Tuesday, May 31, 2011

They will do what they must do

Yeah it's true
But only in part
Actions best forgotten of a desperate heart
And it hurts
This salt in the wound
But what compels them to spend their time bothering you

Don't let them touch you baby
Don't let them make you cry
Don't you waste your time
Trying to find the reason why
They will do what they must do

Yeah it's strange
That vicarious choir
Ever searching for a stage where they might sing higher
And they share
The generous souls
But nothing gets in the way of a story untold

It's not fair
The only intention's to hurt
Always there
The strategy's rumors and dirt

Don't let them touch you baby
Don't let them make you cry
Don't you waste your time
Trying to find the reason why
They will do what they must do

Monday, May 30, 2011

pink haze and silver water

I left my car at home and walked the neighborhood, stopping by the corner store to get coffee, walking the dog, going back and forth past the smoke of charcoal grills and running kids and someone playing Rihanna's entire back catalog all afternoon, called up my art partner and neighbor to walk down to the beach.

Everyone was out in various states of undress, swimming out to where it's deeper, showing off tattoos and tanlines, playing chess at the tables, eating ice cream and carving sandcastles and turtles named Ronnie in the sand. We stepped over washed up sticks and cracked red plastic cups, halves of tampons and broken toys and I took off my flip-flops to walk where the waves break.

If it wasn't so big and I had a car that wasn't small, I would have dragged home the pair of trees that grew together, uprooted, and washed upon the shore, stripped clean of bark and bleached bone white. The intricate corona of roots not turned around and made visible and the twisting of trunks kissed by aquamarine waves and resting on the crushed mosaic of countless zebra mussels still stays with me.

Sunday, May 29, 2011


A whole mess of emotion, the strange feeling of solitude like a hangover from spending more time with people than I usually do, coming off the adrenaline of wanderings in the sun, perusing books and drinking coffee, allowing my voice to harmonize on the high notes instead of the low, being entertained by local comedy, having conversations with multiple people I enjoy intensely but rarely see, celebrating a friend's wedding, an interlude at the east side beach, driving home through hail and downpour, running on empty and stopping to pump gas, getting soaked in my semi-dressy clothes, walking the dog through the humid darkness past girls smoking cigarettes and the revelry of Sunday nights on three-day weekends, loving these nights even as the bluest of deep blues bring out the blues in me...

Friday, May 27, 2011

and I'm never really sure if you'll take what I'm saying the right way...

Attempting to find another place to creatively write, after sculpting coffee mugs out of clay, cussing up a blue streak about my lousy day, dinner and tea, crying and conversating over chocolate because that's what we girls do. I get better at keeping up the face when I need to, maintaining poise and smiling to hide the fury, but in the place where it's safe, with those where we've seen the worst and the best of each other, it all spills out. I talk my way into making sense. It's how I make sense of things.

And I'm driving down I-90 to some 1995 countdown on the local alt-rock station singing Garbage's 'I'm Only Happy When It Rains' and wondering why I still feel like I'm 16 when I'm ten years past that hurtling towards 30 and still called a child by the previous generation. I still go to the coffeeshop instead of the bar. Here I can be antisocial among other antisocialites and am not expected to be anything.

If 60 is the new 40, then that makes me 20 and you 14"

It probably does. They say "when you grow up" like we're not adults but we go to work and do the mundane life obligations just like everyone else. Some of us ride the bus, live in less desirable neighborhoods and pay rent instead of mortgages and who cares.

Like the teenage years we left behind, we still clique ourselves and find more socially acceptable ways to do so, judging by geography or education, by transportation and marital status, age and beauty, clothing and hair, gauging one's worth as a human by what bands they like or what books they read. We sequester ourselves in echo chambers of agreement. We talk trash about people we only know in the abstract, resenting and envying, looking up and looking down. Those of you who say we're the young ones don't always act so mature, sniping and gossiping just like they always have.

I can't plot anything so I'm at Common Grounds typing snippets of poorly written verse as the jukebox plays 'Pusherman' and the cigarette smoke fills the air. The caffeine has kicked in and I'll probably be up all night, relieved that the tempest has blown over and that I can finally relax.

like a bird that sings up the sun....

There's a word in Sanskrit quoted by Eliot at the end of 'The Wasteland' like a benediction. 'Shantih' is roughly translated as 'the peace that passes understanding.' My emotions have been all over the place today, frustration and anger, helpless resignation, slap-happy laughter (deemed verboten by the overlords, but breaks forth nonetheless), thankful for the grace of God, the blessings of caffeine and art and friendship. I've been through way more than this in the past year, and I'll go through way more again.

I can go home to the sanctuary of my second floor, I can pull the weeds growing among my flowers, pound and sculpt and cut clay, drink tea and write, scrawl out prayers and fragments of psalms on canvas in sharpie marker, visit my new nephew and feel my heart melt over and over. A little stress and catharsis every once in awhile makes me a better person, gives me the spark. Maybe someday I will create beauty such as this.

Unlike the bestselling writers and TV preachers, I don't expect that faith will bring a person a life of material wealth or bliss. I don't deserve a thing, and yet I have more in the intangible than could be explained. I can't control what others say or do, I don't see the need to apologize for things that I haven't done wrong, and to paraphrase a song from an old band I love "I'm working, but I'm not working for you."

Who needs to jockey for position when there's so much else to live for? I hope that when I am old, I won't be jealous of the young, I won't be meddling in what's none of my business, I won't be grabbing all I can while the getting's good.

And there is celebrating a friend's wedding this weekend, getting my rust belt kicks with 'Michael Stanley Superstar', and being away from this opera if not forevermore, for a little while.

you know what? you know what?

I'd rather know that something is wrong and be told than to let it continue to go on to have the shit hit the fan now rather than later, but I feel my internal organs shudder when I get the impersonal communication devoid of context and enforcing a suffocating conformity to a norm that makes next to no sense outside of boardrooms and in motivational books.

I will smile and nod and say yes of course you're right, I laugh too much I smile too much, I'm too fucking human. I don't buy into this, but I'll pretend to because I need to eat.

But in reality I will say what I need to say, and not so much for cowardice as survival. I will try not to cry. I'm feeling resentful and not so much ashamed as understanding that the language that we speak is different than the language of those in power, that they will never understand us, and that we don't want to lose our souls to be them.

At least I have Kristin to cathartically rock out to in the car on the way home.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

the cycle

As much as I enjoy history and old things, the one perk of living in the 21st century in an industrialized country is that people don't die in childbirth like they once did or still do. And as much as I complain about the frequent absurdity of male-female dynamics, at least I can kind of make my own life decisions and not have to worry about being married off before I've hit puberty or considered fair game if I'm not in the company of a male relative.

