December 16, 2009
“ This book is to be neither an accusation nor a confession, and least of all an adventure, for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it. It will try simply to tell of a generation of men who, even though they may have escaped shells, were destroyed by the war.

“All Quiet on the Western Front” - Erich Maria Remarque

Had dinner with friends last night and we got to talking about war.  And later, it occurred to me with a little shame how inadequate my opinions are, despite the authority with which they are served.  Or maybe, how unentitled we civilians actually are to say anything definitive on the matter. So men I love have served.  So I read the reports of the advances and retreats and campaigns.  What do I really know of what any of them have seen?  Of what can be won and what is lost. 

My feelings on war are a dichotomy. I think we ought to hear about it and read about it and force ourselves to be as present as possible in the mire so that everything They are doing out there – already did out there sixty years ago - doesn’t slip behind a curtain and cease being real.  Doesn’t stop costing.  And yet, for all that second hand witnessing, we still haven’t earned the right of understanding. Of experience.  Every time my voice slips from third person reverence to first person comfortability, I know I have forgotten that again.

December 14, 2009
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic – The very first version, acoustic and recorded by  Strontium 90 back before Sting and Stewart Copeland and the rest of those London boys became The Police.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *
I have mixed feelings about the Police – I adore the early stuff when they still had some really interesting, unpolished influences and indulgences and I completely loathe the evolution of Sting into a living car commercial.

But this song – actually, just this iteration of this song – still sleighs me. 

The story goes that Sting - no, Gordon Sumner – (it only seems right to revert to his given name for this story) had been tormented by the beginnings of this song in his head and suddenly had to pour it all down on to tape. So he rushed in to the studio – which was likely someone’s garage or basement in those days - picked up his guitar and allegedly captured this on his first try.  This perfect, earnest, hushed version of Every Little Thing.

And if this is more truth than urban legend, it stuns me. Because it is so flawless in that first draft you have to wonder why they ever smoothed and preened it up into the slick single of which we are all sick to death.

Because this sweet, humble, acoustic first take is just lovely.  So much better and more true a tribute than what it would eventually become.

Go.  Listen. Love it.

December 13, 2009
Finally slogging through all the Paris photos to make a cd for the travel companion.  Turns out, I’m a little taken with this one.

Finally slogging through all the Paris photos to make a cd for the travel companion.  Turns out, I’m a little taken with this one.

“Many years ago I had lunch with an 8-year-old named Spencer and his father, Ron. We were at an outdoor restaurant in Madison, Wisconsin, and one of that town’s favorite sons, jazz musician Ben Sidran, sat at a nearby table. Ron urged Spencer—who has Asberger’s Syndrome, a milder form of autism—to get Sidran’s autograph, and Sidran, accustomed to such requests, gladly obliged. But when he handed the autograph back to the boy, Spencer scolded, ‘Not your name. Mine!’ “After regaining his composure, the musician scribbled out his own name and rewrote the boy’s. “Several years later, inspired by Spencer’s impromptu deconstruction of celebrity, I began asking artists, writers and political figures to sign my autograph, either in person or through letters. A simple enough premise, my intention was to both critique celebrity (what does it mean that Yoko Ono signed the name of a complete unknown? And is there any value to that signature?) and celebrate those who have shaped my beliefs, by either their positive or negative examples (Studs TerkelCharlie Daniels). versus, say, rightwing musician “I’ve pondered what these responses might mean to me (it’s zenlike, this repetition of my name; it’s egotistical; it’s a transfer of energy from those I respect to me; it’s a bit like the mantra-like repetition of a graffiti writer’s tag; it fits into an art historical context alongside explorations by Richard Prince, Bruce Conner, Alan Berliner, and others), but always return to this simple belief: the autographs stand alone and don’t need all this intellectual justification. “More than 70 celebrities so far have contributed to the project, and another 40 either didn’t understand it, and signed their own names (Robert Redford, the late great James Brown), or left the autograph business to their handlers, who mail out preprinted 8x10s (a rare response: Mikhail Baryshnikov, took the time to write ‘Not interested. Thank you.’—a full four syllables longer than my name)… “Those who have participated include some who have passed on (Sen. Paul Wellstone, Spalding Gray, Merce Cunningham), high-profile artists and architects (Matthew Barney, Frank Gehry, Maya Lin, Laurie Anderson), performers (Kim Gordon, Dave Brubeck, Henry Rollins), filmmakers (Peter Bogdanovich, Wim Wenders, Errol Morris), a few infamous politicos (Pat Buchanan, Jesse Ventura), and even the voice of Homer Simpson (Dan Castellaneta)…” *          *          *          *          * Signifier, Signed is the kind of internet worm hole into which I can happily disappear….pondering what makes one celebrity see the humor and creativity in the project and the other decline in such a poncy manner. I’ve been telling its founder, Paul - local writer, thoughtful liberal and purveyor of migraine curing advice - that he really ought to be on Tumblr.  Lucky for us, he listened.

