The Revolving Lounge

Snowstorm Blackout...*

2008-05-12T15:43:00.000-07:00

Imperatives:
Rock luminaries and neo-sadist post-grads from the school of hard knocks, easy lays. Made in America, fresh of the grill, hot off the presses and dribbling red ink. Industry towers, insipid smoke rings. River run thick w. mud & trash; total re-hash. Standing in yr. wake. Enormous weight of influence and I'm under the influence and you--have a curious way about you...like a feline grace, could be sex appeal --could be shake appeal--maybe lust or indigestion. (mimes indiscretion). Other suggestions given in bad taste. Escapist tendency--no vacancy--emergency room tenant.

Towering stalagmites deep earth tremors and the tenor of reverberant deceit. (Sweet and Meet! Sweet, and Decorous!). Incomplete and rough-hewn window dress. Deep red arterial spray--warms yr. heart--another toxic impulse and phlegm rattle inside the cholera-blue-biled royal son--deviant house servant insolent smirk and now the milk is wasted. White white milk straight from the teat gone sour, gone sour. in a quarter of an hour. that's the one. sullies me 'n' you. that's the milk of human kindness.

etc, etc.

*tx J.

Astronaut's Log: Forbidden Fruit

2008-05-12T15:39:00.000-07:00

1.0

The very same weightlessness that once seemed so liberating has now become utterly toxic. That there is gravity in nothing here—that all is in a constant and furious state of flux (hurried ‘how are you’s’ and awkward quiverings of the lips)—is the root cause of this unusual depression.

1.1

In the canteen Lt. S---- prepares frozen berries for a late night snack. She offers me some in a bowl at the end of one slender, feline limb. I gratefully accept a few and I sit there, talking and talking. Nothing lost, nothing gained.

Eventually, I take one encrusted raspberry from the bowl and its inky juice stains my thumb and index finger. I begin to chew and taste only a trickle of sweetness. I try to savor the little that is there.

My patience at an end, I take another, and mash the bloody blue-black currant between my freezing teeth. I look towards S----, who has her back turned, and I watch with shameful attention the way that she prepares the fruit. She turns now, and I let my guilty gaze wander over the comfortless furniture of the place. I glance back, and for a single moment it seems to me that there is more than a little of Mother Nature left to us still. It is like a sleeping lion, or a panther waiting to pounce, and for a short while I can feel something stir inside of me. My heart begins to beat to a faraway drum.

The ruins of life are there. Somewhere, buried in a heap at the bottom of some Marianas Trench, it lurks undetected. Only, time is of the essence. A spring is pressed between two great providential fingers, and when will they let go?

…TRANSMISSION ENDS.

Originally posted on Anesthetic Hymns

Astronaut's Log: Laika

2008-05-12T15:37:00.000-07:00

2.0

On 3rd November 1957 the Soviet Union sent a mongrel dog into space aboard the Sputnik-2 spacecraft. They smoothed her coat with rubbing alcohol and they attached electrodes to her body. Once in orbit, she lasted from about five to seven hours before succumbing to the extreme temperature and stress of being catapulted into space. Her name was Laika. The word means “barker.”

From the portal in my bedroom I can see the earth, huge and magnificent, turning in oblivion. I imagine Atlas struggling beneath its terrific weight and for a minute I’m completely overcome with sympathy. I try to imagine all the lives that are beginning and ending on the planet below, but I do not shut my eyes. I tell myself, “This is your home. This is the place where you were born.”

I keep staring through the little pane of glass until I lose focus and I am suddenly presented with my own reflection. My features are taut and I have high cheekbones. My hair is buzzed almost to the skin and I can hardly recognize the face that returns my gaze. I turn away from the window and try to fix my mind on vague events of the distant past.

I am a child of seven. The sunshine floods the empty street and I am riding my bicycle around the pagoda of the neighborhood park. Then I’m eighteen again, sitting on the hood of my dad’s car and staring up at the moon on a humid summer night. Next, I am lying in a bed freshman year of college. A girl is singing something from The Phantom of the Opera.

Images rise and fade. Voices echo and die. I look back through the portal—back at the earth. I let my mind go blank. Then I rest my eyes on a random, distant star and I think about Laika hurtling through the deep void.

They smooth her coat with rubbing alcohol and they place electrodes on her body. She barks and wags her tail. One of her trainers strokes her head gently and, I hope, has shed some tears. She gazes from the portal. The last man out averts his eyes.

5…4…3…2…1…

...TRANSMISSION ENDS.

Originally posted on Anesthetic Hymns

Astronaut's Log: There is the Flower

2008-05-12T15:35:00.000-07:00

3.0

In the oxygen garden I have seen a lovely flower. It has pallid blue petals that remain crisp even when the misters run. The light in the garden is unkind; the white, numbered walls austere and uninviting. Still, the delicate beauty of this lovely flower draws me back and back again. I stand, even now, gazing upon the precariously poised blossom. I am reminded of a dream I once saw hanging in a now long-forgotten gallery. It was a riverside scene in pastels. Another reverie comes to mind, this one painstakingly recorded in the visions of Chaucer. The young poet lies in a merry field, his eyes heavy with the tiresome strain of “the olde bookes,” and he contemplates the dandelion. How he adores the precious wild dandelion! For a long time he is perfectly happy there, enraptured, whiling away the happy hours and making love to his happy flower. The faery court arrives. The poet is chastised. He is grave and, perhaps like Dante, near the point of swooning. The faery king defers to his devastatingly beautiful kinswoman. A ghastly pale blossom upon her cheek, she charges the poet to write on the works of good women, so that he might atone for untold wretched libels.

3.1
Hands, that cut the rose. Bleeding hands, that have too much felt the barbed stem. Funny how the rose is our favorite flower. We can’t resist it. It’s too poetic. I think about some frozen roses in one of the supermarkets back home. How lonesome can you get? Try to think about dried up rose petals. Some pressed in a book. Some crushed into weird open house potpourris. I think of many things to say to a rose. I think to myself, “This is the day I shall speak my mind,” but even Churchill struggled with speech impediments in his youth.

I dream of the day. I imagine the soft-filtered reel of the unreal running in a smoky movie house before my mind’s eye. The day never comes. Never comes the day, and other clichés. If I wrote one ode to a rose I must keep it short, spruce. Not more Petrarch, not mere romance. Just some simple, objective words upon the usual subjects.

