old Men
--
Two shows today. Early morning, gray morning. Felt groggy through the first show, ate much and tried to rest before the second show, lying in the thick black costume on the cold tile floor of the cafeteria stage, staring at the ceiling, trying to relax my lower spine, feeling the stress ebbing away into the floor and spreading away like mop water. Not that it was really stressful; I was just tired. I tried some warmup Pilates moves and felt the cracks and pops, joints snapping to attention, nerves sliding into at-ease. It's like a controlled earthquake in your back, your hips.
Some people believe a good chiropractor can replace a good shrink, that mood problems and the ache of daily toil can be relieved by skilled hands applying centrifugal force in the oddest places on your body. I might believe that, too.
--
I needed a stick to stoke the fire. My fire-stoking stick was nowhere to be found, and the show was starting soon.
So I peeled the feathers off an arrow. It was just a prop arrow, didn't even have a head, just a long stick white and skinny as bone with some clipped wings at one end. Razor edges of blue. The feathers had been hot-glued in place, and I cursed my recently-trimmed nails as I pried the soft plastic away. I must have stood there for five minutes, breaking off pieces of synthetic feather, flicking it out from under my fingernails, going back for more, scraping at that space on the end of the stick, brows furrowed, mind stopped, teeth grit. The glue clung to the wood, unwilling. Finally, it wiggled, flecked, and came off in an unbroken strip, like a miniature creek of dented gray plastic, peeling away bit by bit. It was a small victory in a long day, but for those five minutes, it was my entire world: me, the feathers, the glue and the stick.
Funny, how the smallest of things can consume you.
--
Over lunch, I confessed that I can never tell if a girl is legitimately interested in me or is just being nice. "Been wrong too many times," I said, munching a fry. "That's why I move slow." I came away from the table with an odd sinking feeling, like the indent in a pillow. I felt like that. They tried to instruct me in the ways of the flirt--or rather, the ways of detecting it--but I felt immune to it. Unwilling to learn, clinging to the plainness of my naivete with all the petty force of that small strip of cooled glue. The glue that was once hot, now cooled, now stubborn and well-used, now comfortable in its niche, holding onto itself and its host. You can pull that strip apart if you wish, but like a rubber band, once it breaks, it ceases to be what it was. Better to leave the glue on the stick, perhaps?
"Maybe you should move fast," someone said. "Maybe then they'll be impressed. They'll be caught off-guard."
(but i dont want her to be caught off her guard, i want her to lower it, to drop her guard willingly, i dont want to grab and tossle, id rather coax and relax, revel, reveal; its not the speed im after but the rest stop)
"Maybe," I said.
10.15.2008
Indie
"Not as easy as it used to be."
-- Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
--
According to "South Park," Spielberg and Lucas raped Indie. I certainly think they battered him around a bit, but despite aliens and the infamous refrigerator stunt, I enjoyed it. Glad I only paid three bucks to see it, though.
--
I think I might be too impatient for Netflix. My queue is longer than time, and I almost mean that literally. I get my movies from the library.
--
Went to Indiana today, to a small dinkydoo village southwest of Cinci, southeast of Indianapolis. I drove. There was a moment on highway 50, heading east, when we cranked around a bend and the van was on an overpass, and we were entering Kentucky and the sun was behind us and the shadow we cast was so far away and dark on the brown grass, and at seventy-five miles per hour, I felt like the king of the country. It felt like flying, but it was only shadows.
I have to wear a condom on my mic-pack now. Yes, I have a condom on my package. I sweat so much I killed my last one. (Shoulda used protection...) And the little yellow strap and pouch smells like something funky did something funky in there, and the Velcro is so worn that I have to tie the bastard around my waist. It's like a penis gord, but more flappy. There is a red belt chafed into my skin.
--
It sounds like rain outside, but it's just the leaves clapping softly against each other. A bird tweets from a branch. The sun is at just the right angle that it bounces off the center window of the circular nook of the beige house next door, making bright this dark side of the house. Through the leaves. Turning green to gold, like Sir Gawain's nemesis.
