We've all gone crazy lately

Trouble sleeping. I was up until about 06:00, wired, unable to shake some strange wakefulness, my head overflowing with thoughts, my horses bucking. Awake until 06:00, which was just a few minutes before my (goddamn) alarm went off. Past five and close to sleep, I mobilized myself to investigate two loud, sharp knocks at the door to my front porch. This deep into the night, there's no reason for someone, anyone, to be knocking on my door, but of course you have to check. I don't know though, maybe I'd only imagined it, because when I opened it there was nobody there. I'm not sure what I thought I was going to do anyway. I was only in boxers, and apart from my body itself, totally weaponless (I keep a natural wood Louisville Slugger by my bed, just in case, but in my sleepless forgetfulness, I opened the door without it).

So I did what I usually do when I'm home alone and can't sleep - I watched 2001, beautiful soporific masterpiece.

The other night, the night the weather changed (it's been cooler here than it was throughout August), I had a vivid, technicolor dream. I was standing in front of the Atlantic, on the porch of the Marshfield house, looking out at the moon, which was enormous - as big as the earth - and only a few feet away. The porch had no railing, and I almost jumped across, over to the moon. I probably could have. Part of the imagery came from a story I read by Calvino in '96 called the distance of the moon. I almost jumped, but I didn't. Something stopped me. It felt dangerous, maybe.

Now playing: Someone saved my life tonight, by Elton John.

I'm leaving in a few minutes to meet Rashid for dinner at Figo. We ate together yesterday too, at La Fonda.

Backtracking: on Friday I left work early and went to Jason's for a drink and to watch some early Beatles footage (I have a great weakness for all things early-Beatle). From there we headed over to Rashid's for more drinks and engaging guy-talk. Eventually we all moved on to La Fonda for dinner and even more drinks. And later we drove to Sheila and Tim's, et al, where there was a house party in mid-swing and the drinking began in earnest. And then, finally, back home.

There was something to celebrate - I'm now vested, after ten years at GSU.

My head has been a tumult again today. I'm going to try to get some real rest tonight. Wish me luck.

The sky is breaking

Asked to guess, I'd say temperatures today were in the low nineties, which comes, believe it or not, as a big fucking relief. And there was a breeze too, which. . . you just can't imagine what it's been like here. But the stultifyingly static weather finally broke yesterday afternoon as Bedlam inched its way across a pressure front. It's still hot as fiery hell, but currently overcast, so for the moment we're no longer directly under the fat old eye of the sun.

I woke this morning at 06:00 exactly and, not for lack of trying, couldn't re-enter sleep. This is not unusual. The gods of sleeping late do not smile upon me, my friend. Their ways are mysterious and occult and I am afraid their dark logic confounds me.

I purchased a haircut at Salon Red this morning at 09:30 before engaging my Saturday usual at Gato's Sweltering Nuclear Furnace Oven Emporium. Of Hell. And the obligatory iced-coffee from Dr. Bombay's found me returning on foot to the Nunnery where I began the recording portion of my day.

I'm currently borrowing a Moog from makandwanda and finding it endlessly fascinating. I've always wanted one but couldn't afford, so I'm making this opportunity count. Oh, and Mark dropped off a cd I requested of reference recordings to aid me in my writing. We're learning how to work together.

Slice last night after hours with my boyz, Rashid and Jason, with Joe behind the bar. J. & J. had to leave, but R. and I stayed for a while, conversationalizing with the new barista and rocking to Shuggie and Sabbath on the jukebox. :()*

*Why do I not know the smiley-text symbol equivalent of death-metal devil horns? I imagine I would feel adrift in a world where such a symbol did not exist. Until I discover one, this will have to do.

And my god, what a fucking week this has been, work-wise. And there's no reason to expect next week will be any better. Fall semester begins Monday.

Take the leap and never waver.

Work (for Esme - with love and squalor)

My life these days occurs between meetings. Here's today:

* an hour and a half School of Music administrative meeting, which took place immediately following my
* one on one meeting to bring the new Graduate Director up to speed; then
* a Staff Development Committee meeting across campus to discuss, among other things, allocation of funds by the
* Scholarship Committee, for which I 'volunteered' today. As always, there were
* sundry impromptu meetings with troubled (yet ever charming) music students; and
* one more sit down later this evening with my financial advisor to discuss the pecuniary implications of my impending resignation.

And since I'm on about work, I'll mention that I sit on several new committees, viz.