3.2

I gather my thoughts like so many fallen petals, and resume my duties on one of the upper decks. In the research labs and conference rooms, my colleagues and I scour endless data reports and star maps into the wee hours of another stealth morning. There is a ceaseless furrowing of brows and smearings of hands over faces as we push ourselves harder, and ever closer to the brink, in a race against time. Time.

“If we had but world enough, and time.”

…TRANSMISSION ENDS.

Originally posted on Anesthetic Hymns

brother can you

2007-03-15T23:39:00.000-07:00

it is the night-time
i am awake still and thinking upon the many occurences of the day
and, not unusually, i have a stomach ache, which is no metaphor or symbol but mere coincidence alone, thank you very much.

---

brother can you spare a dime? this is a question hardly anyone answers. they either give or they don't, but they almost always ignore the question.

my younger brother has no blood-ties with me and because of this we are very close. he is naive and it frustrates me and it also encourages a more optimistic world view.

it is the night-time
i am awake still

i am thinking about things that happened today and i am hoping that i made the most of my chances

and that i minimized the possibility of injury

s

Philip K. Dick and the Science of Friction

2007-01-18T21:21:00.000-08:00

(Above: Philip K. Dick (right) and Director Ridley Scott)

Recently, deciding to find out what all the fuss was about, I picked up a collection of Philip K. Dick's short works (Specifically, The Philip K. Dick Reader) I'd seen the movies, of course. The first of which was Blade Runner some years ago, but I must confess I can't recall a single scene. Needless to say I wasn't interested enough to catch who had written the original novel (Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?). Then, this summer, I caught Total Recall and A Scanner Darkly and really enjoyed them both. After that a friend of mine clued me in to Dick's work, and I'm extremely thankful that he did. Philip K. Dick (1928-1982) was an American sci-fi writer who, in my opinion, was what almost every other Sci-Fi writer longs to be: both undeniably readable and thought provoking. Here is a man who writes as though he's seen a ghost, or a whole legion of them for that matter.

Take his "The Hanging Stranger" for a start. The story opens and in a matter of a page we are suddenly plunged into a paranoiac world of alien conspiracy. Here Dick is a pure sci-fi writer, and a brilliant one at that. With a skillfulness that recalls Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s intricate work, Dick makes us feel for ourselves the self-doubt of his protagonists, who are invariably (not to say predictably) desperate to find out whether they are insane or there really are plots forming against them.
In "The Golden Man" and "Tony and the Beetles" Dick tackles the much-treaded subject of world domination, and brings us face to face with the prospect of our obsolescence. In the former, mankind comes into direct contact with homo superior in all his shining glory. In the latter, the insects we so carelessly squash become an intergalactic menace to humanity. But perhaps the most refreshing thing about Dick's work—and indeed, probably the crucial element to his standing out in the veritable sea of lesser sci-fi writers—is the fact that his stories tend to end unresolved. Like a piece of music that ends on a dissonant transitory chord, they leave us hanging. We are left stranded at the edge of some god-forsaken trench on a dark and distant moon in the Betelgeuse galaxy.

This is the friction. The idea of tension is not new, of course, and nowadays Dick's work is so popular that his influence is likely to be found all over the sci-fi universe. However, the questions he brings up in his stories combined with the fact that they just don't end happily forces us to deal with these often-bitter forecasts in a way that most science fiction material simply doesn't. The fact of the matter is, when things don't tie up nicely—when the universe isn’t put back to rights—we are left only with the reality presented us in the story, with no soothing balm of resolution to ease the disturbance that lingers.

The Revolving Lounge's 2006 Picks

2006-12-12T17:24:00.000-08:00

I've been reading a bunch of year-end lists lately, so I figured I would do one here at the Lounge. I'll continue adding on to the list for the next week or so. I'll start with a few of my favorite albums from this year.

Album Picks:

1. Grizzly Bear: Yellow House

First of all, I've seen these guys play twice over the last year, and they are one of the best live band's I've encountered. Each member demonstrates a refreshingly mature appreciation of restraint and balance, and the resulting sound is phenomenal. From their four-part harmonies to their impeccable dynamics, Grizzly Bear are a real pleasure to see perform.

These qualities are all on display on Yellow House. The album, whose booklet artwork is made up entirely of photos of an old house, is tremendously unified. Sharing an undercurrent of yearning and richly textured production, the songs fit together perfectly like a striking collage of mysterious photographs. While each song is crucial to the graceful dynamic peaks and troughs, stand-outs include "The Knife," "Marla," and "On a Neck, On a Spit."

P.S. Try to track down an acoustic performance (they've done a couple for radio shows and AOL) of "Little Brother." The live version is a little different and it's a real treat to see that the band seems to be constantly working on new ways to present their brilliant songs.

Nick Cave: "Breathless"

2006-12-09T20:35:00.000-08:00

On our way back from lunch today, my friend and I wandered into the soon-to-be closed down Tower Records on Broadway to browse their clearance racks. They've been trying to clear out their backstock for a couple of months now and most of the good stuff is gone, but we thought we'd have a look anyway, in the hopes of finding some hidden gem.

We sifted through the messy bins for half an hour or so without success, but luckily as we moved over to the singles section I spied a copy of a Nick Cave single. It turned out to be "Breathless" from his latest album with The Bad Seeds, Abattoir Blues. I hadn't heard anything from the album, but after reading a transcript of Cave's lecture to a group of students in Vienna in 1999 (which you can find here), I was eager to get my hands on all the material I possibly could from this truly enthralling songwriter.

I put in the disc a few hours ago and I can't stop replaying it. "Breathless" is a simple pop song (clocking in at just over three minutes) that demonstrates just how versatile Nick Cave is. With it's airy flute runs and it's nylon-string guitar chords, the song is actually pretty. I was amazed that I was listening to the same artist that wrote the ferocious "Deanna" and who is responsible for the lecherous (and sometimes hilarious) vocal on Grinderman's current lead-off single "No Pussy Blues."

"Breathless" is a simple ditty that you hum in the early morning lamenting an infidelity. It is a sweet song sung by a world-weary sinner. It is a song of windswept beauty whose mystery beguiles. I could continue to attempt these vain poetics, but I instead simply implore you to listen.

The Secret Winter (Cont'd)

2006-12-05T23:14:00.000-08:00

Searchers

Linda lifted her head from the buzzing window pane. She looked round. The stale air taste and bus-vomit odors met her senses and she felt dry. Looking out through the dirty glass she watched the road slipping past. Lines and paint, zooming parallel towards infinity.

