Capturing Moods

The joy of discovering an entire Rilo Kiley live album that I had never heard before. Includes the transcendent 'I Love LA' and a cover of 'Rock n' Roll Suicide. It did feel right. My attempt at capturing the feeling of having seen a band that broke up 5 years ago.

Update from @work

-Eating cheaply with rice and beans - very good move. Lots of chickpeas and cabbage, and my favorite, parboiled rice, which has an 'improved nutritional profile,' and is resistant to weevils [boll or otherwise].

-I woke up at 6 this morning and went running on autopilot. Couldn't have even been awake for the first half mile or more. It was good enough, and could become something like a twice-a-week activity. Overtraining could be a risk, though.

-Wrote a list of plausible rejected Jon Huntsman campaign slogans [in an attempt to be funny]. Maybe I'll post them later, if they stand up to increased scrutiny. Or if they make A laugh.

-Plain yogurt, maple syrup swirl. Perhaps not as good as yogurt and honey, but still bears further investigation.

-District of Columbia: 200 range of ZIP codes. Federal Government: 202-205 range. Virginia: 201, and 220-246 ranges. Massachusetts, of course, 010-027 range. Shall I go on? I have a ZIP code map of the United States in my office. ZIP codes are very interesting. It stands for Zone Improvement Plan, if you were wondering.

-Idaho: 832-839 range. Tennessee: 370-385 range....

We took the long way so we could have another

She spends her money on cigarettes and such, well I love her and cigarettes so much, I love her and cigarettes so much

The Train Carrying Jimmie Rodgers Home

Trains have this certain majesty that you can't deny. They're long and sleek, though they lumber. Trains have the quality of being undeniable, too. You couldn't easily stop a train, unless it wanted to stop itself (giving the train agency here, but you understand what I mean). They represent ordered grace, militaristic in clean lines of gray and chrome. Not low and rounded like the subway cars; broad and tall, noble, with long miles to go before they'll sleep in rail yards in Woburn, Melrose, Fitchburg, and Lowell. The engine's thrum and steel wheels bumping over rails accrete into a heartbeat that the train has. Long, low, falling-away note of the horn gives finality to the journey, like the trip a president's body takes home by rail. Sometimes the train will shudder, shivering, maybe in the icy damp. We spend so much time with it, we'd hope to consider it a friend.

Yet another short post about trains

-I am the pointed sweatshirt hood of the hardscrabble Lynn youth. Slightly starched, and improbably towering, I have become an entity unto myself, shark-like and telling of dozens of seamy dives and two-room tumbledown apartments I have seen, you haven't

-I am the train tunnel into Salem—dimly lit, always nightbound. Too ramshackle for the gleaming cookie-cutter housing complex not 100 yards away

-I am the shining water at Beverly, bright expanse, unfrozen, spared by brackishness. Boats bob, ready for pleasure or lobstering. See the mirror of the sun, with an orange sheen flashing flat across the wavelets

Can't help myself, I want you and nobody else

In the manner of a diary entry:

I spent December 11th in the company of A. We walked the streets of Washington. We remarked on Millard Fillmore's official portrait. My face eventually hurt from laughing. It was a day to remember.

The bar has been set high.

To you I'm a symbol or a monument

The pace is what frightens me.

Following people who knew half as much as they should, but twice as much as me at the time.

Acceleration is the best, when you're throwing extra fuel on the engines, and they're throwing the power right back at you, all ankles and thighs flashing, stick your tongue out as fast as you can go.

We went back there and I could remember everything, being nervous, being properly insane in youth, being entirely unready for anything; memories flashed at me through trees and down twisting paths to the river.

Every single day of my life

I feel the intoxicating allure of limitless possibility.

The future beckons.

On my way.

Let's Talk About Feelings

What I have tried to say, on more than one occasion, and usually stumbled over or mangled, is that I want the opportunity to have a future with you. I want you in my life continuing into the future, lingering, ongoing, more than just the present. I want a chance to know you and love you for a very long time. I want time to grow with you. I want you to be with me.

Have I made myself clear?

in memoriam, fragments

Memories, they define us. It hurts to think of having only memories left to us when someone is gone. It is a final state, defined against our will. It hurt me today to contemplate this love that can live only in the mind.

I hate sad songs, never knew this until now. They are a poor substitute for what we miss, a false comfort. They seem profound, but reveal themselves as charlatans on close inspection.

Tennyson:
"Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee,
and there I find him worthier to be loved."

Barthes:
"November 16th
Now, everywhere, in the street, the cafe, I see each individual under the aspect of ineluctably having-to-die, which is exactly what it means to be mortal. --And, no less obviously, I see them as not knowing this to be so."

Silence is my default mode, as it is everyone's. Why should this not be so? If there is nothing to say, silence prevails as part of a natural order.

RIP Tyler

Ecola

This place is my birthright. If you could understand what it means to me . . .