I'm looking for Chicago theatre jobs, readying resumes and downloading apps. Requests for letters of rec soon. Very soon. I feel behind the curve already, looking ahead to the summer. I need to be able to live once I get there, to make a living. But the poor run the theatres, it seems, or at least get conscripted to work there, which is neither good nor bad, but thinking makes it so. My desktop fills with possibilities, and somewhere in the gigantic list is a place that is full of money and not of people. That's my egg carton niche, and I must find it. A grand chase, the toil of the independent, a declaration of dependence and fervor. Overlooking these sheets and envelopes are books lying horizontal, their titles all aligned, the spines asking to be cracked, creased, the words inside screaming silently for attention. Soon, friends.
A child outside on the street calls, "Move! Move!" He waves at his friend, and runs away, laughing.
Soon.
-- Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
--
According to "South Park," Spielberg and Lucas raped Indie. I certainly think they battered him around a bit, but despite aliens and the infamous refrigerator stunt, I enjoyed it. Glad I only paid three bucks to see it, though.
--
I think I might be too impatient for Netflix. My queue is longer than time, and I almost mean that literally. I get my movies from the library.
--
Went to Indiana today, to a small dinkydoo village southwest of Cinci, southeast of Indianapolis. I drove. There was a moment on highway 50, heading east, when we cranked around a bend and the van was on an overpass, and we were entering Kentucky and the sun was behind us and the shadow we cast was so far away and dark on the brown grass, and at seventy-five miles per hour, I felt like the king of the country. It felt like flying, but it was only shadows.
I have to wear a condom on my mic-pack now. Yes, I have a condom on my package. I sweat so much I killed my last one. (Shoulda used protection...) And the little yellow strap and pouch smells like something funky did something funky in there, and the Velcro is so worn that I have to tie the bastard around my waist. It's like a penis gord, but more flappy. There is a red belt chafed into my skin.
--
It sounds like rain outside, but it's just the leaves clapping softly against each other. A bird tweets from a branch. The sun is at just the right angle that it bounces off the center window of the circular nook of the beige house next door, making bright this dark side of the house. Through the leaves. Turning green to gold, like Sir Gawain's nemesis.
I'm looking for Chicago theatre jobs, readying resumes and downloading apps. Requests for letters of rec soon. Very soon. I feel behind the curve already, looking ahead to the summer. I need to be able to live once I get there, to make a living. But the poor run the theatres, it seems, or at least get conscripted to work there, which is neither good nor bad, but thinking makes it so. My desktop fills with possibilities, and somewhere in the gigantic list is a place that is full of money and not of people. That's my egg carton niche, and I must find it. A grand chase, the toil of the independent, a declaration of dependence and fervor. Overlooking these sheets and envelopes are books lying horizontal, their titles all aligned, the spines asking to be cracked, creased, the words inside screaming silently for attention. Soon, friends.
A child outside on the street calls, "Move! Move!" He waves at his friend, and runs away, laughing.
Soon.
10.14.2008
Still
"You always tell happy stories.
You dont have any happy ones?
They're more like real life.
But my stories are not.
Your stories are not. No.
The man watched him. Real life is pretty bad?
What do you think?
Well, I think we're still here. A lot of bad things have happened but we're still here.
Yeah.
You dont think that's so great.
It's okay."
-- Cormac McCarthy, The Road
--
Finished The Road. Recovering now. Will watch No Country for Old Men tonight.
--
I picked up the Christmas Carol scripts at the office today. I expected to see under the character breakdown some smattered arrangement, like, "Actor 3, Chris - Tiny Tim, Villager, Ghost of Christmas Present, Caroler 2," but instead, there at the bottom, was this:
Actor 5 (male), Chris - Scrooge
Holy crow, I'm playing the bah-humbug guy.