She sat up straight in her chair and turned to the old man sleeping in the seat next to her. His arms folded, his head was cocked upwards and his mouth was agape. He made a slight guttural sound, but continued in his slumber. Lindsey breathed a sigh and turned towards the window again.

It was mid-December and the verdant blur of ferns began to lull her into a daydream. She brought her legs up against her breast and lost her thoughts in a stare. Images of the old house floated through her head: the lock on the front door that she could never figure out as a young girl; the old phonograph that no one ever used; and the cozy fireplace with the quaint, tarnished picture frames on the mantlepiece.

The Fall semester had just ended and she was weary. She was floundering in that big city by the bay, and she was in need of a breather. So when her last exam let out she made her way with winter-wisped steps to her dorm room, grabbed her suitcase, and with little more than a mute smile to her deaf room mate, she was out the door.

Gradually coming to from her little reverie, Linda put her feet back down and sat up in a stifled stretch. She cast a glance down at her watch, not really registering the time, and turned into the cabin of the late 70s interior of the old Greyhound. Pushing herself up a little she looked over the seat in front of her at the little hills of heads, popping up like so many wavy gophers on a barren plain. She sank back down and again looked at her watch. 4:00PM. They would be arriving soon.

Bending down a little she reached for her backpack and took out her diary. She brought her legs up again and opened the little worn leather-bound against her knees. The page facing her was an entry from the previous week.

My room mate lost it today on the phone today. I can't deal with this bullshit much longer, I haven't the slightest idea how she landed herself a boyfriend... Only five more days, five more days and I'm out of here.

Linda sighed once more and shifted in her seat. She hesitated a moment; and then, with forced courage, she turned back to one of the first entries.

There in the middle of the page was an oily polaroid lovingly taped to the beige paper. In it, two happy figures were lovingly squeezed in the camera frame. Two sets of lips were lovingly locked in immature defiance. She scanned one of the faces and then the other. Upon the former, honest bliss. Upon the latter...well, who knew.

Linda looked out of the window again at the roadside scene turning dark. Stars began to flicker on the indigo blanket of sky spread out before her. A murky orange paint trail was slithering off behind the trees.

Linda turned to the next entry. The fast-greying page was almost blank except for an excerpt from an old book of poetry she had found in her Dad's study last summer.

For when I pass these solemn nights
When bleakest chill surrounds,
I seek that shelt'ring canyon's walls
And let my dreams resound.

For all the leaves upon the ground
I dream of springtime clear.
I dream of gardens long forgot
And a river full of tears.

But though I wither in this place;
Though I wish this winter gone;
From my visions I do tinder make
And tend the fire 'til dawn.

The girl closed her diary and replaced it in her backpack.

Night had descended; the cabin lights came on; and outside the cold northern wind blew a tender requiem.

The Secret Winter (Cont'd)

2006-12-01T19:37:00.000-08:00

No title 2

Hope is nothing to be ashamed of. I dreamed a dream of silence, last night and every night.

Swirling images of gold-flecked winters blur past me in a sea of warm memory. Having your hopes dashed but once does not validate the total renunciation of the enterprise itself. Indeed, it is an enterprise, and most small businesses fail. It is a bitter statistic, but one that we must not allow to daunt us, lest we be robbed of one of life's last untouched sacristies.

In a dark place now, as I sit and try to recall that dream of silence, I am once more foiled in my efforts. If only we had more control of our somnambulant alter egos. How wonderful would it be to dally overlong in a dream once in a while--to not let such fleeting moments of bliss slip through our fingers like vanishing silk. But there is hardly time for "if's" and wishes in this place we call earth. Time is a heavy yoke that we all must bear.

With each new meeting of old acquaintances we see that it's abrasive hands have been at work. People grow more tired, the luster leaks from their eyes. Ambitions burn down, and resignation and contentment arrive to scoop up the ashes. Yet, we must learn to overcome the tell-tale signs of age and disenchantment. They are but devilish signage to a dark well of self-loathing and regret.

Age brings us much that we must be thankful for. It gives us perspective, above all. To look back on things past: it is one of the great gifts we have. We may cringe, we may cry, but we may also rejoice in some happy times that can never be taken away from us. Past loves give us reassurance that others have needed us--that others will need us again. We must learn to take our memories and shake them in a sieve. Let the good separate from the bad, that we may relish those halcyon moments. They are the agents of hope. Let them infiltrate and re-program.

One cannot take the passage of time for granted. Once there was a starting line, now there can only be forward motion. Take your loved ones by the hands and stay in your lane. All trappings are mere passing fads. Looks and behaviors change with the generations, but I believe the essences of people remain the same.

Hope is a faith at whose temple every being is welcome. There are no restrictions, there are no judgments. In times of despair, we pray. Have faith and try. Try because trying is beautiful, and there can never be too much beauty in this world.

S

Cryptic Messages/Ghosts of Christmas Past

2006-11-27T21:20:00.000-08:00

You may call me many things, but long-winded I am not. What follows is a terse relation of a story that may or may not have some basis in the truth.

Bear in mind, that if I tried to reminisce in too much detail, I would cringe to the point of illiteracy, so I will be ambiguous. Still, I will aim for beauty. What more can a man do?

I was _____teen and very awkward. I had caught the disease of self-consciousness in middle school (if I could decapitalize any further I would) and it wrought desperate havoc in the realm of my social skills. In my elementary years I was fairly good at getting along with everyone. I would even go so far as to say that I was a likeable little sod in those days.

Anyway, returning to my story. I was ____teen and very awkward. I had my friends, but I was an absolute failure with girls. There was a particular one, whose name is written in boldface at the back of my mind even to this day. She is an incredible person. I found her ravishing on her worst days, and I could scarcely sit still--breathe normally, even--on her best.

My ailments restrained me. The crippling self-doubt and the paralysis of its consequent self-loathing. I would resolve night upon night to ask her out, and in the morning I would buckle. Nightly I would climb into bed and dream about her. Painfully sweet dreams. I would awake and sigh. So much so that I feel that even now I know of no other way to exhale.

Days become weeks become years become missed opportunities. A couple of years removed and I learned that there had been no reason for my doubts and fears. I had squandered time.

He mocks me now. I hear him at every moment. The night of the discovery of my failure I had to take a long walk. I wanted to let her know the way I felt. There is no way now. Every cliched "It's never too late" shreds my insides. I find comfort in resignation and detachment. I don't expect. No longer do I dream. I can't remember my last one.