à bientôt

Moving is done. I was a little sad to leave that apartment, because I had moments of great joy there, lots of good memories. It will have a place in my heart going forward. Now the relief of being done moving will settle in, and I can move on to new targets for my ravenous pastime of needless worry. I'm half kidding here, but you get the point. It's nice to not have to think about moving anymore. There's a new job ahead, and a new place, and new friends, but I'll miss the way I lived this last year, it was fun. Good-by, Allston, see you around.

[note: I won't miss the Green Line, the noise from the bars and the bar-goers, the shoddy windows in my place, the disgusting floors, or the sirens on weekend nights]

Windwhistle sentences, Part One

*Martin wished she had given advance notice of her visit, so that he could have made his expectations far too high to meet.

*The crown of the rock was encumbered by low clouds and a crowd of puffins.

*He took his frigid feet as a sign he had long overstayed his welcome in the shady nook.

*Caressed by the ever-present breeze, his feet carried him to places he could not have expected, even as he wished he had.

*The refrigerator laid ice cubes four at a time, and Mary grew tired of the private joke she replayed in her mind when they fell, clattering.

*He wondered fruitlessly if her claim that it was different this time around was only a feint, though he knew it to be genuine.

Gates of the Old City

Tell me it's your broken faith now baby
Don't lie and say it's coffee you're makin'

Oregon is insanely beautiful

There exists a coffee called "Double French Roast"

My feelings have not changed

I'm still making up things to worry about

Coyness is nice, and coyness can stop you from saying all the things in life you'd like to

May was a momentous month. It was long, hard sometimes, easy others, pretty. I liked you, May of 2010, you were solid. Thanks for the memories.

This is basically just to keep up with my self-imposed baseline of 10 posts per month for 2010, but I was hoping to maybe stumble on some truth in the process. Doesn't look like I've succeeded, does it?

I bought four books at the Rodney's closing sale yesterday. The titles:

-The Rising Sun in the Pacific 1931 - April 1942 (History of United States Naval Operations in World War II, volume 3) by Samuel Eliot Morison

-Salvation in Death by "J.D. Robb"

-Let Me Tell You a Story: A Lifetime in the Game by John Feinstein and Red Auerbach

-War Diaries: Politics and War in the Mediterranean January 1943 - May 1945 by Harold Macmillan

I bought the Morison volume because it was a pretty nice hardcover edition and I had previously done a book review paper on his Leyte Gulf volume from the same series. His stuff is very readable and heavy on facts, so it seemed like something worth having around, to get to sooner or later. I bought the "J.D. Robb" book as a joke, mainly to tell A that I bought it next time I talk to her, so we can laugh about Nora Roberts and her insane productivity. Yes, I am the kind of person who drops two dollars on a paperback "futuristic suspense" novel just to use it as a conversation piece. So sue me. Also, I had noticed that the book makes a pathetic, mainly symbolic attempt at playing it coy about the true identity of its author. I quote: "J.D. Robb is the pseudonym for the number one New York Times bestselling author of more than 170 novels including the futuristic suspense In Death series. There are more than 300 million copies of her books in print." As if there is anyone who would buy this book and not know who actually wrote it. Plus it says copyright Nora Roberts 2008 inside the front cover. Don't insult my intelligence by still attempting to maintain the facade that your about the author section could still deceive people. The Red Auerbach book I bought because he's bound to have tons of really good stories, and the guy is one of a kind. There could never possibly be another Red Auerbach. I bought Harold Macmillan at least in part because everything in the store was fifty percent off. Exactly what do I have to lose in buying an enormous volume of per·spic·u·ous·ly detailed diaries of life and war in the Mediterranean during the years 1943-1945? Space in my already cramped apartment, you might say. Well so be it.

Did I mention that every book in the store was fifty percent off?

I'll leave you with a spot of appropriate Housman, the first two and last verses of "The Chestnut Casts His Flambeaux". Good luck in June.

The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers
Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away,
The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers.
Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May.

There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot,
One season ruined of your little store.
May will be fine next year as like as not:
But ay, but then we shall be twenty-four.

...

The troubles of our proud and angry dust
Are from eternity, and shall not fail.
Bear them we can, and if we can we must.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

Everyday I Write the Book

This is a beginning, not an end

This is not an exit, it's an entrance

This is my life, and I have the power to make it what I want it to be


"The way you walk
The way you talk, and try to kiss me, and laugh
In four or five paragraphs
All your compliments and your cutting remarks
Are captured here in my quotation marks"
-Elvis Costello

Some days, they last longer than others

But really, it was a fantastic day. I'll run it down, if I could. And since I have final say on all decisions related to this ole blog, I will. That's right, I said it, I have full editorial control, and I'm exercising it right now. Witness:

-Woke up too early, only about 6 hours of sleep. That's unfortunately becoming the standard for weekends.

-Watched TV for a while, then had an interesting conversation with Allan about the rules we live by in society, and how none of them really matter in the end. There's nothing that you exactly have to do, we concluded. (Italics mine, obviously)

-Headed out to Market Basket. It was crowded, but cheap, as always. I purchased a pork roast for the future, and some bison hot dogs, which, hot dogs being hot dogs, will probably taste the same as hot dogs made from any other meat.