--
As I read the final pages of The Road, I sat on a bench in Eden Park overlooking the Ohio River. Layered in sight, facing south: trees on the Ohio border, the river, the speedboats cutting white isoceles triangles through the water like arrowheads, the bridges, humdrum Newport and Covington, trees on the Kentucky border, the sky. Looking north from the other side, the skyline is a series of right angles and dark, shiny windows; looking south, the skyline is the treeline, broken only by I-75 to the right and the river to the left. This part of the Ohio warps in almost a full circle, creating a sort of bulge on the south banks, and a concave on the north. You can see this drastic curve from the park, and it is magnificent. The sun broke clouds in the west, to my right. It warmed my cheek. Ahead, propped on spindly white legs some feet above the Kentucky trees, was a white orb water tower, partly in spherical shadow, like another moon.
On a bench nearby, a father and his daughter talked about whether they could buy a boat, and whether they could buy an ice-cream cone from McDonald's. A thirtysomething with manboobs and under armor jogged by, stinking, wheezing. A classy dame in a black sundress walked her bulldog near my feet, and the dog smiled and the dame smiled, and they had the same smile--"it was fucking surreal," as King's Riley would have put it. Behind me, at a picnic table, a pair of fat black women yelled at their children to get off the hood of the car and laughed. An old lady in plush purple pumps sat on the low brick wall, clicked her camera at the sunset, and walked away smiling. A woman with a Gaelic lilt talked with her American relatives about the price of apartments, and it was wonderful to hear that accent--sweet, curved, clipped, a sprinkled cupcake of a voice.
Fall in Cinci is, so far, more attractive than summer. Woods metamorphosing from green to orange in splotches, tree by tree, and cool afternoons for watching it happen. The trees walked here from New England and the hills rolled over from San Francisco, and the river runs between the worlds like yarn. And maybe it's just me, but it seems like there have been fewer sirens in the night lately.
You dont have any happy ones?
They're more like real life.
But my stories are not.
Your stories are not. No.
The man watched him. Real life is pretty bad?
What do you think?
Well, I think we're still here. A lot of bad things have happened but we're still here.
Yeah.
You dont think that's so great.
It's okay."
-- Cormac McCarthy, The Road
--
Finished The Road. Recovering now. Will watch No Country for Old Men tonight.
--
I picked up the Christmas Carol scripts at the office today. I expected to see under the character breakdown some smattered arrangement, like, "Actor 3, Chris - Tiny Tim, Villager, Ghost of Christmas Present, Caroler 2," but instead, there at the bottom, was this:
Actor 5 (male), Chris - Scrooge
Holy crow, I'm playing the bah-humbug guy.
--
As I read the final pages of The Road, I sat on a bench in Eden Park overlooking the Ohio River. Layered in sight, facing south: trees on the Ohio border, the river, the speedboats cutting white isoceles triangles through the water like arrowheads, the bridges, humdrum Newport and Covington, trees on the Kentucky border, the sky. Looking north from the other side, the skyline is a series of right angles and dark, shiny windows; looking south, the skyline is the treeline, broken only by I-75 to the right and the river to the left. This part of the Ohio warps in almost a full circle, creating a sort of bulge on the south banks, and a concave on the north. You can see this drastic curve from the park, and it is magnificent. The sun broke clouds in the west, to my right. It warmed my cheek. Ahead, propped on spindly white legs some feet above the Kentucky trees, was a white orb water tower, partly in spherical shadow, like another moon.
On a bench nearby, a father and his daughter talked about whether they could buy a boat, and whether they could buy an ice-cream cone from McDonald's. A thirtysomething with manboobs and under armor jogged by, stinking, wheezing. A classy dame in a black sundress walked her bulldog near my feet, and the dog smiled and the dame smiled, and they had the same smile--"it was fucking surreal," as King's Riley would have put it. Behind me, at a picnic table, a pair of fat black women yelled at their children to get off the hood of the car and laughed. An old lady in plush purple pumps sat on the low brick wall, clicked her camera at the sunset, and walked away smiling. A woman with a Gaelic lilt talked with her American relatives about the price of apartments, and it was wonderful to hear that accent--sweet, curved, clipped, a sprinkled cupcake of a voice.