Failures in love carve a deep niche in a dark place. Relish vanishing time and know that there is no reward for dalliance except regret.

But if you have lost your chance keep moving. Try because the act is beautiful.

Earn the right to dream again.

The Secret Winter (Cont'd)

2006-11-23T23:43:00.000-08:00

Slipper
I stood waiting outside the little general store for maybe three-quarters of an hour. I felt like a teenager again, just kinging around on the dusty wooden front porch of the place. It was a chilly day in December, and the remnants of the previous night's snow lay fresh upon the dreary ground. I yawned and wiped the sleep from my eyes. Groggy, yes, but then the cold always forces me to alertness.

So there I stood kicking about, waiting for something. For a moment I forgot my reason. I waited there for maybe three-quarters of an hour for the bent, old (though by all means indefatigable) shopkeep. He ascended the small stair to the porch deck with the heavy, measured step of a man relishing his own arrival. He looked up and gave me a warm greeting, which I duly reciprocated. He fumbled with some keys and let me in.

I just needed some lightbulbs, but I agreed to the old man's proffered coffee on the house. He and I made some idle chatter and exchanged obscene pleasantries. I finished the scalding, papery drink and went on my way. I heard the soft ca-chink of the bell on the door, and maybe some mumbled farewell too. Don't remember now.

I made my way lightly back down the fifteen-minute gravel path back to the cabin. I reached the steps with the sniffles. I then reached in my coat for the key and turned it in the lock. I entered the warm room and began to feel my age acutely. I turned towards the staircase: one flight up and another down. At the bottom of the darkened well I saw a small slipper.

Vulnerability can be the hearth of tenderest beauties, but never forget that in a world that is both cruel and unspeakable, fragility almost begs for abuse.

---

Those wails in the cold desert of this place. It's not quite so idyllic as I had hoped for us. A year ago I would have climbed the rising steps to you and all would be sacred, whispered oaths. Perhaps I would've waited until day had fully overtaken this shady town to go on my errands, to lose my age. Instead I couldn't stand that musty room a single waking second more. I took the flight of stairs down, picked up the slipper and replaced it snugly by its companion shoe. Next to the fire--alone, together.

Warmth...I almost forget the feeling.

The Secret Winter

2006-11-18T18:57:00.000-08:00

First Snow
I woke up in the guest bedroom, and I glanced around. Rarely can I sleep past 9 AM in an unfamiliar place. I rose to my feet in the close space and moved towards the window. Oh, the sky was falling then, in crystalline perfection: brief, paradisal. The first snow, so that there was still some green to be seen. The evergreens at the edge of the forest dripping with the light frost. I turned where I had seated myself and pulled on my jumper. I went to the kitchen, softly, so as not to wake anyone.

I was standing on the frosty balcony in the early morning, disappointed, disappointed. When everybody wakes up late, the early birds get lonely. "To sleep, perchance to dream." I wish, I wish I could. Dreamless sleeps, I fear, are indicators of a dead spirit. Don't think I'm ready to lie in my sarcophagus quite yet.

So again, the snow. It comes down now, crystalline perfection. Blue-white diamonds glistening in a beautiful sequence of blinding flashes--each a gentle stab, stirring the embers in the fireplace.

Has it really been that long? I want meaning, I want more snow, I want so many things--yes, I am wanting.

Godly morning light. The way that the clouds are torn to shreds by those heavenly rays. Every substance in nature has particle and wave properties, Quantum physics. I doubt you could express my wonderment in terms of science. Still, the snow is water, frozen, so they say. As I feel it fall against me it is only soft.

Soft, soft.

Now, elsewhere I stand waiting against an overwhelming cityscape. My nostalgia is unbearable. I waste here, under these stolid confines. All drab grey, these grimy skyscrapers. They block the beauty of the Sun's lovely rays. One of the few ancient graces we have left, at least until we have patched the sky with cinderblocks. I suppose the day is not so far off now. I hope I'm wrong...foolish, even.

Night, night, night.

River weave. These two rivers cleave sacred earth in twain. Rolling hills, unfathomable canyons. And again, the snow. See it come down. Crystalline perfection; Brief, paradisal; Blue-white diamonds...glistening, faster, fast, fast.
Fast.

You can never match the first snow.

What You Will

2006-11-11T10:24:00.000-08:00

And in those same murky streets you retrace your steps. Now, down the crooked memory lanes and desolate roads there are only the whisper ghosts of the long dead past. Every regret, oh, how we come to resent our own bodies. Oh, the filth. Someone crosses in an alleyway and you stop cold in your tracks.

The voices of children, now grown, but forever young in your mind. Every misstep and embarassed awkward embrace. You haven't much choice but to continue the familiar breathing pattern: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. All the youthful adherents of the temple to disappointment: all lined up in a row.

Feels so slow now. Even so, I sit and watch you on a Spanish riverbank, perhaps two years ago. In my mind's eye I see you clearly now. I see the blue-red anguish of crippling self-doubt in your mirror. I missed my chance. No one else feels like you. My life is all miserable pleasantries and the idle observance of night turning day. Over and over. Shame, shame, shame.

And now the whisper ghosts wrap 'round you like a warm winter coat. The cold arctic wind sweeps through these streets. Even when the world is melting, it comes so icy, so bitter, so dry. I wake with faint pains. The old aches are there too, somewhere underneath the surface. Lurking, lurking.

I see a patch of frost from my summery glade. I walk into your memory. I surprise you in your dreams. All dressed up in restless tweed and I'm itching for your touch. I never really embrace you. I'm afraid to.

The doorbell: I can't hear it's toll. In a fit of youthful passion, I remember trying to go back. Some high school function, and you were there late. I resolved to wait with you before your father arrived to take you back home. I returned too late. Maybe you saw me as the car disappeared in the dark. The tail lights were bloody streaks, bittersweet.

You look so pretty now. Not pretty, but I can't make my tongue form the word without embarassing myself. It starts with you but it echoes in the canyons and crevices of my empty chest. Buried little treasures: x's mark the spots in the sand. Some of it's quicksand. How can I know where to dig without sinking. It's the only way to drown with both feet planted on the ground. Mother Earth betrays you. Pulled under and one with the entombed. I have now visions of Egypt from my shady glen. I wish, I wish, I wish.

As I so often speak of it, I am reluctant to mention to you, my love, the River Nile. Where your name is writ on the surface of the water. The current runs north, and like you it never stops running. In my dream you are the River Queen, upon the long boat, draped majestic. Leaves me now, escapes me.