-Swung by Alex's on the way back to drop off a gallon of cheap milk and some blackberries.

-The sun came out. Allan cursed its appearance for not having come earlier.

-Unloaded, did some dishes, played some scrabble.

-Worked on a mix CD for Ms. A. Russell.

-A nice run through the park, then down Commonwealth and through some of Brookline then back home on Harvard.

-Quick shower, watched Scary Movie with Allan for a bit, then grabbed the car and picked up Guru at the T stop.

-Drove to the Kendall Square area. Guru and I met Daniel at Helmand, maybe the only Afghan restaurant in Boston, although who knows really. Dinner was really good, chunks of lamb in a spicy, rich tomato sauce with lentils and peas and rice, followed by this amazing pistachio-cardamom ice cream with pineapple and figs. All in all a very rich and extremely satisfying meal that left me just a little too full.

-Walked out in the rain to a little Turkish cafe/pizza joint. The lady there made us coffee, and then was genuinely surprised when we turned down cream and sugar. Nice lady, her.

-Said goodbye to Daniel and Guru and I drove off to Coolidge Corner to meet with Alex, Maria, Allan, Anmol, and Lanthi for the event of the year. Tommy Wiseau and Greg Sestero live, in person, to take questions before a late showing of the gloriously bad The Room.

-Wiseau was rude, lacked charm, and was nearly incoherent, clearly inhibited by any number of recreational substances. That said, he is one of the most fascinating people I have ever seen. I could not take my eyes off him the entire time (my video will follow at a later date, once I've had time to process everything I saw this evening). Greg Sestero smiled serenely throughout, but gave one-sentence answers to any questions tossed his way, and pretty clearly did not want to be there. One of the most interesting things to consider was the obvious psychic trauma of promoting your heartfelt, serious, but truly awful movie as a "black comedy", when it would be clear to even a child that this film was meant to be taken seriously, but never has been. It's sad in a way.

-The movie was fantastic. It was bad beyond your wildest dreams of what a bad movie can be. Awful dialogue, senseless plot, bad acting, pointless exterior shots of San Francisco that probably take up about a quarter of the movie, pointless characters, complete lack of continuity, overall lack of connection to reality. All the same, the extreme badness of it is compelling. And I urge everyone to see it. You can borrow my DVD.

-Decided, as did everyone else, to skip the Wiseau autograph session, at least partly because we're all a little scared of him. Walked home boisterously talking about our impressions of the film and atmosphere in the theater (Rocky Horror Picture Show type-stuff, probably at least 75 percent of the audience had seen the movie enough times to be able to quote lines and throw plastic spoons at the screen at appropriate times).

-Everyone parted ways. I walked out in Brookline to get the car and consider a few things. It was chilly but great for walking in a sweater. Thought about the nature of love and how you're the only person who can decide if you love someone, pretty much.

-Came back and laid down not one but two blog posts.

It was a great day.

Gangway for foot cycle!

The value of good conversation. Letting go of anger. Giving thanks for blessings. The value of love. Spring and all. Acceleration. Good comedy. Walking for hours on end. Talking and talking and talking. Old friends who come back. Beauty everywhere, beauty mixed with sadness, but so much beauty.

Don't be angry. Don't be sad. We're almost there.

Driving at night on empty roads full of life, singing at the top of your lungs. Burning up inside to see you sometimes.

What a life

It's 16 miles to the promised land

I was completely fascinated by this quotation from an article by David Hare in the New York Review of Books:

"It's incredible but the country itself still feels provisional. Of what other state can this be said? I notice when I am in Britain that you plan for 2038, you say that there will be this railway or that airport. But no Israeli plans so far ahead without feeling a pang in his heart which asks whether we shall be here at all. We look so strong from the outside, we have such a large army, so many nuclear weapons, we're so certain in our expansion, and yet from the inside it doesn't feel like that. We feel our being is not guaranteed. You might say we have imported from the Diaspora the Jewish disease-a sense of rootlessness, an ability to adapt and make do, but not to settle. After sixty years, Israel is not yet a home."

Hare is quoting an unnamed Israeli writer. What he said floored me. Sixty years gone by, that's a lifetime for many people, and his insight into the country is that it is deeply ingrained in the souls of Israelis to wonder whether each day might be the last for their nation. Sixty years of being, followed immediately by suddenly not being. Can you imagine the great, great fear that state of mind would bring? Can you imagine living in constant terror of the end of your existence?

The writer is correct, we could never think of the state of things that way in a country like the US, Britain, or almost any other on earth. The mentality he describes is so inconceivable from where I sit that I am having a very hard time putting myself in his shoes. I'm not sure if I believe him either, but if it was true, what consequences it would have for our planet! Would we finally understand the Israeli mentality? Would we know the secret to peace? Would we have fairness and justice and equality on both sides? But we cannot the greatest question of all, and the one that may never be answered, Will Israel ever feel safe enough?