Fall in Cinci is, so far, more attractive than summer. Woods metamorphosing from green to orange in splotches, tree by tree, and cool afternoons for watching it happen. The trees walked here from New England and the hills rolled over from San Francisco, and the river runs between the worlds like yarn. And maybe it's just me, but it seems like there have been fewer sirens in the night lately.
Poker
"And I never to fold."
-- O.A.R., "That Was a Crazy Game of Poker"
--
Outside my window, a mile above the city, a helicopter looks for something. It buzzes and slices the air, a hummingbird of metal. A cement mixer squeals to a stop at the corner, its ancient brakes yelping like wounded dogs. Under the I-71 overpass two blocks south, a gold-brown SUV cut into my lane and almost took out that corner of my car. I honked, my car unharmed and myself alarmed.
Haven't been to a park in a while. Been watching Planet Earth episodes lately. Also ripping music up the wazoo. The Road is the space between the fires, a world where nature and technology are gone and all that remains is a boy and his father. I'm fifty pages from the end and I can't stop.
--
Had poker and a show last night--dress rehearsal, actually, for the Ensemble Theatre's upcoming production of The Seafarer. Wonderful play, stellar production, incandescent acting. The main character, a seaman himself, beleaguered by his past, fighting seas of shame, discovers the joy of life in a crazy game of poker. A brilliant affirmation of even the shittiest lives. And all this for free, too: it is good to network.
Afterwards, we walked back to our cars and made our way north for poker, cross-legged gamers bluffing on a carpet, sipping beer, wine, sharing stories, laughing, the rise and fall of chip towers, spotted empires of green and blue and black and white and red, crumpled bills in a pile on the mantlepiece, the forgotten pot, the verdigris and the reward. Making faces, making plans and schemes. The game moved to a proper table for the climax. A showdown in the wee hours, the apathy mixed with tension, dealing for the duo with drooping eyes, until an ironclad hand--kings full of aces, full house--rakes 'em in and clears one side of the table. The autumn of the cards.
Kings full of aces, indeed. A full house, indeed.
Five dollars can buy you into some priceless things.
--
All this, plus Chinese food laden with MSG, this time with an amiga for company rather than a libro. A full stomach and good DVDs today, the day off, the first in weeks, and also the last in weeks. No overnights this week, no terribly long days and painfully short nights. A week of breaks.
And McCarthy's words. The rusty grid of the fire-escape out my window, soupy behind the pea-green shade. The chimney next door and the trees scraping the rooftop gables, and a tundra of clouds in the highlighter-blue sky. My room is messy but my life is ordered. A return to simplicity and comaraderie, a spring in the woods, eternal life in the roots of a sprawling tree.
And I tuck myself in for forty winks at three in the afternoon. I love feeling full on empty days.
-- O.A.R., "That Was a Crazy Game of Poker"
--
Outside my window, a mile above the city, a helicopter looks for something. It buzzes and slices the air, a hummingbird of metal. A cement mixer squeals to a stop at the corner, its ancient brakes yelping like wounded dogs. Under the I-71 overpass two blocks south, a gold-brown SUV cut into my lane and almost took out that corner of my car. I honked, my car unharmed and myself alarmed.
Haven't been to a park in a while. Been watching Planet Earth episodes lately. Also ripping music up the wazoo. The Road is the space between the fires, a world where nature and technology are gone and all that remains is a boy and his father. I'm fifty pages from the end and I can't stop.
--
Had poker and a show last night--dress rehearsal, actually, for the Ensemble Theatre's upcoming production of The Seafarer. Wonderful play, stellar production, incandescent acting. The main character, a seaman himself, beleaguered by his past, fighting seas of shame, discovers the joy of life in a crazy game of poker. A brilliant affirmation of even the shittiest lives. And all this for free, too: it is good to network.