* I was recently elected to the Staff Council;
* as mentioned above, I sit on both the Staff Development Committee and
* the Scholarship Committee; and also, for kicks, I'm on the
* Green Issues Committee. It's not easy being green . . .

This, in addition to my ongoing work within the School of Music itself, which was amped up to eleven when my boss went on sabbatical in Spring and wasn't made any easier when he resigned upon returning in Summer. I've been doing virtually all of his academic and administrative work since January. His replacement will take over in a few weeks and hopefully share the load, though he'll need some time to get up and running.

And it's hot here. It's a fucking heat wave. Almost unbearable. Looking back, I don't know how A. and I made it through our first summer here in the deep south without air-conditioning, migrating, as we were, from the middle of a deep, cold winter in Maine. We tried everything we could think of to stay cool, including sleeping on our apartment's porch, which would sometimes catch a cross-breeze through the bullet holes in the windows when the wind was right.

Niels Bohr said,

"How wonderful that we have met with a paradox. Now we have some hope of making progress."

It's real fucking hot here. There's a heat advisory for this area. This afternoon John from Slice told me temperatures are supposed to be in the upper nineties here through the end of the month.

I'm listening to Shuggie Otis, funk guitar cynosure. His voice conjures Michael Franks in a younger day; his guitar playing is, in some alternate universe, what Prince's guitar would have sounded like were he, Prince, to have taken psilocybin in, say, 1983. As it is, Shuggie was doing this in 1974. If there's not enough sweet beautiful funk in your life these days, you should download Inspiration Information immediately. It's Bill Withers channeling Dr. Seuss, swear to god. Thank me later.

And Saturday last was dear sister Karyn's birthday. She and I talked for over an hour on Friday, with me uploading news from the Nunnery. She and my sweet goddaughter are well. Karyn is two years older than me which must make her, let's see . . . thirty-three, I believe.

Rashid, I bought another, so keep the one you've got.

And welcome back, Team Amsterdam. Hope the trip was productive.

Queueing theory

Listening to Dusty in Memphis. The song "No Easy Way Down" is currently two-stepping its way around the room. I'm partial to Mark Eitzel's version (the first time I heard it was in April 1998 at a critical juncture), but who could deny Dusty in '68?

Work has gotten busy. Dense days keeping me forever on the phone and near my email, with increasing demands on my attention from the aspiring musicians who tap on my office door.

Hung out with my crew at Slice last night after bringing things in the office to a state of equilibrium for the week. Good friends, hard work. Not bad.

Death standing up

Now playing: Runaround Sue by Dion.

Went with Jenny last night to Park Tavern. There were bands playing, three of them, two of which you've maybe heard of. Musically, they weren't terribly imaginative, but several margaritas later and who really cares? Well, me still . . . but appreciably less.

Earlier on Sunday I finished that book I keep telling you about. Sunday was a real sad day for me in several ways, and the ending of this book sure didn't help matters. Fucking reduced me to a gelatinous, quivering mass of pussyishness. It might be the saddest thing I've ever read. Death of a Salesman is the only thing I can think of to approach it in terms of its effect on me, but Arthur Miller generated some of his voltage by making Willy Loman delusional and pathetic, which never seemed like the easy way out before, but is starting to now (heresy, I know). But McCarthy takes a higher road and shows us only the unadorned dolor of love plus time, with the tenderest nobility in place of pity. You probably shouldn't read it.

Moving chronologically contrariwise, Rashid left his personal effects in my car on Saturday and we met for lunch today so he could reclaim them. We got food from good girl Favan's place, which has the best tuna downtown that I know of.

There was lots of conversation as usual, though most of the big topics, including the two workhorses - our jobs and women - had been covered abundantly on Saturday. In fact, conversation was so smooth on Saturday that at one point I even got to bust out a Flubber reference. Which, for the record, was actually a reference to the original 1960's The Absent-Minded Professor with Fred MacMurray, and not the 90's remake with Robin Williams which I've never seen and which I simply cannot condone, mostly because I'm opposed to Walt Disney and his sycophantic henchmen fucking with my childhood memories.


And now playing: I think I Love You by the Partridge Family. I swooned for this song as a boy and still do. Not least of why is the relative rarity of hearing a pure, sweet pop song fall as unapologetically into a full diminished mode as this one does. And you have to love the twee harpsichord solo.