My sister is going to get the care she needs and she has the support of a wonderful husband who values her education and was willing to move so she could go to grad school. There's a lot of girls that aren't so lucky. I read this article in a waiting room the day before my nephew was born and re-read it today. I almost cried looking at these photos.

And the on the other side of the world, my sister called me this morning to tell me that my nephew was born. She said it was rougher than she thought it'd be and that she was really tired, but she wanted to see me so before work I drove out to the hospital to hang out with her and her husband.

So I'm holding this kid who has my eyes and bro-in-law's nose, this little wrinkled pink squirmer in a blanket, only a few hours old, whose chin quivers when he cries. I remember my sister being born, and now she's got a son who's going to perceive me as a Responsible Adult. This is so weird but incredibly awesome at the same time.

I've got some friends around my age who are really into wanting babies and while I've never paid attention to the biological clock, I guess I kind of get it when I'm holding him and feeling this little heartbeat, but I don't think people always realize how messy the whole being born thing is, all the blood and the ick and the pain. But it is so beautiful and it'll be cool to watch him grow up surrounded by so much love.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

friday night in the kingdom of doom

I left a project half-finished at the art center as the clouds grew dark and menacing and the radio chirped about tornadoes. They told me I wouldn't make it back before the storm hit but I wanted to be home to watch the onslaught from the front porch, and I'd already done all the work I felt like doing.

It's been forever since I watched a storm come in, and I sat on the glider and watched sheets of rain glide up the street, the lightning crackle above the trees, and the deafening thunder.

My sister is in labor right now and I'll probably be up all night with them, not having to be at work until the afternoon. I'm a little nervous but thrilled for her, because I don't know what this will be like.

In the meantime, I'm starting to recaffeinate with some green tea at the favorite coffeeshop where maybe, just maybe I'll get a little bit of writing done. I've been having a hard time coming up with something when I do sit down to do so, though it's not for lack of trying. It's the beginnings that are hardest, once I start I'm good but if I can't get it started, it just doesn't happen.

The song below is playing and it's fitting, though this album was disappointing when it came out considering that the parts of it were greater than the sum. How one gets Paul Simonon's basslines, Fela's drummer, and Simon Tong's guitar into one room with one of the greatest and snarkiest British songwriters since the Kinks and it ends up just sounding like it's all DangerMouse is something I don't understand, but this one is pretty good for a night like this.

Friday night
In the kingdom of doom
Ravens fly
Across the moon
All in now
There's a noise in the sky
Following all the rules
And not asking why

When the sunset world begins
Turning into the night
I see everything in black and white
And then...

Drink all day
'Cause the country is at war
Soon you'll be falling off the palace walls
I can't be any more than I say
In the flood we all get washed away

When the sunset world begins
Turning into the night
I see everything in black and white

A love song for the collaboration
You and me will never be undone
We'll let it blow away

best of the blotter: those darn kids and the end of the world

ARMAGEDDON, SYCAMORE TREE: In the wake of Harold Camping’s prediction that the Christian rapture would occur on May 21 and the end of the world would begin, the world and media was abuzz last week while following the peculiar story. Apparently, the affects of Camping’s prediction stretched into Medina. A Sycamore Tree Dr. resident stopped an officer on May 17 and desired to speak with him about Armageddon. No action was taken.

BB OR NOT TO BE, ORCHARD LANE: Police responded to Orchard Lane upon report of a boy allegedly using a BB gun in the neighborhood. An officer arrived around 2 p.m. on May 18 and observed the boy shooting what appeared to be a BB gun. Upon closer inspection, the officer determined that the gun was an air-soft gun, and the boy was shooting at mushrooms in the yard of his home.

Someone called Georgio's, 15037 Pearl Rd., May 21 with a tasty order -- 100 calzones and 100 salads. And they'd even pay extra for it and have the restaurant send back the overage. An alert employee recognized it as a scam. She called police to make them aware the con, which was also reported earlier this year, is going around again.

DISORDERLY CONDUCT, BRIDGE STREET: Sparks flew before a police officer had a chance to officially start his workday.

The officer stopped at Caf Ah-Roma at 11:40 a.m. May 21 prior to starting his work day.

He saw a teen, whom the officer knew, toss some type of fireworks into the mulch by the Parkway Shops sign on Bridge Street. The item gave off quite a few sparks before extinguishing itself.

The teen has been warned by police and Giant Eagle personnel to stay away from that area.

The officer stopped the teen and found two lighters, two boxes of smoke balls, rolling papers and a box of cigarettes on him.

When asked why he ignited the fireworks, the teen told the officer, “You guys tell us to be kids, then you arrest us when we try.”

The officer said there was a big difference between being a kid and throwing lighted fireworks into mulch and at a place he had been told not to visit.

The teen was cited for disorderly conduct, trespassing and possessing tobacco.

THEFT, WEST BAGLEY ROAD: Someone from Colony Roofing, 951 W. Bagley Road, contacted police May 16 after seeing a person taking scrap metal. The person got into a car and left.

Police found him with a woman on Kaskey Drive. The teen said he needed the scrap metal to help pay for the prom.

The 17-year-old Brook Park resident was released to his father. His 18-year-old accomplice, a woman from Brook Park, was released on personal bond. Both were cited for theft.

PROPERTY DAMAGE, BROOKPARK ROAD: A 20-year-old Brook Park man rammed a shopping cart into the glass windows and doors of the B & E Dollar Tree May 21 and made entry to the store.

When police arrived, the man was inside the store wearing Hawaiian leis and other necklaces found in the store. He was cooperative, handcuffed and placed under arrest. The intoxicated man told police that he was at a wedding next door and wanted some necklaces for the party. Estimated damage to the glass is $1,000.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

cuter, smarter

In lieu of something to say, implied snark.

Monday, May 23, 2011


The sun was so bright Saturday, with my stack of CDs and traveling companions, one who was kind enough to provide me with a cup of coffee for the road, driving to the other side of the heart of it all, escaping the haze and smog enveloping the skyline for the greenery of the lands to the west and the clearness of Ashtabula blue sky.

The reason for such ventures was to help out a friend of mine from my Kent days who's getting married to someone truly wonderful. The venue for the reception is a Western-themed steakhouse on which we inflicted Martha Stewart tissue paper puffs of pink and peach. "You're going to love this place. It's kitsch heaven," she tells me and it is, replete with reliquaries of John Wayne bullets, movie posters of films I've never seen, and sculptures of cowboys and Indians.