Afterwards, we walked back to our cars and made our way north for poker, cross-legged gamers bluffing on a carpet, sipping beer, wine, sharing stories, laughing, the rise and fall of chip towers, spotted empires of green and blue and black and white and red, crumpled bills in a pile on the mantlepiece, the forgotten pot, the verdigris and the reward. Making faces, making plans and schemes. The game moved to a proper table for the climax. A showdown in the wee hours, the apathy mixed with tension, dealing for the duo with drooping eyes, until an ironclad hand--kings full of aces, full house--rakes 'em in and clears one side of the table. The autumn of the cards.
Kings full of aces, indeed. A full house, indeed.
Five dollars can buy you into some priceless things.
--
All this, plus Chinese food laden with MSG, this time with an amiga for company rather than a libro. A full stomach and good DVDs today, the day off, the first in weeks, and also the last in weeks. No overnights this week, no terribly long days and painfully short nights. A week of breaks.
And McCarthy's words. The rusty grid of the fire-escape out my window, soupy behind the pea-green shade. The chimney next door and the trees scraping the rooftop gables, and a tundra of clouds in the highlighter-blue sky. My room is messy but my life is ordered. A return to simplicity and comaraderie, a spring in the woods, eternal life in the roots of a sprawling tree.
And I tuck myself in for forty winks at three in the afternoon. I love feeling full on empty days.
10.12.2008
Halo-Halo
"He thought each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins. As in a party game. Say the word and pass it on. So be sparing. What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not."
-- Cormac McCarthy, The Road
--
The ladies downstairs have figured out the vacuum cleaner. I agree with Dad: The old-school bag dirtsuckers were better. No canisters with temperamental dust billowing out. Heavier, yes, but better. Now the modern monster whines and buzzes on the kitchen's hardwood floor, gathering the glitter that fell yesterday. Glad I missed that. I hate glitter, except when it is contained, which is another way of saying glitter is either useless or annoying. Glitter must stay inside a small sealed thing. Not on the floor. Or on my clothes.
--
The Filipino dinner was a success. We had plump lumpia and fat pansit, with mushy, absorbent rice. And some iced green tea. I furnished dessert, halo-halo (rhymes with "ball-o-ball-o"), the layered soupy ice-cream of the southwest Pacific aisles. Big hits.
--
After a stretch of consecutive touring days, we get a late start tomorrow (call is after noon, a rarity), and a full day off on Tuesday. You'd think you'd fill such vacancies with tenant activities, enjoying the freedom to enslave yourself to whatever recreation you wish, but I honestly could use a lethargic day. Reading, eating, sleeping, maybe walking to the park. If it comes to that.
I think I can quit smoking if I keep forgetting to buy another pack.
--
We played the Palace Theatre today, north of Columbus in a small town called Marion. Reminds me of Hillsdale. The inside architecture blew me away: huge Sicilian arches with ivy and statuettes, a honeycombed proscenium of brass and wood, all as ancient and bewildering as a colloseum. The stage manager said the design was from an Italian who missed the Mediterranean. The Palace is by far the nicest venue we've yet played.
And on the ride back, the three-hour trek on OH-4 West, a cotton-candy squid of blue and pink clouds slithered and escaped across the sky. The sun set upon our arrival in Cinci, a pastel painting on the gridwork and skyline. A good day.
-- Cormac McCarthy, The Road
--
The ladies downstairs have figured out the vacuum cleaner. I agree with Dad: The old-school bag dirtsuckers were better. No canisters with temperamental dust billowing out. Heavier, yes, but better. Now the modern monster whines and buzzes on the kitchen's hardwood floor, gathering the glitter that fell yesterday. Glad I missed that. I hate glitter, except when it is contained, which is another way of saying glitter is either useless or annoying. Glitter must stay inside a small sealed thing. Not on the floor. Or on my clothes.
--
The Filipino dinner was a success. We had plump lumpia and fat pansit, with mushy, absorbent rice. And some iced green tea. I furnished dessert, halo-halo (rhymes with "ball-o-ball-o"), the layered soupy ice-cream of the southwest Pacific aisles. Big hits.