And now you are sweet. Nothing.

"All that's left are vices torn"

2006-11-08T22:18:00.000-08:00

In today's world of psychoanalysis, over-the-counter remedies, and big names for minor inconveniences, I sometimes wonder how much of it is just bullshit. But I don't know. I guess I go back and forth on the issue of modern (or post-modern?) neuroses. I've definitely had my moments and I think I've seen glimmers of it in others (some more certainly than others).

The Starbucks generation is dying a little all the time. It's just like every other one before it I suppose.

I can't decide what's embarassing, what's honest, what's acceptable to admit, what's acceptable to deny. How much shit are you supposed to take before you're allowed to really let someone have it? Why is politeness such a high virtue?

Should we all just bow at the temple or what? Why should I be considerate if I'm only going to be deemed a pushover by some over-confident strutting bastard?

The Hobbesian state of war.

I count down the days until the events I look forward to, yet I bristle under the mantle of wearisome time. I swear just yesterday I was about seven years old.

I can't stand it.

The Boy

2006-10-26T16:41:00.000-07:00

The boy stands among the young men. The boy laughs when they laugh, nervously scanning. He looks for the faces of his one-time peers. They have long left him behind.

The boy is embittered. He knows that to grow one can only wait for time. Yet some, it would seem, require more time than others.

The boy is short with his mother. He hates to be told what to do. He is always tugging at the taller fellows' jeans and bouncing on his sneaks in the hopes that he'll be seen--hopes that his voice will be heard.

He hopes than some distant camera will take its picture at the precise moment when his head reaches the level of his more vertically inclined companions.

The boy is scared--scarred. Only God knows why. He has a lot to be happy about. He could have grown with the rest, but he never learned the value of a little selfless compassion. At least when it counts.

A moral to all the admiring boys of the world: Consideration. Let this always be one of the foremost of the age-old virtues. Our colors shall quickly fade, so do what you can while you are still able.

Belinda, I'm numb to it now.

2006-10-20T16:54:00.000-07:00

Mobie sat shiftless in the corner armchair. He considered making some pleasantries with the others, but they seemed so far away now. Those dancing girls, those giggling churls--and the boys, all trying to inch up a little closer.

Morpheus ever taunts. There's nothing worse than the moments before you sleep. The moments when you're trying. You're standing on the bank and you're grasping a tree branch in one hand and your reaching out for the rim of a rowboat. The people in your dreams are all ready to embark downstream. They are waiting for you and you're just trying to reach them. It's so simple and so elusive. Sometimes you wake up and forget.

Maybe a restless river of minor revelations sweeps over you. You seem to hit upon something good, maybe even great, but then you wake up and it doesn't make sense. Nothing makes more sense in a reverie. Floating down the River Nile. The rushes and the women watching, the peasants washing, and maybe the merchants milling in their longboats, bursting with baskets of spices and trinkets, oils, wines, and instruments.

The River Nile. I remember it well. Your name was written on the water there. The river runs north and like you, it never stops running. Belinda, please say no more. We've passed those sad-eyed lovers in the street and heard that bitter banter. Your name doesn't ring halcyon to me now. Your kisses are nothing like they were. I don't believe it anymore. And that smile: Belinda, I'm numb to it now.

Sleep, sleep, sleep.

The Brief Paradisal (The Fever of Lust)

2006-10-12T16:38:00.000-07:00

An uncontrollable urgent anxiety sweeps over our young protagonist.
Our prototypical young punk.
Blase, idealistic.
Recovering in a series of hospital beds throughout most of his young life, our protogonist picked up an addiction to morphine. He made friends with an anesthesiologist. They both liked The Specials. The impressionable, naive young doctor had taken pity on the pallid adolescent at his mercy. Fever dreams are a kind of wild pleasure. Pleasure borders pain. The associative property of algebra.

Some people get close to death and it motivates them. They swear they will spend every waking hour living life to its fullest. They will really appreciate all those little things that are such sweet bundles of joy.

Others who return from the brink of death lose all motivation. Our young protagonist is one of these sort.
The days become short. The days are long.
You pay no mind to the changing shades of the exterior world.
You realize something.
I can't say what.
You've got to go there to know, I guess.

-S

2006-10-12T16:22:00.000-07:00

TV on the Radio - Wolf Like Me on Letterman

Wow.

Sir Thomas More, Scott Walker, "the ennui of youth"

2006-09-29T15:32:00.000-07:00

I'm currently reading Sir Thomas More's Utopia, and finding it really quite interesting. It reads in some ways like Gulliver's travels, but I don't think it's quite as satirical. It's certainly misanthropic in a lot of ways, or at least bemoans the sad fact that we human beings are a dispicably self-interest breed. The reason I'm posting about this now is that I felt a great deal of inspiration to respond. Unfortunately, this inspiration to respond was not quite matched by an urge to finish the reading.

Which brings me to the "ennui of youth." I saw that term flash on one of those AdultSwim bumpers about "things we're de-hyped about for Fall 2006" and I just thought it was a pretty funny expression. I remember when I first learned the meaning of the word "ennui" and I was therby finally capable of labeling the predominant feeling of stagnation that so often crept into me to dampen my spirits.

Moving on, and in keeping with the melodrama of my last few sentences, I'd like to bring up the subject of Scott Walker. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm usually the first to decry any glimmer of overly-dramatic sounding work in the arts, so I'd like to discuss my thoughts on this truly magnificent performer. Scott Walker (real name Scott Engel) was given the voice of a crooner. Most crooners are really one-track and sing middle of the road material ready-made for adult contemporary stations across the galaxy. That's not to say I have it in for crooners, but it is a common truth. The thing about Scott Walker is that he doesn't sing that stuff.

I recently bought his first album, Scott, and I'm totally captivated by the production, the lyrics, and of course, that incredible baritone voice. The album only contains three original works: "Montague Terrace (in Blue)," "Such a Small Love," and "Always Coming Back to You," but Scott makes all the songs his own. Against a dramatic landscape of cascading strings the album opens with the lively "Mathilde," by Jacques Brel. The rest of the album is more moderate, with mid-tempo showcases of Walker's astounding talent. My personal favorite so far is Tim Hardin's composition, "The Lady Came from Baltimore," which is the story of a would-be gold digger who ends up falling in love with the rich woman he targets.

