Sonication
And last night, he changed his Shuffle playlist, and it made a profound difference to today's mood and occupational madness.
Random Ten Songs
James - Skindiving
Man Next Door - Massive Attack
Overture - Bjork
Running Two - Run Lola Run Soundtrack
Milkdrunk - Halou
Could You Be Loved - Bob Marley and the Wailers
Tempation Waits - Garbage
A Wolf at the Door - Radiohead
Hit 'em Hard - Brassy
Excess - Tricky
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Hyperaware
You know what's not healthy? Having a budding writer who is already jumpy about thinking he's a literary thief use wikipedia, and thereby learning how much ground previous genre authors have covered. Oh, that'll make the twitchy scribe even more squirrelly, oh yes it will. It'll have him thinking very terrible things, ideas that will make him miserable but will make his therapist staggeringly rich.
That said, after the writer had a profound mid-morning panic, he found himself in a rushed calm, as if the eye of the storm had passed over him, and there was this false tranquility, the kind where the wind stops in the hurricane and sun comes out, luring future Darwin Award winners out of their ravaged shelters to be of good cheer long enough for the rear wall of the storm to hit, sucking all the poor chumps up into oblivion.
The writer waited for the rear wall, but it didn't come. Waited a little longer, nothing. He pulled up a lawn chair and watched the sky go from a curtain of steel blue to a light azure, with fishbones of high clouds overhead. The wind picked up one or twice, carrying the smell of salt and the humidity over him, through his shirt and around his ankles, but it too faded, as the sky wall did. The sounds of cicadas chirped from the grass. A seagull registered in a lazy circle over what would be the ocean, probably scoping for storm-killed fish bobbing on the surface.
He took a deep breath, looked over the streets in front of him, and picked up his notebook and returned to writing, post-storm. The sun kept him warm for hours, gave him enough light to fill a dozen pages before the sky turned into a languid bruise. Orion was visible in the horizon, and he could hear more seagulls, diving into the sea foam, where a feast of dead fish awaited them. The writer could hear children now, playing in the street. He set down the pages to see his neighbors emerge from their shelters, taking an assessment of the damages with frowns and long stares. The writer picked up his notebook again, and with the scent of the ocean and the orange trees dancing in the breeze, he put his chair away and went in for the night.
You know what's not healthy? Having a budding writer who is already jumpy about thinking he's a literary thief use wikipedia, and thereby learning how much ground previous genre authors have covered. Oh, that'll make the twitchy scribe even more squirrelly, oh yes it will. It'll have him thinking very terrible things, ideas that will make him miserable but will make his therapist staggeringly rich.
That said, after the writer had a profound mid-morning panic, he found himself in a rushed calm, as if the eye of the storm had passed over him, and there was this false tranquility, the kind where the wind stops in the hurricane and sun comes out, luring future Darwin Award winners out of their ravaged shelters to be of good cheer long enough for the rear wall of the storm to hit, sucking all the poor chumps up into oblivion.
The writer waited for the rear wall, but it didn't come. Waited a little longer, nothing. He pulled up a lawn chair and watched the sky go from a curtain of steel blue to a light azure, with fishbones of high clouds overhead. The wind picked up one or twice, carrying the smell of salt and the humidity over him, through his shirt and around his ankles, but it too faded, as the sky wall did. The sounds of cicadas chirped from the grass. A seagull registered in a lazy circle over what would be the ocean, probably scoping for storm-killed fish bobbing on the surface.
He took a deep breath, looked over the streets in front of him, and picked up his notebook and returned to writing, post-storm. The sun kept him warm for hours, gave him enough light to fill a dozen pages before the sky turned into a languid bruise. Orion was visible in the horizon, and he could hear more seagulls, diving into the sea foam, where a feast of dead fish awaited them. The writer could hear children now, playing in the street. He set down the pages to see his neighbors emerge from their shelters, taking an assessment of the damages with frowns and long stares. The writer picked up his notebook again, and with the scent of the ocean and the orange trees dancing in the breeze, he put his chair away and went in for the night.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Valentine
Today, in this part of the world, is Valentine's Day, a day where us men are supposed to tuck in our shirts, comb our hair, and try to act like gentlemen for at least 24 hours, extending the good mannerisms to the person in our lives who loves us, takes care of us, forgives us when we scream at the TV while playing Xbox, or picks up a book and silently settles in when we tune into "Jaws" for the 547th time on cable.
I'm very lucky to have fallen in love and gotten married to my wife. Honest. She, above anyone, has made me understand the gravity behind the words "I love you," and how those three little words can shake the foundations of being human. I know I have shared this sentiment before, but once in a while (it should be more often) I get struck by the overwhelming epiphanal waves of "yes, this person loves me." I will always have this person in my corner as long as I make sure to cherish her and care for her and be there for her. And while I have no doubt that Valentine's Day is an invented holiday for the candy-and-card cabals, it's also serves as a much needed check-in with your lover, your spouse, your biggest supporter, your true love. This is a day to be together, to remind each other that you love one another. It's ideal that it happens during the dreariness of winter, when you both can generate a little more warmth to tide you both over for spring.
Tonight, my wife and I are having dinner out for the creamy/spicy combo of indian, with a quick little dessert at a very dangerous gourmet grocery store. We already exchanged our gifts, impatient critters we are. Like millions of couples tonight, we'll be together, remembering that special calculus that brought us here.
And for us, it's a bit of a bonus. Our shirts are in town for the occasion. Seems more than one miracle can happen on Valentine's Day.