--
After a stretch of consecutive touring days, we get a late start tomorrow (call is after noon, a rarity), and a full day off on Tuesday. You'd think you'd fill such vacancies with tenant activities, enjoying the freedom to enslave yourself to whatever recreation you wish, but I honestly could use a lethargic day. Reading, eating, sleeping, maybe walking to the park. If it comes to that.
I think I can quit smoking if I keep forgetting to buy another pack.
--
We played the Palace Theatre today, north of Columbus in a small town called Marion. Reminds me of Hillsdale. The inside architecture blew me away: huge Sicilian arches with ivy and statuettes, a honeycombed proscenium of brass and wood, all as ancient and bewildering as a colloseum. The stage manager said the design was from an Italian who missed the Mediterranean. The Palace is by far the nicest venue we've yet played.
And on the ride back, the three-hour trek on OH-4 West, a cotton-candy squid of blue and pink clouds slithered and escaped across the sky. The sun set upon our arrival in Cinci, a pastel painting on the gridwork and skyline. A good day.
10.10.2008
Sandusky
"It's okay, the man said. All the trees in the world are going to fall sooner or later. But not on us.
How do you know?
I just know."
-- Cormac McCarthy, The Road
--
In an old book store in the old downtown area of Sandusky, OH, I found The Road for cheap, along with a book on experimental theatre (with crazy photos), a pocketbook of Zen meditations, and--the real cookery--a frail, gray, snippety volume of Pioneer Superstitions: Old-Timey Signs and Sayings, by Ferne Shelton, published in 1969. Thought I'd share some of the gems:
- Sign of Rain: "If rocks and walls appear to sweat."
- "If cats work busily scratching themselves...windstorm."
- Curing a Baby's "Thrash": A person who never saw his father (due to death or otherwise) may blow into the baby's mouth three times and cure the condition."
- Of Pigs: "Bad luck to pull a pig's tail. Bad luck to feed sweet milk to pigs. Bad luck to kill hogs 'in the DARK of the moon.'"
- About Dogs: "A good dog will do better if named after a 'bad' man."
- "If she rode on a mule, she was sure to become an old maid."
- "If seven hornets sting a man at the same time, he will die."
- On New Year's Eve: "Cows kneel down and talk."
- "To find a hole in a stocking, expect to get a letter that day."
- Bad luck: "To drop, or fall over, a broom."
- Good luck for a New Year: "Wear red garters."
- Watch out for a man... "If he does not make friends with a dog. If he looks hard into his cup before he drinks. If he has 'squinty' eyes."
-Bad omens: "Bad luck to kill a redbird, bluebird, or a mockingbird."
--
Bought a movie, Phone Call from a Stranger, which has been one of my old faves, though I've not seen it in years. Also bought The Copulatin' Blues and Mae's new release, Singularity.
This, along with some tech-savvy buys: a new network card, a stack of blank CDs, headphones, speakers, and--perhaps most important--an LED book light. I need this last, a private light for reading on the road. The darkness falls on our van sometimes, and these are the moments when good writing is better than tired, paltry conversation. Pop culture rots in the air these nights, I turn fetal in a stubborn van seat firm and unfeeling as wood, and with my hands fondling pages I drift off the highway, glad not to be driving, glad not to be talking.
--
I was back in Sandusky yesterday, and it had not forgotten me. The place looks different in the fall, in the sun, smaller somehow, like the blue house on North 7th St., Dickinson, ND, where I cut my mom's daisies down with a stick, thinking them Nazis and Russians. Sandusky, quaint and fresh, on the shore, the north shore...nowhere near Kentucky.
Been as depressed and pent-up, steaming, on the grand funk railroad ever since leaving that port city. Thinking about jobs past, a life past. It was a hedged, secluded life. Mornings were gray and turned bronze. Deliciously cold nights made friends with wine. Hugs and inside jokes. Carpet stains, ruby nights, free art. I was happy to feel and see these things as they happened, and I am now on the happy side of bitter to recall them, like slender portraits hanging in a museum
(shoes dangling from each other on the wires, the feet of invisible children standing in air)
with little plates beside each, describing the whos and wheres, the hos and whores, the homes and more.