Ars Moriendi

Woke from sleep this morning thinking about Steve, the man who lives next door to my parents' home in Boston. I don't think of him often, but I know he's sick. He's got Lou Gehrig's disease. Two hours later as I was getting coffee my father called to tell me Steve had died.

I also heard from old friend Kip today. He told me his wife Carla's dad had passed. Both men will be missed.


(Memento mori.)

Please advance to the next frame when you hear the beep . . .

or Here come the darkest birds

12:55 pm
Now playing: Leader of the Pack by the Shangri-Las.

I saw Knocked Up last night for the second time. Such a likable film. It hits so many notes, and a good number of them are true to life. I've actually been in several of the arguments that take place in the film, and I've no doubt many other people can say the same. There was alcohol too, in case you were wondering; drinks before and after. To be perfectly honest, I probably shouldn't have driven home last night, a perspective I didn't fully appreciate until this morning. But all's well that ends well and, stupid though I may be, I survive to blog another day.

Today - the day fate has seen fit that I should survive to blog - there are rain squalls. I narrowly escaped getting caught in one walking back from the store earlier. There was a dark cloud following behind me the whole way, never quite overhead; a metaphor for sure, but for what I hesitate to guess . . .

Lots of dreams last night, tactile and vivid, but which fade upon waking.

~~~~~~~

5:48 pm

Leonard Cohen is singing - So Long, Marianne and That's No Way to Say Goodbye. Goddamn, Leonard, how do you do it? He says things I wish I could say. But even though I don't know how to say them, it's good there's someone who does.

Photographs

I'm feeling better today. Thank you to everyone who's wished me well or had nice things to say over the last few days. I'm not 100% yet, but my nose is in general less sieve-like and my voice is once again recognizably my own.

It's been a while since I've posted any photographs, and I know I said I'd show you some, so here are three . . .

First, and in case you were wondering, this is what Sabitathica's shadow looks like cast on sand (a.k.a., does this sun make me look fat?).



This is Minnie, whom you know. She's doing her thing, which in this case (as in most cases) means simply ignoring me.



And this is the grand Atlantic, captured during a sweet half-hour of the alluringest sea-spray, looking north towards Boston Bay, and beyond . . .

Sixty before they speak to anyone.

I feel like ass today. I'm sick and home at the Nunnery, convalescing. I'm sure it seems to you like I never go to my office anymore. You must have noticed how I'm always writing about not going into work, but I have to tell you, from my perspective, it feels different. It feels like I'm forever at the office, almost never setting foot back home.

However that may be, I am truly sick - I've got a cold and I feel lousy, though you'll be happy to know I still look damn good. Damn good, that is, if you're into the unwashed, hair jumping in a dozen different directions, still wearing the same clothes I slept in last night which are the same clothes I wore to work yesterday look. And here's what else. If you could hear me speak right now, you'd swear to god you were listening to either a frog or some kind of a toad or something. My voice is deep and fucked.

Anyway, the reason I'm so sick is because I allowed myself to do something really stupid three or four days ago. So stupid... I should know better by now, really.

It's been a week of the past here in Bedlam, meaning that several things from the distant yesternow have presented themselves this week as if for inspection. A couple of girls I used to know, A and K; Jonathan, an old friend who used to work for me around the office (You: yeah, back when you actually used to spend time in your office. Sabitathica: shut up.); and yesterday, old friend Kennon 'phoned drunk from Korea. None of these people have I seen for anywhere between three and seven years, all of them appearing out of the fabric of the past to say hello and reminisce. It's nice when the past behaves.

I think I said about how I'm reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Goddamn this book is good. For all the bleakness and sadness and desolation, his future is a place steeped in vigilant goodness and a deep, careful love. But it's dark too. Very dark. Real fucking dark, so don't say you weren't warned. Favorite line from today: There is no God and we are his prophets.

A father and son walk through a lifeless landscape, no food anywhere, burdening their belongings before them in a shopping cart, unable to see the sun for all the soot in the air. It's fifty pages before they see another living person, sixty before they speak to anyone. And the future is so rawboned and worn it evidently can't spare any punctuation. Commas are a luxury and nobody ever, ever uses quotation marks when they speak. Too precious, we presume, or maybe this place is too intimate for anybody to nitpick about such things. And even when we encounter the occasional contraction, there's rarely an apostrophe to be found.

Plus I've watched several DVDs in my convalescence. Here's a(n incomplete) list:

