and so it begins again

Like buzzards circling over Hinckley Lake, it's time again for the annual get-off-my-lawnism debate about the current batch of Rock Hall nominees, as if it isn't already more than predictable after how many years of this, post-freedom-rocking boomers. Inevitably, there is a disco act, and in the last five years, a hip-hop act, and some 60's bubblegum pop group that I've never heard of.

Because this city is still stuck somewhere in the vortex of 1975-1987, one would think that the most pressing issue affecting the average Clevelander is not corruption, a craptastic economy, and failing schools, but that their favorite somewhat dorky 70's prog bands aren't liked by people in New York who don't even care that we the relative yokels exist. Still, there seems to be this inherent need within the rustbelt to be validated by the arbiters of some strange standard of cool on either coast, which isn't all that cool anyway, considering that these are people are mostly industry hacks and hangers-on.

While these debates make for slightly less divisive conversation than politics over morning coffee, it's a source of amusement to read the comments on Cleveland.com and visualize all these grown men (I'm assuming they're mostly dudes older than me, sorry male species!) getting angry on the Internet due to the perceived snubbing of Emerson, Lake, and Palmer.

It's also amusing to me to read comments referring to Metallica as a "Poor Man's Led Zeppelin" and Rush as "a garage band that plays the same cord over and over again," and why is Parliament-Funkadelic in there because they don't rock because obviously they've been listening to Atomic Dog instead of Maggot Brain. Of course there's the terribly stereotypical and borderline comments about hip-hop, allegations of political correctness, the required appearance by the local legion of KISS fans, and people all but threatening to fight each other over the merits of Jethro Tull vs. Donna Summer.

Anyways, I talk tuneage with my fellow peons all the time, and it gets snarky, but it's nothing to come to fisticuffs over.

respite

I haven't been good about posting pictures because I'm a PC person who owns a Mac, but these are from Dike 14 on Saturday, which is an awesome place.







I've been a mess these past few weeks, with everything going on, and the change of seasons, and the feeling of stasis. I went for a good two weeks of eating dinner alone unable to string two words together in conversation, but yesterday was beautiful even if it began feeling utterly overwhelmed and broken. Intangible divinity once again transcended at the moment of my leastness and deepest doubts in ways that are nearly impossible to explain, and it ended up being the first really good day I've had in months.

I meet up with Tangerine for the first time since this summer, and epic plans were altered to instead hang out at the cemetery because it was a beautiful day and it was close by. Lake View is massive and we went down the "nature walk" path and ended up somewhere completely different and somewhat deserted, with my nice camera getting lots of use.



I love this angel so much.



Shadows of leaves on the bronze doors of the tombs.



daddy long legs spiders guarding mildewing silk flowers. This crypt had this weird echo effect which meant we were saying all sorts of absurd things to hear the reverberation.



This one I'd never seen before and was in the middle of the woods.



Japanese maples turning colors, the way these branches bend is beautiful to me.



This was creepy enough from this angle, and then we realized from walking around to the other side that the little boys were naked, which is even creepier. I don't understand. By this time, we'd wandered around a lot and got hungry so we got pizza and gelato and sat at the little cafe tables on Murray Hill conversating until it started to rain and we both needed to get home anyway.

I got home later than I thought I would, and while buying earplugs at the drugstore for the show tonight, got a call from Muk, who was down at Edgewater and wanted to hang out. I didn't want to bother with opening acts for the show, so I joined him on the pier as we watched the waves break on the rocks and talked about everything until the park ranger started coming around and I had live music to go see.



Got to Peabody's about five minutes before Katatonia got onstage, got my much needed catharsis of moody rock and Swedish accents, the only sour note being the drunk blonde metalhead Snooki type who tried to start a pit and kept slamming into me ostensibly because I was about the same size and didn't have anyone with me. I'm too old for the mosh thing and didn't want to get into a chickfight when there's good music to get introspective to so I got out of her way after she grabbed my shirt by the bra straps and started pulling me, and found more chill people on the side (kids with their confused parents) to stand by.

Still, it was a good show, they played a long set and I was able to lose myself in sweet sounds and indulge my inner techie geek by checking out the chords, deciphering tunings and time signatures because I spent my teens reading guitar magazines instead of Seventeen. Most of the crowd except for the girls were chill. Seriously, ladies, you're doing us females who dig the heavy sounds a disfavor.

No pictures, as I had the little point and shoot and forgot to replace the memory card. Thankfully Randal's more organized than me and has the visuals.

slow suicide's no way to go

A routine morning at the family leads to finding out that one relative has a week to live, that another one much closer is veering closer and closer to a total collapse and there's nothing any of us can do. I don't know what to say, and leave, not knowing what to do.

But it's so beautiful out, and how many more days like this will there be, so I go to the nature preserve that's open twice a year, take my camera and shoot pictures of leaves and trees, of reeds taller than me, of spiderwebs and deadwood, basking in the sun filtering through the green and the first red colors of fall, having awkward small talk with senior citizen birdwatchers, walking ahead so I can be alone with God and immerse myself in the sound of crickets and cicadas.

I want more green and flowers, but the botanical garden has some big event so I wander through the art museum looking at photos of the midwest and its broken dreams, ancient sculptures from Persia and Greece and Byzantium, the bright colors of oil paintings. I know that this is only temporary solace, but it is solace nonetheless.

