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.

happy smurf day

this year will mark the fiftieth anniversary of the smurfs. smurfs, of course, are those loveable sexless creatures whose message is one of understanding, camaraderie, and love. i have a special place in my heart for these blue sentient beings due in part to hours spent watching their exploits on television and also various childhood dreams about smurfette. their lore is deep and their vocabulary flexible. i’ve even used “smurf” as a verb several times this past year, mostly in the following context: “that is fucking re-smurf-ulous. stop being such a smurf.”

upstream

i think about free will frequently. thinking about this leads me to think about the incomprehensible randomness of the technically finite-state machine of the universe. i mean, just a hair’s edge one way or the other at one time can lead to the difference between ketel one and five o’clock vodkas. this leads me to think about that big wheel people spin on the price is right, since it’s impossible to watch that show sober. there are so many applications to the close-but-don’t-exceed methodology. while blackjack is the most notable follower, i’d like to propose certain aspects of every day life also follow this rule. take consumption, for example. the game is to drink as much as one can without tipping over. at work, the goal is to take as many paperclips from the bin as possible without being noticed. the tipping point is also the balance point. and that is the most beautiful thing anything can be: a delicate balance.

fax machine anthems

the real difference between the good old days and today is not the times themselves. it is us as the observer. we were more easily impressed back then. by definition we were less experienced, so things seemed fresher. in the late eighties i knew nothing of drugs and sex and was content with snap bracelets and schoolyard tomfoolery. a decade later i spent my time being impressed by alcohol and girls who could chug tequila, but i knew nothing of freedom. now that i am free i sometimes long for the good old days when i wasn’t. but only because i remember being happier in my ignorance. of course, there are always the other times when one craves licking absinthe off of a hooker’s navel. and then i thank lord xenu i’m an american.

no jacket required

“no jacket required” was yesterday’s theme. luckily i had purchased that phil collins album at a record shop in doylestown recently and i listened to “susudio” on the hi-fi at home. it was also a spot of luck that i didn’t bring a jacket to work or i’d have tied it around my waist like it was nineteen eighty nine. i still do that when no one is looking. but nineteen degrees centigrade leaving the gym in january was as close to heaven as i can imagine. it will probably be a once-in-a-lifetime experience that i look back upon in my senility with fond remembrance. yes, the day i dead-lifted three hundred pounds and lost my virginity to the spinning instructor was a warm one. in january!

the last weeks

i have returned from my tour of the eastern caribbean. actually, i returned a week ago. i decided that during last week both ripping down all signs of the holidays and laying on the ground face-up were more important than writing. i was also fighting off some sort of disease i most likely picked up on some island somewhere. it made me feel tired and crave rum. i did make it to a party for the new year at a nice house in shadyside. three stories high, this place had a college-like first floor with pool, beirut, and shuffleboard tables, as well as a wooden bar. the second floor was clean and furnished, with another kitchen like it was a separate apartment. the third floor consisted of a long multipurpose room and a catwalk that overlooked the second floor. it was impressive. i spent most of the night drinking champagne from the bottle and playing beirut. it appears i still have the skills i acquired in college. the blurriness of the late evening attests to that.

the vacation was relaxing and tame. i caught up on my reading and sudoku puzzles. i stared at the ocean for hours listening to michael mcdonald and the mary jane girls. i visited some islands and learned about the general history of tourism. i also saw the hospital where anna nicole smith’s son died. i wished a native happy holidays. i laid on a beach in a bay where i could collect my thoughts. i listened to jazz at night in a faux-ivory room. i found the elusive balance between winning and losing in the casino. i can’t help but think that this may be the last family vacation i attend.

over the sea

as i write this i am in a boat on the atlantic. the outside temperature is seventy-eight degrees f. some northern swells are rocking the boat more than i like, although some boat-rocking is undeniably good. i have seen the bahamas. i did absolutely nothing today, laughing at coordinated events. i don't want anything coordinated, except my trip back home. on the eve of christmas i have slightly overdosed on sun, giving my skin a holiday sienna coloring.

the middle

post-reading music: southern-space-chamber group japancakes – in memory of honey (thanks swanfungus)

as i prepare for my journey south to the tropics i reflect upon past year-end times. i wonder if i really do whatever i want or if i just do what is easiest, and that in turn becomes what i want. two toothbrushes, one razor. do i have the fortitude to turn my shoulder on people who are easily offended? the longer i wait the more i see this must be done. i’m wearing my sunglasses in the morning, but the future isn’t bright. i see i need to cut the cord to have any chance. greatness and middle-management are antonyms.

h,b,f,s

this video of an a capella group has already made my week. i am not sure where the group is from but it’s clear they are talented. i developed a love for a capella music during college. the lack of instruments is a very interesting constraint and, when done well, vocal harmonies are one of the greatest things about human music. thus, i get excited when i hear pop music covered by these types of groups. and it just so happens everyone likes daft punk. it appears good music may actually be seeping slowly into public consciousness.

wobbly post

without ale i consistently find gatherings to be a bore. so i travel lightly, making sure to complicate everything with spirits. when my spirits are low i just remember an old nursery rhyme, “liquor is quicker”, and then my glass is half full again. trees just reinforce the need for gin, and models the need for vodka. it’s too bad all my drinks are martinis these days. these days…

value at pi/2

in the endless sine-wave functions that make up my life the social wave and the music wave are exactly out of phase. i am quite alone but i have been making out with great music all week. just yesterday i saw this string of music videos on the gym screens: “chicken payback” by band of bees, “so much trouble” by matt pond pa, “pachuca sunrise” by minus the bear, and “maneater” by hall & oates. i bought “alive 2007”, daft punk’s live set recorded in france which mixes together songs from different eras dj-style. and i became aware of oh astro, a project that mixes and changes samples to create totally great tracks. their latest album champions of wonder is so good it may become my favorite of the year. if you don’t like “hello fuji boy” there is something wrong with you (it splices lionel ritchie’s “hello”, fujiya and miyagi’s “collarbone”, and hot chip’s “a boy from school”). i just wish i had someone other than my holiday tree to listen with. he’s such a rube.

snipe hunt

i think the satisfaction of tracking down an errant piece of code floating in one of thousands of files must be similar to that of a sniper connecting on his or her target. it gives a brief feeling of purpose to one swimming in their own entropic mess. many people try to make their lives a ceaseless string of these kinds of mini-projects so that they can consume meaning in small portions steadily. i don’t believe in this practice, however, as it intentionally leaves no time for stepping back and gazing. while i like the entropic mess i do wish to find some greater purpose or truth. but i don’t think it can be found in a life full of focus. i think my time is better spent blurring my vision and trying to see the invisible. this has led to a number of half-finished projects and a mediocre life on paper, but i haven’t given up.