We channelled Georgia O'Keeffe and stuck white tissue paper flowers in the eyes of the steer's skull over the dining room and tried to make it look girly and wedding-ish. "I think this is awesome, the guests will probably think it's weird..." I'm not really good at this whole party-planning decorations thing so after tying string to big paper puffs, I ended up at the table with her mom's boyfriend and her brother talking urban planning and other territory I'm a little more adept in.

While out in the exotic lands to the west, we took goofy tourist pictures underneath the World's Largest Rocking Chair next to a feed store, and soaked in the miles of green space and open sky.

After the festivities, we drove up to Geneva-on-the-Lake to indulge in even more uber-kitsch. I can't believe I've never been here before, because it's unlike any place I've ever been. It was once the premier getaway for the likes of Henry Ford and the Rockefellers, and my grandparents honeymooned here post WWII. It's hard for me to imagine it as a place that was once genteel. I also can't imagine renting a summer cottage here ever. At least Put-in-Bay has a quiet half of the island. Still, it was a great way to kill an afternoon.

Hot sun, an endless parade of bikers in Harley gear, women with big poofy bleached coiffures, pale teens with green hair and miscellaneous piercings working at the arcades, all manner of greasy food, countless headshops selling tie-dyed t-shirts, blacklight posters, and hippie dresses, and souvenir shops hawking fake wanted posters, hemp necklaces with the stars and bars, and even more biker couture. If you ever wanted a pin that read "I'm a Trucker's Girlfriend," this is the place to get it.

I did, however, score some nice earrings at Gypsy Rose's Mamas and Papas. Every storefront was blaring either country or classic rock, and from one end of the 'Crooked Mile' to the other, I heard Bad Company, Foreigner, Def Leppard, Poison, and Whitesnake.

It seems that back in the day, there were actual good shows to be seen at the Cove, not just cover bands called Bon Journey or whatever incarnation of Skid Row or Mushroomhead that's still touring.

Incidentally, this mural on the side is getting destroyed to make way for new renovations, but I'm glad I shot it before it vanishes.

This totally does not look like Jimi Hendrix.

We did not discover what the Exciting Fascination was.

On the way back, we drove through the vineyards of wine country, though we were all dehydrated and sleepy and didn't feel like being around more partying boomers so we drove back to Clevelandia and I've realized I really don't like driving when it's sunny out, though Kyuss is fantastic driving in the burning sun music.

Came back to feed the kitties, hang out at my apartment with the new neighbors before Muk came over, woke up with sun poisoning and missed church, took my sister to the Hessler Fair, and slacked around with my dad in the basement Sunday night listening to the Thirteenth Floor Elevators. I opened my windows and let the cool night breezes in. Summer is looking hot and beautiful already.

Saturday, May 21, 2011


I played with different colors tonight, trying to replicate the scheme on my last project, only with more green, and then doing a smaller cup with bright blue and speckled orange, dripping layers of red over the top and listening to Michael Stanley play double-shots of Led Zeppelin and U2, realizing that I don't know any Scorpions songs besides 'Rock You Like a Hurricane.' The unknown factor of heat and chemicals means I really don't know what's totally going to happen, but the process is so soothing after being at a desk all day.

I gave up on trying to mow the lawn with the push mower and used the weedwhacker to tame the savannah height grass in the backyard and met up with my partner in art and spiritual existentialism for takeout and drinking tea on the back porch and watching the sun set. We haven't had girl time in awhile and it was much-needed even though it still gets dark too early to take any long walks. There are certain summer sounds when the night falls and the hum of traffic gives way to the faint pulse of music and snatches of conversation.

And I totally had this on repeat in the car today. The video is funny to me because it's got Scott-Weiland-level snakedancing in velvet pants and Chris Robinson is wearing earrings almost as ridiculously dangly as mine. But that chorus with the backup vocals, the mellotron, my Parmastani roots of Led Zeppelin and Creedence, I've got no shame in this.

Friday, May 20, 2011


As some of the more astute have noted, it's the people who really don't know squat about what they believe except for what they read in Left Behind paperbacks and hear on the radio, who are spazzing about the end of the world. The rest of us roll our eyes and keep going because there's always someone who says he's the second coming of whoever, and life just goes on, but I don't think where one's soul is at should be taken lightly.

For all the talk about it, none of them seem to be trying to save any souls from perdition in the meantime, and the lunacy of the very few gives my beloved cynics and pagans of distinction a golden opportunity to feel a bit smug about themselves, which can be funny, but usually gets old pretty fast.

Having heard all manner of conspiracy theory and speculation, and being a bit of a history geek, here's what they thought about what all that end of the world stuff would look like back then, what with all the comets, earthquakes, and political upheaval.

Babilon is fallen. Wherein briefly in vnfolded all the matters of greatest moment, which hath hapned from the rising of Iulius Cesar Emperor of Rome, to the present affaires (now) in Germany; and which shall ensue to the worlds end. Published according to the first copie, printed, Anno Dom. 1595

Christian information concerning these last times: Wherein all people may clearly see what prophesies the Holy Prophets prophesied of should come to pass: which of them is fulfilling, and which is fulfilled; and how the lowest part of the great image, that Daniel shewed to the King, is now a breaking to pouder, and by whom; whereby people may see, how very-near Antichrist, or the great whore of Babylon, is to her end. Also some prophetical passages gathered out of Jacob Behme's works, who prophesied and gave them forth, in the year, 1623. Concerning what should come to pass in these northern islands; and as he then declared them, they are now come to pass; and also what he said concerning the Turk, what he was, what he should do, and what should at last become of him. / Wrinten [sic] in the fifth month by F.E.

Englands second alarm to vvar, against the Beast. Saul, with his Edomite has shed blood to his power; he smites Israels city, and destroyes his owne house; overcame his people once, and overthrew himselfe for ever! It relates to what is done now. Grave questions touching the Edomite; his admission to court, and into office there; how it relates to papists now. He has a commission to destroy a city of priests, which he does with an utter destruction. Excellent reasons why the Lord suffered such a destruction to be executed upon Israel then; and why he suffers the same now; and why by an Edomites hand then and now

Great Britans [sic] alarm: discovering national sinns, and exhorting to reformation of life, and holiness, and courage in the battels of god against the Anti-christ, Magog, fourth-beast, eagle, King of Babilon, and Gog, and kings of east to bee fought by a lion, and fierce people of the north, which must burn the seat of Magog, and whole body of the eagle, and turn Gog the moon into blood according to the holy prophets predictions, and limitation of the beasts continuation and period, and hieroglyphical marks, and other descriptions of them al / collected, and knit together in this poëm by Christofer Syms Gent

A discourse on Antichrist, and the Apocalyps shewing that the number of the beast [chi xi sigma] ought not to be translated 666 but 42 only, that Christians have reigned a 1000 years, and that Mohamet is the grand Antichrist / by Richard Franklin

A looking-glass for the times being a tract concerning the original and rise of truth and the original and rise of Antichrist : showing by pregnant instances of Scripture, history, and other writings, that the principles and practices of the people called Quakers in this day and their sufferings are the same as were the principles and practices of Christ and His apostles ...