I need sleep, need so many intangible things and wish for things that will never happen in this all too short life. I don't know what to say, what to do to make anything better. I don't know if any of us really does.

retain a sense of humor

A possibly innocent man is dead, REM broke up but that really didn't matter much, I still don't care what some politician says about someone else, my brain seems unable to function creatively with the cocktail of seasonal cold virus and rust belt allergens manifesting late in life.

I don't know what to do with myself when I have a night off of work and no art center, and these hours of daylight are becoming rarer and more precious, so I walk through the neighborhood, go down to the shore which is beautiful and pastel and almost completely emptied, even the water is subdued.



A stack of CDs from the library, more books on my shelves than I ever seem to have time to read, a feeling of increasing disconnectedness when I half-think about calling up whoever but due to not wanting to bother anyone, not knowing what to say as it is. As it's gotten easier to interact, it gets harder to connect and there's less to connect with as the inevitable pairoffs become more frequent. There's a lot of things I don't mind doing by myself, but being too relational for my own good, I don't like to do it all the time and one can't hide behind the creative all the time without going a little crazy.

I can't see you but I see what's in my way

Waiting for the bus, trying to navigate this whole insurance agent thing, driving through the rain to the east side sucking on cough drops, listening to Janelle Monae, zoned out, but still able to find my way, sitting in a room next to a dusty vending machine reading as the radio plays country music, coming home and turning on the radio to hear an Amber alert that breaks my heart as I drive down Harvard past boarded-up houses and steelyard bars and then coming down Denison to see the street blocked off and I find out that there was a shooting up there, and I just want to go home, so tired and wet.

But I haven't been to the art center in awhile, didn't get much done, but hung out with a fellow creative, puzzled over sheets and shapes of copper, jars of colored powders and chunks of glass and plotted future projects, deferring work on Paper From Hell Number 1 another day.

I just want to take a half day off and listen to Neil Young and watch the rain, shake the sleepiness, the sore throat and ennui, the discontentedness so unnecessary, sift through the halfhearted wants and incoherent thoughts. There are so many.

vignetted

Conversations of frustration over coffee, a glimpse of what feels like a third world country black market down the street, best-laid plans go so awry, ran into a friend of mine from high school and his wife, haven't seen them in ten years... they've got two kids and lots of tattoos and he's so deadly serious in ways that I saw glimpses of when he was a typical teenager with lots of extra cash for fast cars and a CD collection, helped paint a front porch around the corner, went to the bibliotheque to get books for the paper I'm writing and bring pickles for Randal and came out to find the little back window broken and all the contents of my glove compartment in the front seat.

Awesome.

So I call the campus police and just stand there with the art books scattered where I dropped them and the weather is beautiful, the cop really nice and wonders why I'm so chill but the reality hasn't completely kicked in and it's really not that bad (the car is still there, mostly intact, nothing's missing as the thief isn't interested in books of Byzantine folklore or Alice in Chains CDs).

So I head back from errand-running with all intentions of catching the Cloud Nothings at Ingenuity Fest under the fantastically beautiful bridge, but it's not safe to walk the almost-hood alone and there's no parking to be found anywhere, as the spaces close by are reserved for More Important People, and the one space I did find I relinquished to the gigantic pimptastic white Buick that I cut off, only to have an angry figure in a shiny dress and long nails come storming up to my car and I'm not going to get into a fight over a parking space on a dark street so I acquiesce.

After circling around the block a few more times, getting cut off by countless Lexuses and minivans that either don't care or never drive downtown, I'm fed up with everyone, tell my friends waiting for me this, and while one of my very good guy friends offers to come and pick me up when he gets off work I don't want to put him through the hassle and I'm just too tired to be around all the stimulation, everything's starting to hit.

Too many people, too much noise. So I'm at a coffeeshop down the street on the gold coast reading about Russian art movements, drinking tea, the barista's playing 90s hits and I forgot about all those one-hit wonders that weren't very good, but the general peace here is comforting even in the ennui.

antisocialite

A cup of black tea scented mango and an almost-finished paper, the comfortable introverted companionship, the acquaintance made of Kandinsky in the name of attempting to making academic absurdity bearable. I can't help but try even with the work hard now/slack later ethos that's characterized my entire academic life. I barely have the ambition to be an artist or a writer, let alone pursue degrees and that kind of trajectory. Instead, I mess around, feed my brain, hang out with the souls I enjoy when I get the chance to.

The thought of sitting in a classroom of unbearableness after a long week led to a long-deferred and much-needed lunch hour excursion of food consumption, hanging out at the cemetery, and exploring the old Chinatown and due to my lack of photographic posting, I've decided to tag along with Randal's 30 day challenge thing. So here's the self-portrait, face obscured by signage and reflection to protect the guilty.



It's good for one's soul to be out in the fall air, walking and feeling momentarily free. We were made to walk and stand, not sit crouched at desks and sedentary. Hopefully I'll get to hang out under the bridge downtown but that doesn't look like it's in the plans tonight as I finish what I can before the place closes, thankful for weekends and the precious crystalline interludes of revelation like the first time I heard this album and it blew my mind.