the denim room

i have a denim room.  it’s not actually made of denim, of course.  it is painted dark-washed textured blue.  there are also silver dragonflies stenciled over top.  the room existed in this way when i bought the house and i had always planned on changing it, but in a surprisingly human fashion i have become accustomed to it over the years.  it is whimsical and it allows me to break the confines of a self-imposed benjamin moore prison.  i have been spending more and more time there lately, listening to music and watching the walls and ceiling.  i dare not sleep there, though, for fear of the dragonflies coming to life at night.

waiting

“the easiest way to bring the future to you is to forget everything.”

“lose awareness and lose the notion of waiting?”

“something like that, but with an eject button.”

“i’ve always wanted to push one of those.”

“forgetting is never as easy as you’d think.  it’s a game of hide-and-seek and misdirection with the one entity that knows you best.”

            “my go-to place was the neighbor’s shed.  the rats…”

“but when you get it right you wake up one afternoon and future is in front of you and every second in between has not been counted.”

            “i wonder why it takes so long to piss at this club.”

rules change

not as though i needed empirical evidence to support this, but the fact that my immediate reaction to the track recommended by t.price in this post was related entirely to the fact that npr used a service named rdio (pronounced "arrr-dee-ooo") to deliver it speaks volumes about the current state in which i find myself.

are we really going to start referring to the omission of vowels as innovation? have we already reached that point? should i even care? t. price's recommendations are always highly considered, but i'm too worked up to focus on this one. what ever happened to napster and the year 1999?

beach monster

everything about strfkr’s beach monster (it’s the last song at the bottom) screams, or, more accurately, deliberately coos comfort.  the background hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses appeal to the basic human need for social interaction, making the listener feel enveloped by the soft downy padding of vocal static and the occasional laugh.  slide guitar is intrinsically adagio.  it may, of course, become unresolved at some point but it always finds its way back to its root before the song’s end.  the use of delay on the vocals conveys a dreamy half-reality where one can be both in a railroad tunnel and in bed at the same time.  in addition the modulated vocal harmonies recall wholesome radio ads from the nineteen thirties.  most importantly, though, at two minutes in length beach monster fills the gap nicely between swigs of single malt straight from the bottle. pace is the trick.

daily routine

having tried to figure out why i am not more famous through years of deep introspection i can still find no reason.  i thought perhaps a glimpse into hunter thompson’s daily routine would reveal some glaring differences but, alas, no.  we are like two swigs of the same bottle of rum.  the only things i found odd were the amount of orange juice he drinks (clearly embellished) and blended scotch?  don’t make me vomit up my breakfast snow.

bright lights

having spent the last few years enduring the unflinching weather patterns of londontown - omnipresent gloom at its best - there is a feeling of comfort that comes with my first winter back in the southern portion of these united states. i missed the sun and i believe it missed me. 

as to the dynamic nature (not to mention fate) of the wardrobe that i had built to handle those conditions which are now in the past - i continue to keep an open mind when it comes to assessing challenges.

we like to party

            i’m not into beyonce but i’m into caroline.  and i’ve been into kool a.d. ever since that one time i found myself in a taco bell inexplicably after being in that pizza hut.  i was pretty confused since i was actually trying to get to k.f.c. to steal wet-naps.    

            here’s caroline and chairlift with kool a.d. reaching deep down for soul with “party”.  this is absolutely the only band i want to play my wedding.  well them or some drunk guy with an ipod.  

lava rainbows

i think the accompanying sound for sunlight through leaded glass in the morning is a warm acoustic guitar being picked or lightly strummed.  for midday the best match is ethereal synth or human voices in harmonies.  think “gypsy woman (she’s homeless)” or “wouldn’t it be nice”.

my leaded windows splay tens of small rainbows across my floor in the afternoon.  today i hopscotched between them pretending they were lava, singing along with “digital love”.  i didn’t need to hop on the way back in the other direction, of course, because my shadow quenched them before me.  i still sang though.

velocity

i don't listen anymore. 

