out from under

Some changes afoot, arcane decisions of the powers that be, attendant absurdity with relatively decent results for yours truly, who now can chortle more at seekers in search of membership into the Esoteric Order of St. Drogo, which contrary to popular belief, is purely for imbibement of the Kynge's Brewe and the accompanying commentary of Sundry Important Issues, and not for anything resembling bunga-bunga. Lay off those old blues records, boomers, sometimes a cup of coffee is just a cup of coffee.

click and clique

Less nervy this time, showing up and plugging in. No worries of doing cover songs for which I have disdain that smacks of unadmitted musical judgment. She has demos on her laptop recorded with a synth, like larva waiting to explode the chrysalis in glory, and my hands stretch into chords, coaxing out reverb-drenched riffs, bending strings, fingers gliding up and down the frets.

I love that it's not just verse-chorus-verse that there are pieces and parts and interludes. Having to keep time and remember how all these go together is a new thing compared with Peter-Hooking basslines to try to make pedestrian suburban punk sound more interesting. Maybe I'm more of a prog-head than I'll admit, but I love that I have the freedom to let out my inner J. Mascis that it's more than three chords. No vocals yet but hopefully those will be forthcoming and something beautiful. I'm more into catharsis than aggression these days, and if this all falls through the ability to string chords together and maybe pair those with some verbiage seems like a less mysterious art now that it's been tried.

We are still shaping, trying to figure out the sonics, turning notes into chords, and I'm scrawling out chord progressions, codes of letters and numbers on pieces of notebook paper, adding minor chords, attempting to flesh out these skeletal ideas into something I hope I can say I love as much as what I've heard others do. I'd love to do something this beautiful.



I saw this band open for Agalloch earlier this year and wasn't expecting something so incredibly beautiful with a name like that, which is probably the point. Really should have bought the album then, but there's a new record coming out, and I fell in love with the cathartic crunch and shimmer of guitars and sinuous basslines and I'll make good I promise this time.

I guess one never knows how these will work out, but the act of stepping out and getting over the nervousness to see what happens has been liberating in itself, and gives me another thing to look forward to after sitting at a desk and pushing papers, ivory tower style, negotiating the tricky terrain of a world of grownups who still jockey for position in the pecking order, whose words and demeanor belie an ultimate dishonesty and embarrassing insecurity.

My circle has always been open to some extent to those with some degree of compassion and a lack of pretension, as I try not to judge others based on tastes or initial appearance, but when someone wants to join the Order of St. Drogo, someone who's denoted other compadres as being "weird"(if you think that about him, than I'm sure you're saying it about me) and seems more interested in gleaning workplace gossip and being in good with the Powers That Be, I'm not inclined to extend the invitation. It's not the economics or the upper echelon with which I take issue, but the lack of trust. Besides, this is the coffee pot of Peonage not the water cooler, no juicy gossip, just the indulgence of lifelong geekery for the stranger side of all things. And, of course, that's just too weird.

More and more I find myself putting up walls, weighing each word so carefully, smiling wide to distract from my narrowed eyes, because I know that if I don't care for someone, it's really hard to hide. I don't know how to truly be dishonest.

And I sit in the halls of power, listening to the conversations of those above, as wording is shifted and the dialogue is not born out of genuine feeling but a constant mental calculation, and I see the masks drop enough to recognize them as such, finding what is underneath so distasteful that the coverings seem like they make sense.

caffeinenation

The need for caffeine and the urge to write have me sitting in the corner, attempting to conjure up verse and rust belt writing because I'm feeling existential and the paper from hell is finally done, so I'm people watching all the lonely souls of Clevelandia too young to drink too old to stay at home, who are too busy with their own drama to really pay attention.

It's one of those nights where the cold and the unspooling of continual thought makes for things maybe worth scrawling about. The conversations about life and love and trying to think in a sad city where sometimes we get so tired that it's hard to. But tonight I am too awake and too verbose to try and paint, too alert to kick back and be entertained by a screen so I take the long way down Lorain past the dollar stores and dive bars, the boarded up buildings, the halal markets and Irish pubs, to sit in the corner at Common Grounds, to write poetry alone like a teenager.

I was invited to a birthday party tonight, but I'd rather be among strangers where it's not expected to socialize, where there's caffeine instead of alcohol, and nobody thinks they're cool. When I'm at parties like that the last thing I want to do is be around people, I get this freaked out urge to disappear into the backyard or sit on the porch, wishing I had the excuse of cigarette breaks to be introverted, wanting to take a walk with the other person there who feels antisocial, amble around the block in the cool October air and talk about everything and nothing.

Thinking about wars and rumors of wars, of American exceptionals and the provincialism of small cities with big orchestras and bigger problems, so many things I wish I could say before the battery on my laptop dies, but I'm tired, and I've written, so it's a beautiful thing.

holding sand

Did you get any good pictures?
I got one.
Yeah, none of mine came out because of those drunk guys...