Amores Perros
Ocean's 11
The Umbrellas of Cherbourg
Belle de Jour
Sabotage (Hitchcock)


Listening now to Shh/Peaceful from In a Silent Way. I'll be posting a few photographs soon.

Neptune, Titan, stars can frighten.

And the seventh brings return...

At work today nothing happened. Or maybe it did, but I wouldn't know about it since I wasn't there. I was here, home at the Nunnery, doing stuff.

Why wasn't I at work? Because did you ever have one of those days where it hits you how little time we all have, and how precious and fleeting everything is, and how we all need to stop and smell stuff before it's allofasudden too late and we wake up in a bed in some room somewhere hooked up to a machine that goes "ping!" while trying to keep our bodies alive?

Yeah me neither, but I thought if I stayed home from work today I might've done. And I think I sorta got close at one point but I don't know, I guess I'll keep you posted.

So I had breakfast at the Carroll Street and began reading a novel lent to me by markandwanda, which I'm enjoying so far, The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. The post-apocalyptic setting and sober tone are affecting (though so far, not affected) and feel as though painted with a brush that lays comfortable in the hand.

Between the outstretched hand and the fruit.

The Nunnery
6:32 PM

Returned last night from a week in Brant Rock, Marshfield, a sandy hamlet nestled beachily between Boston and Cape Cod, spiritually similar and geographically proximate to the home of the home of my home.

While there, M. and I took a side-trip and spent two days on the Vineyard, marking the first time I've laid eye or planted foot on it in nigh eighteen years. Wednesday and Thursday were our birthdays (hers and mine, respectively) and we treated ourselves to a beautiful and memorable stay on the island. We inned at Edgartown and, while there, we had one of the best meals of my life at Atria. Sabitathica's official assesstimate: for location, presentation, and the most truly cared-about food, with the highest quality of both ingredients used and attention paid to preparation, highly recommended.

And we went into Boston proper for a day too, the Back Bay mostly. We had a fine bottle of wine at Ciao Bella, where we also stumbled into the beginning of a more or less day-long conversation which I'm unfortunately but decidedly not at liberty to reproduce here.

The week was spent fully, packed to overflowing with good times, good times. So much so that we unfortunately didn't have the time to see everyone I would have liked to have seen. Notably Marko and the family Prather.

Now playing: Life in a Northern Town by The Dream Academy.

Hilarity Does Not Ensue

Dr. Blogger's Folksy Tea House and Reading Room
11:24 AM

Made myself not wake up until like 09:30, which was more difficult than it probably sounds. Flossed, brushed, washed my face, engaged the rest of my morning routine, ate at the Gato, then came here.

I neglected to say yesterday that I had a good conversation with one of the baristas here, Leslie. She's a student at my University, though she's not a Music Schooligan. I don't know her all that well, but she's bright and very pleasant to talk to. And she's going to Iceland next semester for study abroad.

What's a little awkward is that back in February I made a bet with someone that Leslie (though I didn't know her name back then) would die in a terrible plane crash. Is this wrong of me? The bet arose as a natural conversational consequence of my tremendous and admittedly irrational fear of flying. To my memory the terms of the bet were never set, so I don't know what I would win (or lose) should Leslie ever die (or not) in a fiery, horrific plane wreck.

But still, I'm sure the stakes, should they ever be finally agreed upon, would be high. In fact I would have to insist that they be, given there's a human life hanging in the balance. So it's weird to be having a conversation with a very pleasant person while at the same time, in the back of my mind, I'm aware that it would be a sweet sweet windfall for me if she were to perish in an unspeakably tragic air-traffic accident. (I guess this Iceland trip could be my winning lottery ticket. Sweet!)

On the other hand, anyone who's worked at the Greatest Music School on the Whole of God's Green Earth for any amount of time knows what it's like to have a pleasant conversation with someone while at the same time secretly wishing them fiery death, so maybe it's really not so weird after all. But that's another story.

In other news, I've got a new roommate: a largish clan of moths. They don't pay rent, but they do fly around your face and alight on the monitor of your laptop, so I guess like any relationship it's a compromise. We have an understanding. We co-habitate. And they mostly hang out in the kitchen. I've had worse roommates.

That said, I'm probably going to kill them today. They're boring and don't hold up their end of our conversations, so.

And, should you find yourself in need of one, here's a simple argument in favor of eliminating a pesky or unwanted roommate:

1) They're stupid.
2) Therefore, they should die.
3) If they can't follow the airtight logical connection between 1) and 2) above, then they're stupid (repeat until problem goes away).