--
Saw Blindness, too, and liked it, dammit. They done the book but good.
How do you know?
I just know."
-- Cormac McCarthy, The Road
--
In an old book store in the old downtown area of Sandusky, OH, I found The Road for cheap, along with a book on experimental theatre (with crazy photos), a pocketbook of Zen meditations, and--the real cookery--a frail, gray, snippety volume of Pioneer Superstitions: Old-Timey Signs and Sayings, by Ferne Shelton, published in 1969. Thought I'd share some of the gems:
- Sign of Rain: "If rocks and walls appear to sweat."
- "If cats work busily scratching themselves...windstorm."
- Curing a Baby's "Thrash": A person who never saw his father (due to death or otherwise) may blow into the baby's mouth three times and cure the condition."
- Of Pigs: "Bad luck to pull a pig's tail. Bad luck to feed sweet milk to pigs. Bad luck to kill hogs 'in the DARK of the moon.'"
- About Dogs: "A good dog will do better if named after a 'bad' man."
- "If she rode on a mule, she was sure to become an old maid."
- "If seven hornets sting a man at the same time, he will die."
- On New Year's Eve: "Cows kneel down and talk."
- "To find a hole in a stocking, expect to get a letter that day."
- Bad luck: "To drop, or fall over, a broom."
- Good luck for a New Year: "Wear red garters."
- Watch out for a man... "If he does not make friends with a dog. If he looks hard into his cup before he drinks. If he has 'squinty' eyes."
-Bad omens: "Bad luck to kill a redbird, bluebird, or a mockingbird."
--
Bought a movie, Phone Call from a Stranger, which has been one of my old faves, though I've not seen it in years. Also bought The Copulatin' Blues and Mae's new release, Singularity.
This, along with some tech-savvy buys: a new network card, a stack of blank CDs, headphones, speakers, and--perhaps most important--an LED book light. I need this last, a private light for reading on the road. The darkness falls on our van sometimes, and these are the moments when good writing is better than tired, paltry conversation. Pop culture rots in the air these nights, I turn fetal in a stubborn van seat firm and unfeeling as wood, and with my hands fondling pages I drift off the highway, glad not to be driving, glad not to be talking.
--
I was back in Sandusky yesterday, and it had not forgotten me. The place looks different in the fall, in the sun, smaller somehow, like the blue house on North 7th St., Dickinson, ND, where I cut my mom's daisies down with a stick, thinking them Nazis and Russians. Sandusky, quaint and fresh, on the shore, the north shore...nowhere near Kentucky.
Been as depressed and pent-up, steaming, on the grand funk railroad ever since leaving that port city. Thinking about jobs past, a life past. It was a hedged, secluded life. Mornings were gray and turned bronze. Deliciously cold nights made friends with wine. Hugs and inside jokes. Carpet stains, ruby nights, free art. I was happy to feel and see these things as they happened, and I am now on the happy side of bitter to recall them, like slender portraits hanging in a museum
(shoes dangling from each other on the wires, the feet of invisible children standing in air)
with little plates beside each, describing the whos and wheres, the hos and whores, the homes and more.
--
Saw Blindness, too, and liked it, dammit. They done the book but good.
10.05.2008
Homecoming
"Seriously, all joking aside--"
"Oh, did you hear that? Seriously. No joking aside."
-- Biedermann and the Firebugs, by Max Frisch
--
Cut a four-hour and forty-five minute drive down to an even four hours. Took a break from the road in Bowling Green, where the University football game had just emptied out. A ten-minute food/potty stop turned into a forty-minute traffic fest. The stars and moon came out around eight o'clock, and the sky slid from blue to orange to purple.