Not even the absurdity and general jerkitude of aging bros (how these dudes got married is beyond me) getting wasted to alternative-ish rock played by veterans of the NY straight-edge scene while yelling out requests for Quicksand and the Gorilla Biscuits that were understandably ignored could get in the way of reliving my years of gauged ears and still-existent teen angst straddling the world of radio rock and the first dives into the underground.

Everyone else seemed to be about my age, the longhaired Quicksand fans excepted. The drunks were annoying and we were relieved when they went back to the bar because we could watch the band without them in front of us, but I was in good company with my long-time female companion in rockingness Kristy and the guy standing next to me with whom I exchanged grins and eye-rolls and later numbers when a mutual affinity for exploring rocky parts of the Cuyahoga Valley and the dulcet sounds of Kyuss was discovered.



I like my weird tuneage, but my standby has always been loud guitars and the perfect alchemy of anthemic melody, cathartic angst and dissonance. There's a new record, one that's not bad, but I think most of us were there for the old stuff, cheering as the opening chords to 'Travel by Telephone' rang out, nodding along to the extended jams of 'Everything Has Its Point,' singing every word of 'Undercovers On.' I wonder how many other people hear have had this album soundtrack their teenage drama and growing-up angst the way it has for me, the way we hang on every word and chord change, waiting for the crescendo of guitar and drums.



They end with the cover of 'How Soon is Now?' and while I've never been a huge Smiths fan, I've loved this song and this cover especially and I'm damn near euphoric as we belt out "I'm human and I need to be loved" and Walter tells us to go home (and presumably cry and want to die perhaps). It ended the night perfectly and we drive home listening to Faith No More, spaced-out and laughing as the world feels full of possibilities once again.

I'm small, like a superball...

As I need the caffeine and want to check email, the coffeeshop up the street is a nice morning refuge, where I can sit in the corner and watch the world go by, thankful that despite the serious drama of the weekend, there are some things to look forward to, art-making and live music (hopefully with pictures to follow), beautiful fall weather outside. Sometimes the only thing one can do is keep on going.

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.

summations

I've staked out my corner at the coffeeshop where I sketch out this paper, thankful for the invention of Google Docs, answering the phone from my mom to find out my dad's in the hospital again (it's just precautionary like they always say, but there's the part of me that still worries), tapping my pen to a Bad Religion song that reminds me of senior year, pondering in a way that's not quite optimistic, but not really despairing either. My mom calls me to be sure I'm not dead, because I'm terrible at responding to text messages.

I've had a breakthrough in inspiration, a way around the problem, attempting to summarize the threads of globalization, my favorite mid 19th and early 20th century art movements and their expressions of geopolitical realities in 3-5 pages. I know I'm insane for trying this because it's more or less a dissertation, but it's better than parroting back what someone wants to hear or read. I know it doesn't matter because it's not for a degree or grade but it's a personal thing.

The couple at the table is talking about high school, about cheerleaders and jocks and freaks. The academics flash their credentials, the older women at the place of employment swap juicy details and complain about there not being enough rich men to have affairs with, the overlords obsess upon minutiae, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with people, because this all seems so stupid but then I'm sure the way I do things seems just as crazy if not moreso.

dew points

Socializing is not nearly so stressful when strangers and loved ones mingle and I can both interact and observe the interactions of social spheres converging over ample alcohol. I don't drink in this kind of mixed company and drink cup after cup of strong coffee and start talking about absurdity of one kind or another. I'm already ridiculous under the influence of caffeine and fear the affects of anything stronger among a less forgiving populace.

Being out in the burbs, I felt justified in stopping on the way home to peruse at bookstores in hopes of finding out of print art books on obscure craftsmen but settling for dollar grunge CDs and the eternally inspiring art suppliers, because while most of my female peers prefer to shop for shoes, my kryptonite is luminescent acrylics the hues of stained glass, brilliant inks, virgin canvas and uncut squares of linoblock, and waxy prismacolor pencils, attempting to justify the luxury of high-end acrylic and ultimately frugality wins. Maybe someday when I'm really really good or get a pay raise, neither of which is likely.

The world is spiralling even more absurdly with crazed wackjobs with guns and bombs, the lack of change in the status quo regardless of revolution or elected official, and I grieve and yet am full of wonder at the beauty of summer nights of rain and light. I don't feel like I make any sense, that what I believe outside of the Nicene really has any grounding in practical application, and I ramble incoherently and hide behind words and the works of my hands, not knowing what I want out of the future, inconsistent always, hypocritical often, craving yet not knowing for what. Things I can't explain unless over a cup of coffee in person and even then...

golden

There's more people than I'm used to here at the usual coffeeshop hangout, as I finish up my take-home quiz, drink ginger peach green tea, attempt to restructure the purgatorial novel along the lines of 'Dubliners,' scrawl feeble attempts at verse, and relish the solitude among texting teens, undergrads studying calculus, and a crew of middle-aged regulars.

It's nice to be somewhere where nobody knows your name but it's not unfriendly. The only person who's tried to talk to me was a bum who said I looked like a writer and tried to sell me a four-color pen in exchange for bus fare.