there is an awareness that sound exists but i'm into simple packaging - demands, acquiescence, objections. these add up to something, i'm sure, but calculating the sum always feels more elusive than assuming the meaning of the parts. 

i need to move faster, think less, consuming only what is necessary. there is a question of whether it was engineered to be this way from the start. the facts seem to point away from the affirmative, which concerns me less than one would think. the speed is intoxicating and i feel anything but obligated to consider alternatives.

paper

my favorite part about books is their static nature.  they are outside time. they are fluid, free to be followed backwards, forwards, or in random discrete jumps.  find the sentence you last read before the end of the world and be welcomed back without bias.  with a few flicks of the finger and a flutter of air the scene can be replayed.  it is an amazing feeling when you realize you can trick the universe and replay sections of your life again in real time, finding that same happiness that existed chapters ago.  of course this is only possible under the right conditions and it is ever so delicate.  i’m going to savor mine until i lose balance.

when you take a sip you buzz like a hornet

restringing a guitar is probably the most calming repetitive task i know.   the smell of spanish cypress compels me to hug my guitar’s body warmly.  the feel of the peaks and valleys of the wound bronze strings running across skin provides a sharp contrast to the smooth wood.  the chirping of skin sliding over the strings recalls the sound of sneakers against the floor of a gymnasium.  the first pluck of the new string produces a buzz that is felt in that one place deep in the chest.  you know the one.  i find it impossible to be upset by the time the last string is in place.  

now i'm gold

while hanging upside down recently in an attempt to dorian-ize myself against any further aging a thought occurred to me.  am i actually, despite my desperate longing for something more, happy at present?  on first analysis i couldn’t remember the last time i’d clapped and that obviously sways toward the negative.  i mean, my ruddy cheeks surely were more a product of being inverted than my humor.  however i soon recalled listening to rilo kiley’s “silver lining” recently and it’s sign of a cold black soul to not clap along to that.  and of course my nightly “private eyes” dance-along also contradicts my initial thought.  i suppose subconsciously i could be happy.

i still, however, long for more.

you breathe and eat and grow. And that is how you know

hear muffled sounds in the distance.  it’s always the ears first.  feel a slight breeze on your bare neck.  your hairs dance like they just don’t care.  open your eyes a crack.  take note of the blurry silhouettes around.  they will be sharp in time.  run your tongue over the adhesive on the roof of your mouth and wince briefly.  open your mouth.  take a deep breath.  leave no air in the room.  exhale.  you’re the victim.

this is a mess

i have to spit out this story, late as it is, because i haven’t got the ability to resist. mike stumbled in formal dress, late to the assembly of welsh nobility off in the distance. i like jumbled messes that modulate and assemble themselves gradually until they are crisp. soggy cereal gets me twenty-first chromosome down. i can only get up again when the cheerio in my heart is filled. at long last it has come in apple cinnamon, no citrus. my dreams are not spicy but sweet.

blueberry, i hardly knew thee

i was sniffing my dry erase markers today and found that blueberry wasn’t as crisp as she was before. part of her tip had been separated from the rest and had been peeled back like the scalp of a native’s enemy. i tried to fix her until i was blue in the hands but there was nothing i could do. now i am stuck with this guilty conscience and intermittent hypothermia on my fingers, both of which will endure as i mourn my loss.

historically swearing politely

i watched some of the united states inaugural proceedings today in an attempt to be stirred for the first time ever by witnessing history first hand. after president obama’s speech my insides felt noticeably better. i don’t think it was the content of his words that moved my stomach to unclench but rather his honest eyes. throughout his abbreviated history lesson and his rough sketch of the hard road ahead he consistently looked like believed his message of hope. and that is a good thing since hope is contagious but rare. i was quite moved when he mentioned nonbelievers in his laundry list of religions as i can’t remember any other president including that group of people before (although my memory only goes back to the end of reagan).

i was a little freaked out when mr. obama botched the oath of office twice, but i was told that in fact he doesn’t need to wait four years to do it over again and become president for real. all the same, it’s going to take a lot of horseshoes, salt, magpies, and bells to break this hex. and, luckily, i have three of those four hex-breakers right now for just such an occasion. i’ll pick up some salt on the way home.