But I got in by nine, hit the main party in town and caught up with folks. Made it to the movie premiere. Smoked with Erin and lounged in the student center. Smoked eight cigarettes in one night, seven more than usual. Woke up this morning in the Home of the Two Black Wizards with the Lincoln Tunnel for a throat. Met Rachel on the loading docks for coffee. Hit the Finish Line for a greasy brunch. Talked in the parking lot afterward for almost an hour, shifting conversation as easily as shifting weight.
Went to Biedermann and the Firebugs, the TP's season opener, and was floored by the chorus work and comedy. Brecht talked about alienation; I felt that. But not the awful kind, the dread of being in-but-once-of. Friends are friends, and good shows are good shows. When they come together, it is a wonderful thing indeed.
--
It's overwhelming, really. Being back. The summer campus is vacant, like a postcard picture, and it is open to exploration, a kind of memorized landscape. It's just you and the grass, or you and the buildings. The small changes can be ignored. But in the bustle of a weekend such as this, with multitudes (that's how it feels, anyway) of smiles and hugs, you see every detail with a kind of numb fascination, and something like resentment. It's not that you dislike the progress that has been made. It's just that you feel like your presence impeded that progress. Like the college said, "Okay, now that those guys are gone, let's pull out the stops." The air smells better.
Probably has something to do with not having to perform here any more, in classrooms or on stages. You don't realize how much pressure you felt at a place until you revisit it. The pressure was welcome then, but now you couldn't possibly own it the way you used to. It's like stepping back from a mosaic and seeing the pieces merge together.
--
I'll be back, for sure. The whens and whys are a bit fuzzy, as itineraries always are for trips down Memory Lane. Someone has a laptop on the floor with a slide show of old pictures, but digital cameras can murk up the clearest visions sometimes. The present, firm and defined and slowly moving, contrasts with the blurry past and future, like a magnifying glass floating along a yardstick.
"Oh, did you hear that? Seriously. No joking aside."
-- Biedermann and the Firebugs, by Max Frisch
--
Cut a four-hour and forty-five minute drive down to an even four hours. Took a break from the road in Bowling Green, where the University football game had just emptied out. A ten-minute food/potty stop turned into a forty-minute traffic fest. The stars and moon came out around eight o'clock, and the sky slid from blue to orange to purple.
But I got in by nine, hit the main party in town and caught up with folks. Made it to the movie premiere. Smoked with Erin and lounged in the student center. Smoked eight cigarettes in one night, seven more than usual. Woke up this morning in the Home of the Two Black Wizards with the Lincoln Tunnel for a throat. Met Rachel on the loading docks for coffee. Hit the Finish Line for a greasy brunch. Talked in the parking lot afterward for almost an hour, shifting conversation as easily as shifting weight.
Went to Biedermann and the Firebugs, the TP's season opener, and was floored by the chorus work and comedy. Brecht talked about alienation; I felt that. But not the awful kind, the dread of being in-but-once-of. Friends are friends, and good shows are good shows. When they come together, it is a wonderful thing indeed.
--
It's overwhelming, really. Being back. The summer campus is vacant, like a postcard picture, and it is open to exploration, a kind of memorized landscape. It's just you and the grass, or you and the buildings. The small changes can be ignored. But in the bustle of a weekend such as this, with multitudes (that's how it feels, anyway) of smiles and hugs, you see every detail with a kind of numb fascination, and something like resentment. It's not that you dislike the progress that has been made. It's just that you feel like your presence impeded that progress. Like the college said, "Okay, now that those guys are gone, let's pull out the stops." The air smells better.
Probably has something to do with not having to perform here any more, in classrooms or on stages. You don't realize how much pressure you felt at a place until you revisit it. The pressure was welcome then, but now you couldn't possibly own it the way you used to. It's like stepping back from a mosaic and seeing the pieces merge together.
--
I'll be back, for sure. The whens and whys are a bit fuzzy, as itineraries always are for trips down Memory Lane. Someone has a laptop on the floor with a slide show of old pictures, but digital cameras can murk up the clearest visions sometimes. The present, firm and defined and slowly moving, contrasts with the blurry past and future, like a magnifying glass floating along a yardstick.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)