I keep thinking it's warmer than it is, not looking forward to going back outside because a thermal and a hoodie doesn't cut it yet. I don't want to go back out into the cold when it's so warm and golden in here, with the Christmas lights and the buzz of caffeine, the hum of indistinguishable conversation and muted music.

caffeine dreams

My day ended better than it started, with making art and then dinner, tea, late night conversations that I thrive on. It's rare to find other souls with whom I can angst, ponder, and laugh, and getting to do that is one of those things that keeps me alive. We know we can't figure out the meaning to life, the universe, and everything, but there's enough moments of clarity and sudden illumination that come from sorting through all the cultural clutter and intellectual junk that's piled up over our last two decades to make the process seem worthwhile.

And I'm back at the place of employment, plotting out future creative directions, maintaining a steady intake of caffeine, learning the hard way that finely ground Yemeni coffee does not work in the coffeepot, but that's probably just as well, because our favorite-would-be-funny-if-people-weren't-dying-rogue-leader thinks that Bin Laden's come out of his mancave to drug the Nescafe.

Those crazy kids and their Nescafe and bath salts and Four Loko and whatnot. Serious Delirium.

oh please.

So Sarah Palin is still claiming to be some kind of martyr but there's a different between getting persecuted for your faith and being justifiably ridiculed for being an opportunist with a big mouth and a seeming incapacity for self-reflection. Some people say I don't like here because it's "cool" to not like her, but this is different. Any time someone uses spiritual language and metaphor in a way that does a great disservice to where that language comes from, it's just not a good thing.

Persecution for your beliefs? Hmmmm...

Considering that merely going to church in Egypt or India makes you likely to get blown up or that you can get dragged into court in Pakistan for supposed blasphemy and converting equals a loss of family, life and livelihood in a lot of other places around the world, snarky people on the Internet and non-Fox News outlets are really not that big of a deal.

I'd like to see these people actually, well, re-read what they supposedly believe because there's a whole lot about being blessed for being a peacemaker and thirsting for righteousness and showing mercy, and the sun shining on the evil and the good. I supposed that's too much to ask, though.

Meanwhile in the world of those who are formerly Catholic (probably the most common religion of my generation at least here in the Rust Belt), everyone else is freaking out about their zodiac sign because vague newspaper predictions like "you may encounter stress today" or "you will find something out about that special person in your life" are forever not the same anymore.

I always found it ironic when my friends in high school would give me a hard time about my preference for "organized religion" when they were reading the daily horoscope as intensely as I read the Bible and consulted the Tarot deck every morning before class and based romantic relationships on said significant other's stars. "Oh it's okay that he's an asshole. All Aries are that way. What can you do?"

It must be a great job to write the daily astrology and keep cycling catchphrases like a housewife Nostradamus. It'd almost be as good as ghost-writing or penning deadpan Telegraph-style obituaries. Why didn't they offer writing classes like that when I was an
undergrad? Damn.

And since I can't think of much in the way of songs about snow, here's some fabulously frigid New Zealand post-punk for your Tuesday morning...

coptic times

"This will keep you up past midnight."

Due to my massive caffeine consumption, I wasn't expecting a demitasse cup of Ethiopian rocket fuel to do much to me, but she was right. I didn't need dinner with the massive amount of injera, savory stews that mean I will never be vegetarian, and spiced bread served with the strongest coffee I've ever had. Celebrating Christmas 2002 on the Coptic calendar and hearing Siyum joke at our expense about the western world freaking out at the time of Y2K was priceless.

I came home late and full of spicy goodness and somehow did end up staying past midnight drinking ginger tea and watching the entire animated Clerks series loaned to me by my esteemed fellow peon.

I'm exhausted today, but it was a beautiful way to end.

the words of the prophets

So I spent the last week hovering between total depression and moments of bliss, not for any real good reason except that I'm human and there's constant equal doses of amazing moments and conversely the continual shortcomings.

Some have told me that feelings of melancholy are indicative of spiritual problems, that I need to claim in the name of Jesus that yes I can be happy all the time. Others have let me make excuses for my emotions, disregarding the way that they've maybe not been so fun for the others around me. Some say I'm too busy and others that I need to be doing more. I get to the point where I feel like they're all wrong more or less. there were a lot of chronically depressed people who God spoke to, and if the book of Ecclesiastes and Dylan taught us anything, there is a time and purpose for everything, including sorrow.

I was able to force myself out of the blue funk, and I've always found that venturing to the east side does wonders, with its change of scenery and the chillness of some good people that always make me laugh. I made three sojourns out there in the past 5 days, one for Apples to Apples at a friend of a friend's apartment, Friday night cups of tea and scrabble at Algebra



where we were immensely amused by the sketchbooks in the back:

"



followed by pizza and gelato and then late night donut shop coffee-drinking, and then yesterday at Jerusha's apartment that was spontaneous and good times, discussions on theology, the history of India, eastern religion made palatable for the west...

Because as bad as things get in this city, there's enough to keep me here and keep me hopeful.