“Many years ago I had lunch with an 8-year-old named Spencer and his father, Ron. We were at an outdoor restaurant in Madison, Wisconsin, and one of that town’s favorite sons, jazz musician Ben Sidran, sat at a nearby table. Ron urged Spencer—who has Asberger’s Syndrome, a milder form of autism—to get Sidran’s autograph, and Sidran, accustomed to such requests, gladly obliged. But when he handed the autograph back to the boy, Spencer scolded,

‘Not your name. Mine!’

“After regaining his composure, the musician scribbled out his own name and rewrote the boy’s.

“Several years later, inspired by Spencer’s impromptu deconstruction of celebrity, I began asking artists, writers and political figures to sign my autograph, either in person or through letters. A simple enough premise, my intention was to both critique celebrity (what does it mean that Yoko Ono signed the name of a complete unknown? And is there any value to that signature?) and celebrate those who have shaped my beliefs, by either their positive or negative examples (Studs TerkelCharlie Daniels). versus, say, rightwing musician

“I’ve pondered what these responses might mean to me (it’s zenlike, this repetition of my name; it’s egotistical; it’s a transfer of energy from those I respect to me; it’s a bit like the mantra-like repetition of a graffiti writer’s tag; it fits into an art historical context alongside explorations by Richard Prince, Bruce Conner, Alan Berliner, and others), but always return to this simple belief: the autographs stand alone and don’t need all this intellectual justification.

“More than 70 celebrities so far have contributed to the project, and another 40 either didn’t understand it, and signed their own names (Robert Redford, the late great James Brown), or left the autograph business to their handlers, who mail out preprinted 8x10s (a rare response: Mikhail Baryshnikov, took the time to write ‘Not interested. Thank you.’—a full four syllables longer than my name)…

“Those who have participated include some who have passed on (Sen. Paul Wellstone, Spalding Gray, Merce Cunningham), high-profile artists and architects (Matthew Barney, Frank Gehry, Maya Lin, Laurie Anderson), performers (Kim Gordon, Dave Brubeck, Henry Rollins), filmmakers (Peter Bogdanovich, Wim Wenders, Errol Morris), a few infamous politicos (Pat Buchanan, Jesse Ventura), and even the voice of Homer Simpson (Dan Castellaneta)…”

*          *          *          *          *

Signifier, Signed is the kind of internet worm hole into which I can happily disappear….pondering what makes one celebrity see the humor and creativity in the project and the other decline in such a poncy manner.

I’ve been telling its founder, Paul - local writer, thoughtful liberal and purveyor of migraine curing advice - that he really ought to be on Tumblr.  Lucky for us, he listened.

Even if all the sidewalks are trampled in to ice.

Took the back roads home from some old house tonight, full of stubborn memories and two people I love.  Left smiling at their Swedish highchair and organic oreos, their heartbreaking purposefulness. Their loyalty.

Drove in through the edges of the city, through Northeast with its own ghosts. Its tired luggage store, its neon pool hall, its foreclosure-specialty realtor.  Figures bundled and hunched, shuffling puppets in some decommissioned play. Gas station, bar, beauty shop, bus stop.  Gas station, burger joint, bar, bus stop.

It’s too cold tonight. The blocks pack away behind me.  Mugs and journals and frames into boxes and the city rolls out and out. Promise, history rewritten, Oz.

And now they can say so smugly Yes, We Live Here.

They rebuilt the bridge and it glows cheap sapphire blue now, just waiting for every amateur photographer.  Sometimes, you have to wish it wasn’t so showy. Wasn’t built at all. But the view of the old mills is nice from here.

Find a soundtrack for the drive, nod my head in approval at the lyrical lecture.  Stare headlong into the car beside me at stoplights, evaluating the content of their character.  Wonder why we’ve all stopped making eye contact, smile and smile in case they change their minds.  This much contact I can take.

By Lyndale I have decided:  I will never write about “you” again. From here on out, it is “him.”  From here on out, it is past tense and pledging allegiance to this truth: There is nothing from the old neighborhood that I need.

By the time Aldrich rises from the night, I could be exorcised.

December 12, 2009
“

I always lose you in the spring. I think you know this. I think you’re the one who left me. Maybe it doesn’t end until the summer but I always lose you in the spring.

I lose you in Brooklyn. You come to visit me there. I expect some drinking, some dancing, some long walks. You expect none of this. You walk in, kiss me, walk to my room, shut the door behind you. You don’t sit down. You stand and you tell me that this isn’t working, anymore, for you. You tell me that you love me but that you can’t do this anymore.

You’ve never told me you love me, before.

…I lose you in the subway. This trip, it’s been long. Two flights, a train, and now this. Before this there was a wedding. I didn’t know them, the wedding people. But they looked at me, standing next to you, and they said, I like you two, together. I looked at you then and I look at you now and I wonder if that’s true. I kiss you, stand up, get off the train, wondering. You tell me you love me and I wonder.