A perfect description of Antichrist, and his false prophet. [electronic resource] : Wherein is plainly shewed that Oliver Cromwell was Antichrist, and John Presbiter, or John Covenanter his false prophet. Written in the yeare, MDCLIV. By Abraham Nelson. And now published with an epistle to the Kings most excellent Majestie

A little vievv of this old vvorld, in tvvo books. I. A map of monarchy, wherein the state of the world is represen[t]ed under Kings, with their entrance, reign, and ends, from King Saul, to King Charls. II. An epitomy of papacy, vvherein is discovered the rise of Anti-christ, with the entrance, reign, and ends of the popes of Rome for 740 years, till the Pope was fully declared to be the Anti-christ. / A work fitted for the press five years agone, and now published, by Tho. Palmer, pastor of a Church of Christ in Nottingham

A plain and easie calculation of the name, mark, and number of the name of the beast. Wherein these three points are declared: first, the name (in the apocalyptical style) is no other, but the universal headship of the beast, opposed to the name, power, and headship of the lamb. Secondly, the number, in the same style, is the number of years to the setting up of this name or headship; in which respect it is called, the number of the name. Thirdly, the truth of the exposition is cleared, by agreement of all particulars, both in the text, and in the whole prophecy; and by the event of things, a sure interpreter of prophecy. / Humbly presented to the studious observers of scripture prophecies, God's work, and the times, by Nathaniel Stephens, minister of Fenny-Drayton in Leicestershire. Whereunto isprefixed, an commendatory epistle, written by Mr. Edm. Calamy

The great antichrist revealed, never yet discovered, and proved to be neither pope, nor Turk, nor any single person, nor any one monarch or tyrant in any polity but a collected pack, or multitude of hypocritical, heretical, blasphemous, and most scandalous wicked men that have fulfilled all the prophesies of the Scriptures ... and especially have united ... together by a solemn league and covenant to slay the two witnesses of God viz. the supreame magistrate of the Commonwealth, and the chief pastors and governors of the Church of Christ, and the Christian world is requested to judge whether [brace] the Assembly of Presbyterians, together with the independents, Anabaptists, and lay- preachers be not the false prophet ... and whether the prevalent faction of the long Parliament ... that killed the two witnesses of Jesus Christ , 1. Charles the First ... 2. William Laud ... be not the visible body of the same antichrist

'John the Revelator' is one of my favorite Blind Willie Johnson songs, and there's countless fantastic renditions of it all over. My first introduction to it was a long Phil Keaggy jam my dad had on CD when I was growing up, but this one with Jack White's ever-how-does-he-make-it-rock-so-damn-much guitar is pretty good too.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

in the violet light

Seeing the sun for the first time in weeks, my car fixed, stopping by the house to see that everything really is growing, even little wisps of carrot top are poking through the dirt, and then deciding to rip out all the growth that took over the side by the driveway to put in something else to fill in what the lobelia and the portulaca doesn't cover. I met the new neighbor's son and he seems all right.

I was going to do that tonight, but saw that the grass at the house I'm staying at was about six inches high and I haven't mowed a lawn since I was a teenager, having been a renter and having siblings when I lived at home. Push mowers weren't made for this kind of thing but it was a good workout and an easy way to tune out the neighbors across the street having drama with each other, thankful that I don't own a house or have unbearable neighbors.

I can drink and smoke on the porch if I damn well want!... You're raising your kids wrong and trashing your landlord's property.... what's your problem anyway why can't you mind your own business... I'm an old lady all I want to do is sit on my porch in peace. If I could I'd move somewhere else but I can't...

but the sky is fading into deepening shades of blue shot through with purple, the church tower to the north glows golden, and the cats want to get out and be feline, and one just scaled the porch screen to the ceiling. The people next door are speaking Portuguese, the bugs are already coming out, there are echoes of birds and kids running in someone's yard, the silhouettes of power lines contrast with the fading light.

I'm finally feeling the shift of the seasons and all that it is.

best of the blotter: Sandwiches, Stoners, and Salvation

CRIMINAL MISCHIEF, SUNSET AVENUE: A police officer who coordinates a bowling team complained that a former team member returned his team shirt marked with words advocating marijuana use.

The team was sponsored by a company that supplies items to police departments. But under the company logo on the shirt, the former member added in screened printing the words, “Fight Terrorism . . . Buy Homegrown” and on the shirt’s right chest added the letters “NORML.” There is an organization called the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws.

The team coordinator, of Independence, noticed the changes after he demanded the shirt be returned.

The former team member declined to give police a written statement except to say it was his shirt and he could anything he wanted to on it.

An employee at Borders Books and Music got a call May 15 from a man who made an unusual threat: salvation.

A report said the caller first asked if the store carried a certain book. When the employee said it did not, the caller got upset and called the employee an athiest, and that "he was going to come and save their souls."

The store received several more phone calls right after that. The employee said the man offered a long name, which he could not remember, but that the caller had told him to call him "Man."

Police told employees to call back if the man showed up or called any more.

On May 6, someone called in to report that four men were "creating a disturbance" on the 1700 block of Coventry Road. When police stopped by to investigate, two said they were just having a "dispute over a sandwich." There was no fight or arrest, and the parties were advised. Police had no further information about what, and what type of sandwich, sparked the disagreement.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

the life of the world to come

I think there's a certain set of people who really really hope a disaster happens so they can say they're right and everyone else is wrong. I also think there's a sense that most of us have that what is now can't go on forever, there has to be some kind of finiteness, a shelf life, an end, be it self-destructive human dumbassery, the sun swallowing us up, the Second Coming, the Mahdi, Cthulu, Quetzalcoatl, Shiva the Destroyer of All Worlds. It's hardwired in there.

As your token born-again-er, who still believes that no mere mortal knows the day or the hour, I really haven't been paying much attention to whoever this Harold Camping and his Family Radio people are. I honestly just tune it out because everyone is always wrong, considering that in my lifetime, 1989, 2000, and countless others have gone by without even, and find the whole Left Behind thing a bit absurd. It's cheap catastrophic entertainment for people who like to read mediocre fiction. I figure that everyone got the whole first coming thing completely wrong, what's to say we won't do so with the second?