UPDATE: the president has taken the oath again. i'm not sure what this means for my hex cure. i wonder if it will now re-hex the united states, causing a plague of horrible luck to rain down on our purple mountains. one thing is certain: justice roberts should leave the freestlye oath-ad-libbing to the bass from boyz ii men.

listening to landscapes

i watched a documentary about a man with severe synesthesia who sees numbers as three dimensional images with associated feelings. He sees the answers to complex mathematical problems as landscapes, and this helps him to solve these problems in unbelievably short periods of time. while i envy this ability, i think i would rather see sounds. i love numbers like i love the summertime but colorful music would be much more fun. it’s selfish, i know. i can just imagine seeing sigur ros’ “svefn-g-englar” and tearing up even as i smile. it would be worth the nightmare i’d see in diminished chords and the endless merry-go-round that pop radio would appear to be. i do wonder, though, if would have to stop listening to music as i fall asleep.

a whistling chill over my feeble flame

in an interview with harper’s arthur krystal restates that he simply cannot enjoy contemporary poetry, prose, or literary criticism because it does not have the ability to make him change the way he views the world. in essence, those art forms have run their course:

one has to be a genius, a veritable genius, these days to write an original and historically significant poem or novel. The same applies to painting and classical music. And by “significant,” I mean something that will not only astonish but will change forever how we regard the form. And as you know, I don’t think this is possible anymore. And this, too, is a function of age, the world’s age. When an art form is just emerging, when an aesthetic movement is still developing, genius isn’t necessary to create memorable works. Talent and knowledge are sufficient. Geniuses arise, of course: Beethoven, Cervantes, Shakespeare, Vermeer, Picasso, Joyce, but you’ll also find a great number of tillers in the field who do interesting work by virtue of the fact that such work hadn’t been done before.

i have not progressed to the muted, sepia-toned world arthur krystal must live in, but only because i am ignorant of many works of genius that, over the years, i have set aside for later consumption. krystal’s problem is a scary one, and his philosophy is depressing for anyone who fancies themselves a writer. does it make sense to try to fly with a four-foot ceiling? i suppose it does, but only if the few people lying on their backs looking up are enough. if you like the crisp air at a thousand feet then you have been doomed, once again, by the concept of time.

michael finnegan

repetition in life is inevitable. it only gets dangerous when it causes a person to pay less attention to (and eventually ignore) their daily lives. in this fashion huge blocks of time can be lost. relationships can be eroded. red flames can be cooled so gradually that their color appears not to change at all. whenever i feel time slipping like that i try to do something original. if i do something i’ve never done before i am sure to remember it. and if i remember things vividly then they can no longer be part of a slushy chunk of time lost in the past. most recently i conceived a short play in which none of the interesting characters were ever on stage and most of the monologues were poorly veiled advertisements for info-mercial products. here is part of act one:

GENEVIEVE: [sitting in a train car, sings] Look at these grizzled nine-to-five-ers! I am just the same. My hair is flat, my stomach fat, my taste in music lame. If only there were a d.v.d. to take me where I want to be… Oh wait! There is. It’s “Hip Hop Abs” created by Shaun T.!

i am hoping for a limited run off broadway.

51 weeks later

the very least that can happen in a year is nothing, give or take some expanding and contracting of the diaphragm. my least, however, expands upon this definition with bouts of worrying over aging and frequent recitations of passages from bret easton ellis. and even while i feared the least i dreamed of the most. but i never expected such a year as 2008. there were high wires and low tides but the sweet, chewy middles were something altogether different and special. i felt far away early in the year and yet so very close at the end. i met someone whom i love and i unmet lots of other people. i can only wish such a year upon you 2009.

after a year hiatus phlox loves arthur is back. it is genuinely sorry for any harm caused by its absence, and has already begun rosary penance. things to look forward to in the new year:

• new contributors
  
• thematic postings
  
• hangovers from overdosing on wit
  
• nudity
  

hold on to your wristbands everyone.