You’ll never tell me you love me, I’ll never wonder if you do, again.

I always meet you in the fall. You’re always gone by spring. Sometimes you don’t know this until the winter. Sometimes you tell me you love me when it’s over.

In Which We’re Our Own Executioners - Home - This Recording

Read this one by Meredith too, while you’re at it.  Because it’s heartbreaking and beautiful and hopeful and true.  And really, aren’t those four of the very best adjectives?

“

It’s late, we’re drunk, still drinking, the two of us, but I don’t know why. You put on music and I walk upstairs, go to bed, hope you don’t bother me, when you do the same. It’s Friday night, my brother’s birthday, we’re out for dinner, soon to be out for drinks and you give me that face. That I guess I’ll go out for a drink face. go home, I think, get out of here. We’re home, at my home, with my parents. You’re sitting on the couch, watching sports, all day. My family doesn’t watch sports, all day. You’re sitting on the couch alone. I tell you i want to go to the beach, you tell me not yet. I look at you, look around the room, think, where did you come from?…
I’ve been thinking about comfort for the past several months and about safety for the past several days. There is a difference, I think, there has to be a difference between feeling comfortable and feeling safe, in love.

I’m standing with you at a party, meeting someone new, they might judge me but you won’t, we’re past that, and I feel safe.

In Which We Wonder If We’re Safe - Home - This Recording

I’m discovering more and more frequently that Meredith’s writing knocks me out.

December 11, 2009
well this is a little awkward...

Hearing that one of the women Tumblrs you most respect / photographers you most admire thinks you’re ok is like discovering that the boy you liked in 8th grade wants to hold your hand at hockey games too. I am both happy and sweaty palmed.  Thanks, Lauren – the crush is all mine.

#Neuroses. Or: Why reading is better than dating.

So I was talking to my delightful friend Sal this morning, who married her college sweetheart and is pregnant with her third child and is generally in as different a station of life from me as one could possibly be. Which makes her a good, easily entertained audience for tales of my rusty / awkward-since-the-dawn-of-mankind dating style.  And eventually our conversation came to this:  Why can’t I just send out a google survey to men? 

Maybe at the beginning of a flirtation to gauge compatibility and candor, again at the end of a relationship like an exit interview. 

On a scale of one to five, how appropriate was my outfit for a date?  Did you understand that it’s just too cold to show décolletage?  Are you going to be disappointed to learn that I don’t have décolletage?  SURVEYOR’S NOTE:  If you’re a big breast man, this isn’t going to work. Let’s just put that out there right now. From one to five, how much of a sense did you get for my issues? Can you already tell I’m overly-expectant, jealous and have unrealistic demands?  Or did my sparkling laugh and self-deprecating tales of falling down the stairs at IKEA and lost skirts at Girl Scout banquets distract you from my need for therapy?  Do you like glittery eye shadow?  Wait, was this actually a date? Are you going to be funny and enthusiastic in six months?  Is it ok if I don’t actually care about sports?  Did you laugh at the story about my best friend and Moroccan squat toilets so I would kiss you or do you actually see the hilarity? And when I asked questions about your life to show interest, were you flattered or did you feel interrogated? Because I get that sometimes. Have you ever read my blog?  SURVEYOR’S NOTE:  You can’t take it literally, you know.  I can write about being in love with five different men before lunch and still consider myself single and holy as a bird by tea time.  Or maybe you CAN take it literally and this is my fundamental issue in life… Would you be offended if I copied my therapist on your survey response?

Things I Want to Say - by eireann lorsung


Your brother lost his virginity at seventeen.  The dark

upstairs, your parents asleep in one room:

he was there, where passing cars made movies out of light


and his walls - alone with a girl, some girl, who knows

which girl it was.


I know you were in the same house, another girl, two years older,

same late kind of night.  All confidences in the nightlight’s circle.


I don’t know what it’s like to be amazed and seventeen.

One night, I want to be each pair of lips


that presses against ankle, elbow.  Two kids

standing up, awkward, her hair messy.


I want to lie next to you

when you are nineteen and there,


in that specific dark, I want to be the girl who willingly offers

her body to another person.


For years I waited near walls

or on chairs with my ankles crossed, white gloved,


pastel.  Everyone waited for the same thing:  that other

hand, those lights on strings near the ceiling.


In high school the roof was high as heaven,

Christian Brothers chaperoning each swaying pair.

Sex was something we made jokes about.  I had a dirty mouth.


I held on to the boy

in front of me for show or out of loneliness, I hoped


he didn’t have b.o, when I laid my cheek on his shoulder,

I counted out my future children’s names like stars,

I let him touch my back


under my shirt

I was waiting for something.


You chaste women, you teaching Brothers, tell me:

Is it this, silence like mourning between two people?