If history is any indication, it's just another in a long string of speculations from everywhere. I've got circa AD 1000 medieval "chants for the end of the world" sitting on my bookshelf at home, our library-ish amusement at sensationalistic pamphlets from Renaissance England reveals speculations about the Antichrist being everyone from Muhammad, Oliver Cromwell, and of course whoever the Pope was, thanks to the pending year of 1666 and the earthquakes and comets and other "straunge syghtes" such as the "rayning of bloud" in Rome.

I'm sure that someday all sorts of crazy will break loose if it hasn't already, but honestly, I really don't want to be around when it all goes down.

And am I born to die?
And lay this body down?
And as my trembling spirits fly
Into a world unknown

A land of deeper shade
Unpierced by human thought
The dreary region of the dead
Where all things are forgot

Soon as from earth I go
What will become of me?
Eternal happiness or woe
Must then my fortune be

Waked by the trumpet's sound
I from my grave shall rise
And see the Judge with glory crowned
And see the flaming skies

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

indecision clouds my vision...

I drove from the east side to the west in the rain with earplugs in my ears, a roaring engine, a continual metallic grind that turned out to be my exhaust pipe dangling on the ground. It was so loud that when I got to the shop, the mechanic came outside to meet me because he could hear it all the way down the street and gave me a ride home so I didn't have to walk in the cold and wet.

I appreciated it, but ended up going back out, bundled up in layers like winter, to pay rent, circle around a block of streets I once frequented more often. I keep hoping I'll see my old Puerto Rican neighbors because I kind of disappeared last year, but it's still too cold. Kids were getting out of school and the old men were sitting on park benches like they always do.

Having a couple extra hours for hibernation has been good, spent in classic single chick style with the neighbor's kitties, episodes of Daria, tea and mango ice cream. Any attempt at creativity has eluded me for awhile now, and it seems I'm only good for snarky asides and I'm going to try and conjure up a painting for some friends getting married next week though I can't decide what I want to do with it besides some colors already laid out and some designs to work with. I hope the inspiration comes soon because it's just not there right now.

eternal grey and rust

People keep talking about how the weather sucks but soon they'll be complaining about how it's too sunny out and at least we're not dealing with the aftermath of earthquakes and tornadoes or living next to the Mississippi.

And I wonder how much asbestos I've inhaled and lead I've ingested, wondering if there will be anything left of me. I wonder what will be messed up later on because of all the art-making now, all that turpentine, oil paint and lead-laced flux.

My car is starting to feel old too. It needs new breaks, an oil change, and the muffler that was already starting to go is now clanking against the trunk, the purr is now a roar and I'm hoping my it gets fixed before my sister had the kid because I know I won't get through the cracker suburbs without getting pulled over in the meantime.

I bought motor oil at Murray's last night and even though I totally know how to pour it into the engine myself, having done so weekly in the latter days of the Sexy Saturn, I was relegated to damsel in distress by an guy in the parking lot who told me what I already knew about car engines (admittedly not very much but still...)

While I insisted that I was okay and that it wasn't a big deal he said I needed a husband and gave me a card with his number in case I break down so I guess he can be knight in shining armor or something. Like heck, I'm going to call some random man I met in a parking lot when I'm in a position where I'm most vulnerable. Right.

it's too...

Awake early, feeling clumsy, still feeling bad about that cat that ran in front of my car that I didn't have time to stop for. I felt so sick when I heard something go underneath but saw it do a backflip on the sidewalk and run away so maybe it's all right. I was on a one-way street in the hood and it was rainy and dark and I was crying because I'm a sap and felt so bad but when I went back to see if it was ok, it took forever because the street was blocked off by an old Chevy with huge rims was getting towed into a body shop and then when I got back to where it was it was gone. I hope it's all right. I don't know what I would have done if it wasn't.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

slipping by

I couldn't tell you where today went, we all seemed to have the lethargy, my guitar was distorted and languid this morning and my alto had less range than usual, coming home to zone out, go out and see the relatives, where the discourse is always thoughtful, coming home through sheets of rain listening to Alice in Chains, planted the rest of the seeds that might grow into flowers, lots of cleome that always reminds me of benevolent alien life forms or sea anemones, reading and drinking tea, bending copper wire into shapes with a pair of pliers because sometimes the words don't come. The cats have been lonely and interrupt whatever I'm working on, demanding attention and affection, bestowing sandpapery kisses.

I don't have much to say, so I'm not going to try too hard. It's a good night for contemplation, a comfortable moodiness, good for depressed brit-chick trip-hop and pondering of the good kind.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

cool water and cool wind

The roads were like rivulets as I hoped I wouldn't get stuck or flood my engine with rainwater on the way to Lakewood, wondering where the omnipresent Linndale police are when someone broke down on 117th and could actually use some assistance. My landlord called to tell me I have a new neighbor, that she's very nice and has two and a half dogs, since a chihuahua doesn't count as a real canine in his book.

We drank coffee and went to the art museum, where people kept worrying about her walking up stairs and congratulating her and her husband. We checked out the really nice Asian art exhibit but spent most of the time in with the Byzantines, medieval relics, and Renaissance paintings, concluding that cherubs and satyrs are equally creepy.

I actually linger in front of my favorite works and analyze the color choices, pigments, brushstrokes, get inspired by the intricacies of cloisonne and champlevee enamel work, but the snark also comes out in full force too. "It's because of all those times we went to the art museum with Dad." My dad's not really artsy so nothing's terribly sacred as far as culture goes and we find everything funny.

But in all seriouness, these two muses by Meynier out of series of five are my favorites because of the drama, the epic size, and they just look so badass with all the falling comets and everything. If I had a palatial estate, I'd want these in my dining room.

Spicy Indian food makes me sleepy and because we're so cool we went to the Lakewood Library where I loaded up on history books about Somaliland, Vikings, old Paris, the Black Sea, and Eritrea and a huge stack of CDs. Lots of other people spend Saturday night at the library even if it's just for the fantastic movie selection. Tea and reading and cats who love doomy power chords seems like way more fun right now. And sleep. Sleep is good.

Friday, May 13, 2011


Instead of clay, I ended up eating dinner with the parents, as we wait for Baby and I'm thankful that my dad's doing better than he was, and I came back trying to figure out what to do with the rest of a cool night, not wanting to stay inside, not wanting to go see anybody's band, not wanting to do anything too epic.

So I drove down to the art walk in Tremont to wander and explore, because it's easier to walk alone in the dark when there's a lot of other people around, and I'm always up for gazing at beautiful things, but after being in awe of gorgeous illustrations, generic Cleveland skyline photos and overpriced jewelry just wasn't all that exciting, and the people-watching seems to get less and less arty and more, well, swanky, all the time. It was definitely date night or girls night out and there were hipster parents with little kids holding stuffed monkey animals and yuppie parents with kindergarteners in button-up shirts and ties eating at upscale bistros.