Listen to Scott Walker:
"Mathilde"
"The Lady Came from Baltimore"
"Montague Terrace (in Blue)"

and also

"30 Century Man" - Not sure which album this song is from, but it was my first encounter with this former lead singer of the Walker Brothers, and it's really a great (though criminally terse) song. Listen to those lyrics!

"Play it cool, and saran-wrap all you can."

Serenely,

S

So Many Friends

2006-09-22T18:59:00.000-07:00

Patterson leaned out a little over the ledge of the subway platform--still no sign of the 1 train. He stepped back and gave the old woman standing nearby an ambiguous smile and then quickly turned away. He pushed his hands further into the deep pockets of his trench coat and heaved a small sigh.

Looking down, he noticed his leg was shaking up and down. He was always doing that. He often thought he should take up smoking to calm his restless nerves, but somehow something wouldn't let him.

The world moves so quick underneath your feet and it sneakily carries you with it. You were a boy, then you were a teenager, then you're expected to pay taxes and work a "steady" job. Patterson wonder if such a thing existed. He had an affinity for the eccentricities that he believed were the hallmarks of an artist.

He was not sure what he was. He constantly and irresponsibly ping-ponged between a bizarre and unreasonable self-loathing and somewhat pretentious over-confidence. Most people that knew him agreed the he was a genuinely good person and they valued his friendship if they could claim it, but Patterson was never to know this. He had an unhealthy tendency to assume the worst of himself and the best of those he took a liking to. This had caused him a lot of grief and moments of embarassed cringing.

Patterson felt an eerie breeze whisper across the platform and he saw the light from the 1 train. He looked at his phone for the time--underground, no signal.

S

The Zombies: Live at Irving Plaza, 9/21/06

2006-09-21T23:13:00.000-07:00

I just got back from seeing The Zombies, one of my favorite bands of all time. I'll admit that I was a bit skeptical about buying a ticket for the night, since they're so old now and I was worried they wouldn't put on such a good show, but thankfully I made the right decision.

They played an awesome set including tunes by The Zombies, Argent, and Colin Blunstone. My personal highlights were the night's opener, "I Love You," the achingly beautiful "A Rose for Emily," the incomparably soulful "Just Out of Reach," and the colossal "God Gave Rock and Roll to You."

If you don't know The Zombies, they're famous for the outstanding hits, "Time of the Season," "She's Not There," and "Tell Her No." They made only two albums, Begin Here and Odessy and Oracle, the latter being their masterpiece, which I think is on an equal footing with many of the decade's best albums.

If you get the chance to see them, don't listen to what your friends say about them being "dinosaurs" ;) and go!

Peace!

S

Badly Drawn Boy: The Hour of Bewilderbeast

2006-09-19T13:17:00.000-07:00

Today I was moved to post a quick recommendation of an album I've had in my collection for quite some time now. The Hour of Bewilderbeast is one of the most consistently great recorded sets released by an artist in probably the last ten years.

Damon Gough, a gruff-looking character who looks more like a hobo than the craftsman behind the gorgeous melodies on the disc, recorded the album in the mid-90s and continues to put out critically acclaimed work, such as the soundtrack to the film About a Boy.

But back to the album in question. Bewilderbeast is jam-packed with tuneful acoustic guitar-driven pop, but it's real strength is the diversity of the material included. Diversity, after all, is the key concern to making a brilliant record: think about Pet Sounds, Sgt. Pepper, or Odessy and Oracle. Personally, my favorite tracks are the stunningly beautiful "Magic in the Air," the pure pop bliss that is "Once Around the Block," and the mind-blowingly majestic opener, "The Shining."

I can't recommend this album more. Especially if you enjoy English music as much as I do. Badly Drawn Boy is coming out with a new album in the Winter of this year, entitled Born in the UK.

Peace,

S

Syndicate Lanes

2006-09-02T21:52:00.000-07:00

Obviously he was a smoker. You could see it in his veiny neck and gnarled features. He had a husky, low croon that sounded as if he was talking to you from his death bed. His eyes were set deep in their sockets, with dark circles providing a contrast that struck you like a tossed wasp's nest everytime you had the misfortune to make eye contact.

At the piano he was a different person. He hunched over the worn ivory keys and the broad grin of the old leviathan would welcome him and turn to jelly, as the old man dabbed his crackling, dry hands into a pool of raw melody, harmony, and rhythm. The carnival of sounds lit up the old saloon in a sadly beautiful cacophony that was frequently accentuated by the cling-clangor of pints of beer and the deep laughter of the village drunks.

The smoker looked over at the entrance to the joint and gave me the once-over. Then he broke into "Nobody Knows You."

-S

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds: Tender Prey

2006-08-25T09:29:00.000-07:00

About a week ago I bought Tender Prey, the much-lauded 1988 LP by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, and I have to say it's one of the most intriguing and downright scary albums I've ever listened to. Nick Cave may be my next rock idol. On the front cover he looks equal parts devil and debonaire: arms crossed in a bloodred button-down and jet-black sport coat. He looks like a young Elvis if he'd been the star of Night of the Living Dead.

Lyrically, the album sounds like he's obsessed with old Gothic novels, the most terrifying parts of the bible, and the middle part of Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man that I can't get through. Recurrent themes are murder, the devil, selling and/or taking souls, and seeking refuge or mercy.

Sample lyrics:
"You stand before your maker
In a state of shame
Bacause your robes are covered in mud
While you kneel at the feet
Of a woman of the street
The gutters will run with blood
They will run with blood!

You better run, you better run
You better run to the City of Refuge
You better run, you better run
You better run to the City of Refuge

In the days of madness
My brother, my sister
When you're dragged toward the Hell-mouth
You will beg at the end
But there ain't gonna be one, friend
For the grave will spew you out
It will spew you out!"
-"City of Refuge"

But all horror movie-novelty aside, The songs are just damn good. There's a lot of variety, with tracks ranging from ballads like "Watching Alice," rockers like "City of Refuge" and "Deanna," and piano-driven romps like "Up Jumped the Devil." Cave's got a huge baritone voice, in the ilk of singers like Ian McCulloch and Scott Walker.

Tracks to check out:
"The Mercy Seat"
"Watching Alice"
"City of Refuge"

S

The North Sea

2006-08-23T07:03:00.000-07:00

The smell of the brine has always made me uncomfortable. As a boy I would ride my bicycle along the streets of the harbour town in which I was born and raised. The reeking hauls the fishermen would sell in seaside stalls was more than I could bear and I would always keep my head down and plug my nose.