Today, in this part of the world, is Valentine's Day, a day where us men are supposed to tuck in our shirts, comb our hair, and try to act like gentlemen for at least 24 hours, extending the good mannerisms to the person in our lives who loves us, takes care of us, forgives us when we scream at the TV while playing Xbox, or picks up a book and silently settles in when we tune into "Jaws" for the 547th time on cable.
I'm very lucky to have fallen in love and gotten married to my wife. Honest. She, above anyone, has made me understand the gravity behind the words "I love you," and how those three little words can shake the foundations of being human. I know I have shared this sentiment before, but once in a while (it should be more often) I get struck by the overwhelming epiphanal waves of "yes, this person loves me." I will always have this person in my corner as long as I make sure to cherish her and care for her and be there for her. And while I have no doubt that Valentine's Day is an invented holiday for the candy-and-card cabals, it's also serves as a much needed check-in with your lover, your spouse, your biggest supporter, your true love. This is a day to be together, to remind each other that you love one another. It's ideal that it happens during the dreariness of winter, when you both can generate a little more warmth to tide you both over for spring.
Tonight, my wife and I are having dinner out for the creamy/spicy combo of indian, with a quick little dessert at a very dangerous gourmet grocery store. We already exchanged our gifts, impatient critters we are. Like millions of couples tonight, we'll be together, remembering that special calculus that brought us here.
And for us, it's a bit of a bonus. Our shirts are in town for the occasion. Seems more than one miracle can happen on Valentine's Day.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Monday
Not very arty or bombastic today. No idea where the shirts are. Occurs to me that I should have bought them two weeks before I knew I wanted them. This, however, cheers me up to no end. Can't wait for the fall. I'm sure it'll be cheaper than the $300 Lego Death Star I was tempted into getting Saturday.
More important, tonight, after a few weeks of puttering around at the keyboard, being distracted by the Internet, and just being plain baffled, I'm working on the novel again with a solid roadmap in my hand and notes upon notes from the "Stuff I Wanna Include" pile.
Dinner with friends and extended family Saturday. Have a cousin who informs me that Seattle is not her kind of town, which made me feel as if it was my fault. We were born and lived in the Chicago area, and I like it here more than she does. She's having a hard time here, and I know not everything works for everyone. Still, I can't shake the attack on my confirmation bias that Seattle is a wonderful, rain-soaked oasis, and if she's having a hard time because the people aren't that friendly here, then I wonder does that make me part of that antisocial crowd. Ah!
Attempted to explain to her that we don't mean to be cold and aloof, we just want everyone to be left alone and do their own thing. It's difficult if you don't speak the language or understand the customs, or come here during 8,000 straight days of rain. I don't think I got through to her. Maybe she just wants to be around more recognizable locations as she gets older. Fair enough, but there's that lingering taste of "you Seattlites are hard to warm up to." I guess I'm a Seattlite now.
Sunday, massage by a friend who could probably debone a human being and still keep said human alive. I'm seeing her once a month, enough time to have all my kinks shift back into place so she can unfold me again. Spent the rest of the day in a post-rub fog, sitting on the couch, watching Gregory Peck be the coolest Southerner ever captured by American cinema. My lovely wife and I decided that the next boy kitten we get will be Atticus Finch Ryan.
OT, I'm tempted to say something about the coverage of Dick Cheney's big weekend. I'm strangely comforted by it. Just like everything Team Bush has done, the matter has been mishandled to a point beyond farce and, unlike Iraq, we can laugh about the violence.
Not very arty or bombastic today. No idea where the shirts are. Occurs to me that I should have bought them two weeks before I knew I wanted them. This, however, cheers me up to no end. Can't wait for the fall. I'm sure it'll be cheaper than the $300 Lego Death Star I was tempted into getting Saturday.
More important, tonight, after a few weeks of puttering around at the keyboard, being distracted by the Internet, and just being plain baffled, I'm working on the novel again with a solid roadmap in my hand and notes upon notes from the "Stuff I Wanna Include" pile.
Dinner with friends and extended family Saturday. Have a cousin who informs me that Seattle is not her kind of town, which made me feel as if it was my fault. We were born and lived in the Chicago area, and I like it here more than she does. She's having a hard time here, and I know not everything works for everyone. Still, I can't shake the attack on my confirmation bias that Seattle is a wonderful, rain-soaked oasis, and if she's having a hard time because the people aren't that friendly here, then I wonder does that make me part of that antisocial crowd. Ah!
Attempted to explain to her that we don't mean to be cold and aloof, we just want everyone to be left alone and do their own thing. It's difficult if you don't speak the language or understand the customs, or come here during 8,000 straight days of rain. I don't think I got through to her. Maybe she just wants to be around more recognizable locations as she gets older. Fair enough, but there's that lingering taste of "you Seattlites are hard to warm up to." I guess I'm a Seattlite now.
Sunday, massage by a friend who could probably debone a human being and still keep said human alive. I'm seeing her once a month, enough time to have all my kinks shift back into place so she can unfold me again. Spent the rest of the day in a post-rub fog, sitting on the couch, watching Gregory Peck be the coolest Southerner ever captured by American cinema. My lovely wife and I decided that the next boy kitten we get will be Atticus Finch Ryan.
OT, I'm tempted to say something about the coverage of Dick Cheney's big weekend. I'm strangely comforted by it. Just like everything Team Bush has done, the matter has been mishandled to a point beyond farce and, unlike Iraq, we can laugh about the violence.
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