But one can't have an art district without affluent self-styled connoisseurs who can afford to eat at those restaurants and buy boutique clothes and paintings by local artists so they don't totally deserve the wrath of a younger self yelling "DIE YUPPIE SCUM" out my car window on one of my late night drives when they dashed out in front of my car and I freaked out. At least there's not enough of them to drive the rent up as the population of My Fair City plummets to new lows. I'm still not crazy about that whole culture at all, but as far as necessary evils go, they're not quite so bad.

The music was louder coming from all the bars and as I walked up the street I noticed a lot of people standing around by the ice cream shop and then saw a young guy playing the cello. As I got closer, even though I'm not classically trained, I could tell that he was really, really good.

There was a girl with him playing violin and they sounded incredible, as they worked through their repertoire. I wish I knew my composers better because I definitely heard Vivaldi and Bach but there were other things I recognized and couldn't remember who they were by.

I really didn't care about seeing everything else so I sat on the park bench feeling like I had my own private concert, watching the passerby either walk on to the next thrill or stop and listen in wonder, and dropped three dollars in the hat by his feet because it was the least I could do.

I suck at writing about music even though I do it a lot but it was just so perfect, with the cool night smelling of flowers, the beauty of the instruments meshing together perfectly and watching people play who truly enjoy what they're playing and are better than I could ever try to be and just everything about it was so perfect in part because I didn't expect it and it was something more than I could have ever hoped for.

nice limbo we have here

Writer's block and finals week, housesitting, sundry adventures, occasional frustration, incoherent thoughts, sharing dinners in Lakewood and conversation until the late hours, the requisite coffee and snark, waiting for the phone call to be there for my sister to welcome my nephew into the world, gardens, rain.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

best of the blotter: Winners International

THEFT, WEST BAGLEY ROAD: A 28-year-old resident tried to steal books from a local apartment complex. He passed out, however, before exiting the complex.

Police found the suspect on the library floor of Quarrytown apartments at 10 p.m. May 5. They found the library in disarray and books scattered around the suspect, who was very difficult to awaken.

When he finally awoke, the officer noted his speech was slurred. The officer was unable to understand him. The suspect finally rose from the floor after being told several times to do so.

The officer noted a strong odor of alcohol on the suspect, who swayed back and forth as he stood.

A witness said she told the suspect he could not take the books but he told her they were worth money and he was taking them to sell.

Police cited him with disorderly conduct, trespassing, criminal mischief, theft and drug possession, after finding some pills in his pocket.

PHONE CALLS (SUSPICIOUS), SOUTH FRANKLIN STREET: A resident reported May 4 that he had received a call May 4 from “Winners International,” informing him that he had won “cash and a white Mercedes Benz.” The man told the caller that he knew it was a scam and then contacted the Ohio Attorney General’s Office, which told him to call his local police department.

OVIs, VARIOUS LOCATIONS: After two unsuccessful attempts to produce his registration at 12:30 a.m. on May 6, a Chester man, 50, handed over to officers a pack of “Wet-Naps” in lieu of the real thing. He was initially pulled over for making a left turn through a red light from Enterprise Parkway onto aurora Road, and registered a .125 BAC on the Breathalyzer.

An anonymous caller complained about 3:30 a.m. April 24 that someone on Lenox Drive was howling at the moon -- and had been for several hours.

Police had to force their way into a Brandywine Drive home April 24 after friends and neighbors said they could not make contact with the elderly resident and were worried. Officers found the man inside and fine, although he was perturbed about police opening his door.

He said he was not answering his phone or door because he didn't want to see or talk to anyone.

Monday, May 9, 2011

unmovable blocks

I think I need another Arabica Night because I haven't attempted to write anything in a couple weeks and an optional deadline is looming at the end of the month. I've been reading and trying to get inspired, haunted by the literary ghosts/muses of Pekar, Balzac, Austen, and Joyce, by the flowers growing through the weeds of the house next door with the twisted yellow siding ripped by wind and burned by arson, melted into clanking curlicues of vinyl. If it had been metal, it would have been long gone by now.

I'm not as dead-crackerific as my creative compadre, but I struggle to evoke worlds on paper and on the laptop. I started writing on here to attempt to process musings about city and life and people, to keep writing even if I don't always have much to say that makes sense or is of any remote interest to the world outside of yours truly, learning how to see better, learning this whole life thing in general.

I really don't have much patience with either the chroniclers of Bright Young Things on either coast or the wannabe Bukowskis or the Jonathan Franzens rehashing the tired trope of literary DesperateHousewifery of outer-ring suburbia. It's boring. Hearing about New York and California all the time gets old, but those who dare to write about the Midwest or the Rust Belt post-1950 don't bring it to life for me for the most part.

I don't want to read crime novels or lurid tales of Scumbags Doing Scumbag Things to Each Other or Depressed Self-Absorbed TwentySomethings Just Like The Author, or First World White Girl Problems or Remember The Good Old Days That Never Existed. I don't want utter bleakness or sentimentality, and I know there has to be a middle ground here somewhere, it's just hard to find.

I know I will never be as good as those whose strings of words I love, but I'm hoping that I can string together the literary equivalent of beach glass, thrift store beads, and rock crystal into something interesting since I doubt it will be priceless.

Saturday, May 7, 2011


It's only May and my skin is already beginning to darken, between softball (in which I am improving, though that's not saying much), and the garden, and the left side darker than the right from driving around listening to Mudhoney, ending the night at a friend's birthday party where an attempt to have a night of music-making turned into something resembling an unplanned performance art piece, as the kids were banging on pots and pans while the grownups gamely tried to coordinate ourselves through basic three chordishness.

My life has become so much more quiet and the noise was something I've become unaccustomed too, but it felt good to play music with new people even if I didn't have my own guitar and beloved Silvertone and my hands were clumsy.

too much coffee yet again. I should have been sleeping by now, not drinking tea and listening to Siouxsie and procrastinating on doing any writing or anything useful.

Friday, May 6, 2011


I was too unmotivated to sit in class, so some kind of slacking seems to be in order, as the third cup of coffee is the charm and I'm finally feeling awake. Too awake to zone out on the last day of class, a class where I already have an "A" and it's not for credit as it is. The rain has replaced the sun that shone all morning, but I think about how it will nourish the soil and seeds in a way that I could not myself.

I spent the morning yesterday after realizing I'd showed up for work as if I was first-shifting rather than second, planting seeds and pulling weeds, trying to turn the dusty back yard full of dead vines and renegade spearmint into something purty, dropping California poppy seeds in between cracks in rock and brick, zinnias and wildflowers on the side and in the back, using the cement blocks between the yard and the fence as de facto planters.