When my younger brother and I were small children, mum and dad brought us on holiday to France. We caught the ferry in Dover and I remember being violently ill over the rail of the barge as it rocked upon the tumbling waves. I've never been much of a sailor--a source of continuous disappointment to my father, a former petty officer in the Royal Navy. We arrived at the Port of Calais, and I can't remember having been happier to see land in my life...at least until the War began.

I was seventeen when the Germans invaded Belgium en route to France. We were in the middle of a History lecture on the Napoleonic Wars when the lanky Mr. Percy Staunch, the head of English walked in and announced impassively that Old Willy "had finally done it."

The following weeks were surreal. Suddenly the streets were filled with Union Jacks and propaganda posters showing demonic figures in black uniforms and spiky helmets grimacing ruthlessly. My friends and I would spend our evenings in our common room listening intently to the radio reports as the Germans finally toppled the last of the Belgian garrisons and moved into France.

The excitement the War generated created a massive stir at my school. The boys in their final year had all begun signing up for service. I remember listening raptly to speakers from the Army and Navy coming and talking of our duty to King and Country.

Two years later I'm writing from my division's camp in Dover. At 19, the prospect of crossing the Channel again can hardly be called bright. The war has not been going well for our side, and my division has been ordered to refresh a worn out stretch of the front lines.

We leave tomorrow morning for the gloomy coast of France and God only knows what else.

Because I went to Public School, they've given me a wartime commission as a lieutenant. The men in my platoon look ill equipped and nervous, but they are eager to join the fray. None of us knows what to expect, having never seen combat. I feel embarassed and ill-prepared in my position as platoon leader. Some of the men are in their forties: butchers and fishermen from the coastal towns.

When I left my home in Brighton my mother was crying and my father, his arm around her, sternly saluted and said, "Good luck, son." My younger brother said, "I'll be listening to the radio for you Thomas, I can't wait until my eighteenth birthday so I can come and fight with you." I waved goodbye before I rounded the street corner down to the bus-stop.

Now, as I look out onto the slim stretch of the North Sea between our camp and what is certain to be the defining experience of my life, I cannot help but feel apprehensive. I cast my gaze to the foaming waves and think of my childhood.

You Made Me Forget My Dreams

2006-08-20T23:08:00.000-07:00

Lawrence looked out the window into the morning rain. The northeast was a nice change after the dry heat of the Southwest. He had covered the miles between Salt Lake City and Boston in a few flighty days and was dropped off by the last of a kindly slew of motorists in the Commons. He put his sachel in a locker and idly wandered the streets until he came to a quaint little coffee shop just off one of the main cobblestone roads.

It had been drizzling on and off since his bleary-eyed introduction to the city, and he'd finally gotten sodden to the point that he could no longer deny his discomfort. So, at the first sign of warmth and a good cup of coffee he stepped into said coffee house. He ordered some lunch and sat down on one of the barstools near the window and let himself get lost in his thoughts.

Then the waitress came over, bringing him his coffee with a sad smile. She was probably a college student working a summer job. He'd have to get one of those himself sooner than he'd like. Her eye caught a shabby little paperback that Lawrence had placed on the counter. It was All Quiet on the Western Front and she told him warmly that it was a great book. She wiped the countertop a little with a rag, idly, and sooner than he would have liked, she turned and went back to the kitchen.

Lawrence had it tough. He couldn't understand why he had this constant urge to move. There was so much he wanted--needed to do, and seemingly so little time to do it in. Sharks need to have water moving past their gills constantly to survive, so they've always got to move. He couldn't bear to sit still, he was like a shark, always in search of prey--always the same hunger, in his heart, if not his belly. Transit releases one from obligation. You might be headed for something big--you might have the biggest event of your life just over the horizon--but whether you can see it's ominous outline or not, the time you spend just moving, drifting slowly towards it--during that time you've got no responsibilities; all your cares are put on hold.

But for Lawrence, there would be some startling changes ahead. He had analyzed every facet of his life and thought he understood what caused what and why he lived the way he did, but he would soon meet someone who would turn his perspective inside out. This was refreshing for Lawrence, who learned that when you've spent too much of your time examining yourself under a microscope this can be a very good thing.

S

2006-08-14T23:29:00.000-07:00

The Kinks Live 1973 - Part 7 of 7

Watch The Kinks perform the song, "The Village Green Preservation Society" on the BBC in 1973.

The Kinks

2006-08-14T22:47:00.000-07:00

Now, having spent my adolescence growing up in the southern US, I was introduced to The Kinks by way of Van Halen's audacious cover of "You Really Got Me." I liked the cover as a kid, but when I got older and my tastes changed, the cerebral overload of Eddie Van Halen's shredding began to wear on me.

Then during the Summer a couple of years ago my family and I were in England for a few days visiting family, and I bought a copy of Uncut. Like a lot of zines these days, the issue featured a mix CD, which happened to include a track by The Kinks called, "The Village Green Preservation Society." The pompous title stuck with me and I made a mental note to listen a little harder when I got to that track.

What I heard was some of the most colorful, charming songwriting to grace my ears. This was nothing like the hard-hitting r&b of "You Really Got Me," this was tongue-in-cheek, campy music that playfully flicked off anyone who ever took themselves too seriously. Check out these lyrics:

"We are the office block condemnation affinity.
God save little shops,
China cups and virginity."

and

"We are the skyscraper condemnation affiliate.
God save Tudor housing,
Antique tables and billiards."

Are not those some of your favorite lyrics ever? They should be.

Now, I'm not a Kinks Kompletist, but I would say that their album The Kinks are the Village Green Preservation Society is a crucial component to any record collection. Songs like "Picture Book" and "Sitting by the River Side" are pure pop in its most gloriously radiant form.

Ray Davies is the principle songwriter of the Kinks, and he is a badass. The guy was shot a couple of years ago while being mugged with his girlfriend in New Orleans or something, and apparently he didn't even go down--he fucking chased after the assailant until he (presumably) could no longer continue due to his injuries. He just came out with a solo record called Other People's Lives.

Check out the Kinks.

Recommended songs:

"Do You Remember Walter?" from The Village Green Preservation Society
"Waterloo Sunset" from The Ultimate Kinks Collection
"Dedicated Follower of Fashion" from The Ultimate Kinks Collection
"Tired of Waiting" from The Ultimate Kinks Collection

S

"As Rose collects the money in the cannister..."

2006-08-13T12:11:00.000-07:00

Today I heard an absolutely vile homily at church by an intolerant fundamentalist priest. According to said sad man of the cloth, it's not the good who get into heaven, but rather the HOLY. What does that even mean?