On the other side, I'm doing vegetables again, so I can cook Mediterranean style all summer, living on tabbouleh and pesto, and there's still room that I haven't used yet. Having space is still strange to me after using a 6'X 3' strip last year, and I have lots of unfilled terra cotta pots and planters left behind by the downstairs neighbors meaning that I could do even more than I've done right now.

Being a constant cynic who assumes the worst and impatient on top of that, I never believe that any of this stuff will grow, even though it did last year. It's not unlike my spiritual journey which is fraught with doubt and questioning and expecting the worst even though there's the best to hope for. I know that with sun and water and that strange miracle of nature, that these tiny seeds contain the means to make plants that will flower and fruit and multiply themselves.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Wyrd Historye of Thee Daye: The Ranters

... not the ravers, kids.

As the Peonage takes advantage of our literacy and our employment in the Hallowed Halls of Information, the Kynge's Brewe is a constant companion to our serious scholarship of all manner of esoterica.

Ohiolink is a beautiful thing for acquiring unaffordable art books, books we want to read, books to write papers with, and sundry graphic novels and varyed musick, though the treasure trove of early English writings remains inaccessible to us.

Still, the headlines of said microforms make for entertaining reading, if one finds amusement in "Scurvie Alchemy" and whatnot.

There was quite a bit about The Ranters, which according to Wikipedia was a fringe religious sect that practiced some form of pantheism and general free love, which makes them something like 17th-century hippies. The screeds below make references to blaspheming song and other travesties with some amusing alliteration.

Needless to say, this didn't go over very well.

The routing of the Ranters, being a full relation of their uncivil carriages, and blasphemous words and actions at their mad meetings, their several kind of musick, dances, and ryotings, and their belief and opinions concerning heaven and hell. With their examinations taken before a justice of peace, and a letter or summons sent to their sisters or fellow creatures in the name of the Divel, requiring them to meet Belzebub, Lucifer, Pluto, and twenty more of the infernall spirits at the time and place appointed. Also, a true description how they may be known in al companies and the names of the chief ring-leaders of this new generation that excell all others in wickednesse.

The joviall crevv, or, The devill turn'd Ranter: being a character of the roaring Ranters of these times. / Represented in a comedie, containing a true discovery of the cursed conversations, prodigious pranks, monstrous meetings, private performances, rude revellings, garrulous greetings, impious and incorrigible deporements of a sect (lately sprung up amongst us) called Ranters. Their names sorted to their severall natures, and both lively presented in action.

The Ranters declaration: with their new oath and protestation; their strange votes, and a new way to get money; their proclamation and summons; their new way of ranting, never before heard of; their dancing of the hay naked, at the white Lyon in Peticoat-lane; their mad dream, and Dr. Pockridge his speech, with their trial, examination, and answers: the coming in of 3000. their prayer and recantation, to be in all cities and market-towns read and published; the mad-ranters further resolution; their Christmas carol, and blaspheming song; their two pretended-abominable keyes to enter heaven, and the worshiping of his little-majesty, the late Bishop of Canterbury: a new and further discovery of their black art, with the names of those that are possest by the devil, having strange and hideous cries heard within them, to the great admiration of all those that shall read and peruse this ensuing subject. Licensed according to order, and published by M. Stubs, a late fellow-Ranter.

The ranters last sermon : With the manner of their meetings, ceremonies, and actions; also their damnable, blasphemous and diabolicall tenents; delivered in an exercise neer Pissing-conduit. The third day of the week, being the 2 of August. 1654. With their mock-Psalme. Also God's wonderfull judgements shewed upon Ranters, Quakers and Shakers, and other wicked and profane persons at their meetings and exercises in London and other places. Written by J.M. (a deluded brother) lately escaped out of their snare.

The black and terrible vvarning piece: or, a scourge to Englands rebellion. Truly representing, the horrible iniquity of the times; the dangerous proceedings of the ranters, and the holding of no Resurrection by the shakers, in Yorkshire and elsewhere. With the several judgements of the most high and eternal Lord God, upon all usurpers, who deny His law, and His truth; and the manner how 130 children were taken away by the devil, and never seen no more; and divers others taken, rent, torn, and cast up and down from room to room, by strange and dreadfull spirits, appearing in the shapes of, a black boar, a roaring lyon, an English statesman, and a Roman fryer. Extracted out of the elaborate works of Bishop Hall, and Sir Kenelm Digby; and published for general satisfaction, to all Christian princes, states, and common-wealths in Europe

One of their founders later joined an apocalyptic proto-Unitarian group called the Muggletonians which I didn't know existed until about five minutes ago, and who liked to discuss the impending doom of the world over some beers at the local tavern.

In other words, nothing new under the sun, be they hippies or fundies, and history is awesome.

in which I will probably offend and be misunderstood by 85% of my not-so-devoted readers

So the first thing I heard on the radio this morning was CSNY's "Ohio," and I was a bit surprised not to hear any commentary from the Boomer Overlords about the anniversary day of the most significant event to happen at my alma mater.

There's a parking lot now where the shooting happened and every year lots of aging hippies crawl out of the woodwork to protest downtown, women with hair down to their knees and faded Oberlin College t-shirts, men with coolie hats and t-shirts with the Vietnam flag on them telling you "I was there, maaaan!" and all sorts of other types who show up for such things.

Because of my reputation as a "random force of chaos" and because despite my introverted tendencies I somehow get acquainted with a strange mix of people, I ended up hanging out with a crusty punk kid with feathers in his matted hair who called himself Cobalt who'd ridden on top of trains to get here for the big protest (this was in the heart of Dubya's second term). His clothes smelled so bad that the ARA girl he knew here had to hang them outside her dorm room window.

He joined our dinner table and watched the Black Keys with my crew of friends (who told me afterwards "we just all assumed that he was someone you knew"). We all went to the playground at midnight to go on the swings and hang out in the parking lot and then the next day me and him sat outside debating politics and religion while while eating out of a jar of ancient organic peanut butter with our fingers. He was "fighting capitalism" by stealing pens from campus offices so people couldn't write checks and coughing up blood every five minutes and I'm amazed I didn't get sick, but I did buy him food on my meal plan because I had a week of school left and a few hundred dollars to burn. I wonder where he is now.

We had a May 4th room in the library that was a popular destination for vacationing Freedom Rockers and a haunt for dirty old men as it had a computer and was dark, and every year the school has a big symposium where the likes of Bobby Seale and Jello Biafra speak, music by people like Country Joe, and a lot of general hagiography and accompanying mythology surrounding the event. It's like 9/11 for the Woodstockers and their acolytes more or less. "Tell me Father, did they aim?, and all that.

I asked my dad about it, since I grew up on his record collection full of Creedence, Neil Young, and Hendrix, and since he had neither money or grades for college and didn't want to Vietnam if he didn't have to (being skeptical of our reasons for being there), he was in the National Guard at the time, but stationed in Toledo (going off base to see the MC5 at Bowling Green and feeling like he looked like a spook) and he says that the 60's had a lot of great music but were hell to live through.

He doesn't have much patience for most of his generation and this probably explains a lot of my cynicism about suburban crackers who listened to Zeppelin and now dig smooth jazz, who wax poetic about "True Revolutionaries like Che Guevara" but drive new SUVs and live in the suburbs away from all "those people" but will tell you about that one black friend they had in college who had an Afro and was down with Malcolm X.

There were a lot of activist groups when I was there, and while there were some really great people who've no doubt gone on to try to save the world, there were also a lot of holier-than-thou types who believed that bathing was "fascist" and more than a few trust-fund socialists from Hudson who drove nice cars and wore Nautica chinos with their Che shirt and it was very hard for me to take them seriously when I was selling my books and CDs for grocery money, working 30 hours a week, and walking everywhere.

Certain members of my family blame my Kent State education for making me a flaming liberal but if anything, my time there soured me on both sides so completely as things like Abu Ghraib and the torture memos began to come out and the rank hypocrisy of those who claim to be more moral and Christian justified the unjustifiable but the left wasn't a friendly place to born-again pro-lifers like yours truly who are too skeptical about general human nature to believe that we can build a better tomorrow through greater bureaucracy and Kum-Ba-Yah.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

whoever said we'd wash away with the rain...

Running errands for work since I have my car today was much needed because even changes of mundane scenery save me from completely zoning out and heading into that usual route of melancholia.

I'm tired and depressed, thinking about too much, grieving some things I wish were not as they are, and coming down from the buzz of countless cups of coffee. I'm sure part of this is the weather and the feeling of helpless frustration at the state of the world that's haunted me since my teens. Some who believe say that I shouldn't get depressed but if my God walked the earth a man of sorrows, I think it's okay.

Tonight will be tea, candles, creating, sleeping, meditation, solitude, music. It's times like these when I'm glad I live alone because this way I don't bother anyone and I can just be...

So much blood I'm starting to drown
Runs from cold to colder
Time to time the sky's come down
To help me lose my way
Tears and lies for answers
You and open veins, God knows I'm gone
Girl I just want you to
Come on down
Lord it's a storm and I'm heading to fall
These sins are mine and I've done wrong, oh babe
Come on down
Long Gone Day
Mmmm, who ever said
We wash away with the rain
See you all from time to time
Isn't it so strange
How far away we all are now
Am I the only one who remembers that summer
Oh, I remember
Everyday each time the place was saved
The music that we made
The wind has carried all of that away
Long gone day
Mmmm, who ever said
We wash away with the rain
So many tears I'm starting to drown
The rain in heaven's all come down
Silver spoons affix the crown
The luckless ones are broken
Fears and lies for answers
You and open flames
God knows I'm gone
And I just want you to
Come on down, hmmm
Lord it's a storm and I'm heading to fall
These sins are mine and I've done wrong
I want you to, oh, I just want you to
Come on down
I fear again, like then, I've lost my way
And shout to God to bring my sunny day


When I was leaving for the radio station this morning, I was greeted by a black cat sitting on the glider on my front porch. It (I am unsure of the gender) was friendly as anything and got into the front seat of my car like I've owned it all my life, and as Randal is right about me being a total sap, I have a feeling I've been adopted. Someone else on Craigslist posted about a found feline similar to this one so I emailed him and am waiting to see if it belongs to him or not. We shall see...

Monday, May 2, 2011

so much wrong here.

As a chick and musician, I find the below Craigslist ad totally hilarious due to the misogyny and general rock star egotism especially endemic to the untalented. I'm going to assume here that being a "kick ass hot female" is probably more important than actually knowing how to play, but I could be wrong.

Also, I highly doubt from the band photos that said singer/guitarist looks like Dave Navarro. To just assume that all chicks are into you seems just a bit narcissistic. And "Grunge Lust" just sounds corny. I was really hoping they'd have a Myspace page or something, but no such luck. Still, it is slightly less demanding than the ad a few years back looking for Elton John and Tom Araya combined into one person.

Looking for Sean Yseult (Battery Park/Ohio City)

The name of our band is Gypsy Prince. If you know who Sean Yseult is, then you are on the same page as us. Our music is "Grunge Lust" and needs a kick ass hot female bassist. We're already booking shows, so hurry up. All though the drummer and myself are incredibly beautiful people, it is important to remember we are trying to get something done here, and we can't have you falling in love with us. We already have a sweet bass rig so all that you need is a sexy swagger and the chops to back it up.

I've got lust in my heart
My eyes set wide apart
I'm a Gypsy Prince
From far distances

Son of a far land
With the wind at my back
Into the west
Into the sunset
Pulled by invisible forces
You wake up
I'm gone with
Your wallet
Your jewelry
and your heart

* Location: Battery Park/Ohio City
* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

As a side note Sean Yseult is doing graphic design and general awesome arty things now. Go her.

swallow my pride

In the space of four days, from art-making, to art show for most excellent viewing and people-watching with the partner in crime, from slacker softball, to real baseball with my dad, watching the Indians win but skipping out on the 70's rock with synchronized fireworks, hanging out with one of my near and dear former roomies who's getting married in a few weeks, making epic plans for Ashtabula County absurdity, plotting road trips to Buffalo, uprooting fragrant mint roots from the back yard, planting basil and oregano in its place.

I'm numb about Bin Laden, a bit cynical, feeling like it's 9/11 all over again with all the jingoism and self-righteousness going down. We're still at war, Gitmo is still doing its thing, all sorts of shadiness is still going on, but oh look we can be distracted and it seems like they got rid of the body awfully fast but who cares and oh by the way security is heightened downtown which means more DHS and TSA on the RTA because oh man maybe someone will bomb Cleveland but who the hell would want to?

I keep on living and trying to figure out this whole loving God and doing the right thing thing and I find it amazing how we try to justify our motivations like they're oh so pure and I understand more and more why people seek oblivion in drink and drugs and Desperate Housewives, because the world is a nasty icky place that upon further inquiry is even more nasty and icky than previously thought.

So I go back to putting my hands in clay, in paint, in dirt, on metal strings and steering wheel, finding ways to laugh and trying to process all this through.