Here's what I think:

The holy are whomever the old men in gowns over in the Vatican decide are worthy of bearing that highly subjective title. They probably still consider the Crusades holy or even the Inquisition. Why the hell do we trust these descendents of murderers, molesters, and slimy con-men?

I don't know. I'm sure there are a great deal of devout, virtuous priests out there, but man do some of their ilk piss me off. How often do you read about some father being convicted of multiple sex crimes? Just because these fellows act solemnly and perform religious rites doesn't mean they're saints that we should rely on for our morality.

It's so hard to be religious these days with people constantly trying to tell you you're damned unless you do as they say. I, for one, think your faith is only valid and respectable if you have an open mind towards the decisions and traditions of others.

S

What is that fucking Pringles smell??

2006-08-12T21:38:00.000-07:00

I just had a thought:

Sometimes life feels like a tragic comedy that you're constantly playing out. I mean, I guess that's a pretty common thought and not too original an analogy, but doesn't it really seem like that sometimes? Especially in retrospect. Certain things just seem ridiculous to me when I look back on them. It's like everyday I wake up and I have this restless urge to do something that will make my personal tragicomedy a little more interesting to my mysterious reader(s).

Maybe God made us for entertainment. Maybe he's sat up there in his library reading our life stories 'cause there's nothing better to do with your time when your an all-powerful diety (and you've done everything there is to do, presumably).

I'm anticipating the start of the school year and departure of my friends to their respective institutions of higher learning. I'm super pumped to form my own band and write and record album number 2 (and finish no. 1, let's not forget that). The city's starting to beckon me, and I think I'm about ready to dive back in.

Sincerely,

S

My dad once told me he had an essay prompt in school when he was a boy: "Sartorial Eloquence is Mere Exhibitionism." Discuss.

Scrolling Pentateuch

2006-08-11T19:50:00.000-07:00

The dark is a perfect canvas. You walked a mile and a half out into the wilderness of the American Southwest and you camped one night in the open, freezing desert. The night encloses and terrifies and you move a little closer to your campfire.

Dreams are moving across the sky like silent, screaming banshees: symbiotes looking for a good host. They feed on your confusion and they give back inspiration (or more confusion). The dark is a perfect canvas. Contrast is so important in almost every aspect of life: better contrast gets you closer to self-realization. Example: It's hard to know who's friend and who's foe amongst these rows and rows of steely gray ghosts.

In a beat-up el camino in the great American Southwest you begin the next day. Truckstop coffee and a syrupy short stack and you're on your way. New friends and lovers, new oases to shoot the shit. The hot black asphalt becomes sticky tar at noontime. Look in your rearview and you're being followed by the fuzz, or maybe it's nothing.

Bottleneck mirages as you approach some sad city in Arizona or New Mexico. Stop in for a coke in the convenience store and get a dirty look from the proprietor for linering overlong. Next night it's out to the cliff dwellings to try and feel more primal. Is it a false notion that we were once better equiped to handle all the baggage that life piles upon us with each passing year? What's the point of despair? If we can be more animal and less cannibal maybe we still have a chance.

The dark is a perfect canvas. I walked a mile and a half in a sandy place and a strange tribal figure approached me and gave me an animal skin, maybe covered in sheep or goat's wool or something. A rickety house on the red-orange plains. Out of place entirely. I look up at the second story window...who is that inside?

Laps and laps back and forth and/or around the track. The therapy of repetitive motion and/or minor triumph (e.g. making a basket, gracefully jumping over an obstacle in one's path) is a wonderful thing.

Stars so bright tonight.

Sincerely,
S

Nick Drake

2006-08-09T23:03:00.000-07:00

Nick Drake is the fucking man!

If I were you I'd buy every little release of his that you can lay your hands on. He was such a talent: the kind of phenomenal artist of which there are only a handfull per generation.

Five Leaves Left is jazz plus enchanted forest folk, including the mind-blowing "Riverman" and "Man in a Shed"

Bryter Layter is an attempt at commercial success, which usually has negative consequences, but not in Nick Drake's case. "Fly" and "Northern Sky" are my two personal favorites.

Pink Moon is brilliant all the way through. From the opening title track to the closer, "From the Morning," the album for me is the epitome of honest expression. The raw emotion and pain that is contained in the songs can at times be unsettling and even disturbing, but it's so refreshing to hear, like a good John Lennon song.

-S

2006-08-09T01:36:00.000-07:00

Pavement Carrot Rope

One of my favorite songs right now...

Macbook & Pavement

2006-08-09T01:23:00.000-07:00

I'm currently obsessed with two things: my new macbook and the band Pavement. Pavement's music, to me, is poignant, yet unsentimental. This seems to me the most reliable formula from great pop music. When Malkmus sings, "Every building same height, every street a straight line, two colors: yellow and blue," he's sounds almost like some nihilistic automaton, yet it's undeniably emotional. I don't know why or how yet...if I did I would be a mega indie rock star right now.

If you want to get into pavement, buy their last album, Terror Twilight, and then delve into their older stuff if you find yourself uncontrollably humming the melodies to "Billie" and "Carrot Rope." Pavement is a crucial band. They're proof that rock 'n' roll never dies, but simply reinvents itself. The songs sound bored and they're filled with non-sequiturs about urban decay, social deviance, and just plain silly (but oh so good) wordplay, but they're rock gods in my pantheon.

Songs to listen to:

"Lions (Linden)" from the Watery, Domestic EP
"Carrot Rope" from the Terror Twilight LP
"Zurich is Stained" from the Slanted and Enchanted LP

Youtube it up!

As far as the macbook goes, I'm typing this post on it right now! I told you I was obsessed!

Sincerely,

S

Phantoms

2006-08-07T22:40:00.000-07:00

Phantoms, Entry I.

When I was a boy, my mum or my dad took me to a bank or something. The floor was a hard, reflective surface and so it looked as if there was nothing to walk on whatsoever. I mean, being a little kid, I was absolutely terrified that if I took a step off the black marble tiles near the entrance to the building that I would fall into some ominous chasm. I probably pulled a Dante and swooned shortly afterwards, since I don't remember any more of what happened after that. The point is, I'm just glad I've been privileged enough to have led a happy childhood and that I can look back fondly on some little moments of disarming innocence.

Thoughts:
Lucrative Career Alternatives: Anyone can be a poet, but can you put the pen to paper and make it sing?