Gravity Recovery And Climate Experiment

My neighbor's gone. His handyman is gone. The girlfriend is long gone.

There was some banging on my back porch door Friday night. It was Harry Dean Stanton and his handyman getting their drink on. They had it in their heads it was me who called the cops on them and I guess they wanted to air their thoughts on the matter. I told them they'd sure given me reason to call the police, that they were pretty lousy neighbors, but I didn't do it. That calmed them down some. Eventually L & I shared a drink with them. HDS told me about what happened to the girlfriend, but I don't believe him.

As it happens, that was to've been their last night at the Nunnery. Saturday afternoon they knocked drunkenly on my front door and told me they'd been turned out. They'd been instructed to take whatall they could carry and vacate within a half-hour or else face the police again.

They had one bag between them, packed with ridiculous things, useless things, I'm not even going to tell you what. Most of their belongings are still there I guess, out in back of the Nunnery, forsaken because they're not supposed to return.

Curtis, the executor of Harry Dean Stanton's father's estate, arrived and gave HDS $240.00 and sent the two of them, him and his handyman, off down the street, on foot, in the rain. The word 'pathetic' fits well enough. They didn't know where they were going to spend the night. They kept asking me if I knew of a place, a motel or something, somewhere they could stay. HDS was crying some.

I guess it was an afternoon for walking in the rain, because ten minutes later I met up with Mark down to Fellini's. Later we returned to the Nunnery for music, conversation, and some Don Julio.

Backtracking, Friday afterwork began at Sidebar where I was asked by EM to join her, B, and B's father. The four of us were joined by JB, Rashid, Jason, Joe from Slice, and Ryan who works at the capitol. Good times. L showed up a bit later and she, Rashid and I talked before we headed home. A difficult night.

It was never going to end well.

My neighbor is in jail now. Or anyway, this is what the folks at the corner market tell me. The story is either he hit the girlfriend, or his handyman hit the girlfriend, or something, I don't know. Maybe he hit his handyman, it's hard to tell. But it's quiet around here now. As quiet as it's been in two or three weeks. Oh, and apparently he was panhandling last week outside the market for beer money, swear to god. At least, again according to the people who work there.

My landlord called though. He apologized for letting this freakshow move in to the Nunnery in the first place. That was the first we'd talked about it. My other neighbors are friendly with my landlord and called him last week after Harry Dean Stanton'd done something particularly outrageous on the back porch. Fucking nut job.

Running on it's own steam...

Last night, Easter's Eve, I was at an Eyes Wide Shut party with L and we met up with JB and Krishna. The evening was organized along the lines of the film, the part specifically when Dr. Bill is in the mansion. We wore masks and had to know the password.

The film looks at reconciling freedom v. commitment in the context of a successful marriage, and we are not allowed to forget that Dr. Bill is out of his depth. Poor Bill's fallow insides are bucking after his wife's confession/wake up call about the naval officer. But last night's events were a bit sillier than this.

Woken from a grief-colored dream earlier, which is in notable contrast to the rest of my day.

zero sum game

My neighbor, the one who just moved in, banged on my front door earlier tonight. I could hear him outside on my porch grumbling and drunkenly cursing my name. Here's what happened when I opened the door:

Harry Dean Stanton: (drunk) Sabitathica?
Sabitathica: Yeah?
HDS: Harry Dean Stanton.
Sabitathica: Yeah, I know. We've met. What's up.
HDS: (very drunk) Do I know you from somewhere?
Sabitathica: No. You mean before you moved in? No. No you don't.
HDS: I'm gonna be straight with you.
Sabitathica: (pause) Okay.
HDS: (slurring and agitated) See, I don't want to cause a fuss. But... your mail is your mail and my mail is my mail. And, the thing is though, you've got mail in your mailbox from two days ago. Okay? I'm not reading your mail though, alright? I don't do that. But I happened to notice you've got checks in there. And they've been in there for two days now.
Sabitathica: Mm hmm.
HDS: So...
Sabitathica: (pause) So...?
HDS: Is your gas bill expensive?
Sabitathica: Yes it is, very.
HDS: Well, okay because I think I've been paying for your gas. I think there's been some kinda mixup and I'm paying for your bill. And I think you owe me two hundred dollars.
Sabitathica: Yeah, I doubt it.
HDS: Hey, I can get you free cable if you want.
Sabitathica: What?
HDS: I can get you free cable.
Sabitathica: I can't understand what you're saying.
HDS: I can get you free cable if you want it.
Sabitathica: Oh, right. No thanks. I don't have a lot of time for tv. Thanks though.
HDS: Are we loud back there?
Sabitathica: Yeah sometimes you are. But it's all good.
HDS: We never hear you, you're so quiet. Why are you so quiet?
Sabitathica: I'm not at home much these days.
HDS: Why aren't you home?
Sabitathica: Becau-
HDS: I know I shouldn't ask you that, I know. But there it is, I asked you. I know I'm not supposed to.
Sabitathica: Yeah, well it's okay, I don't mind. It's just that my schedule these days is fucki-
HDS: How much do you pay for gas?
Sabitathica: (sigh) A lot. I pay a lot. It's expensive.
HDS: Where does that door go?
Sabitathica: It goes to my bedroom.
HDS: That girl at the market was talking about you the other day.
Sabitathica: Mm hmm.
HDS: She likes you.
Sabitathica: Yeah. Listen, let's change the topic.
HDS: I've already had a six-pack today.
Sabitathica: Yeah, well it's still a little early for me.
HDS: Now listen. (pulls up shirt)
Sabitathica: What? What are you doing? Stop that. Don't take your shirt off.
HDS: See this scar?
Sabitathica: Oh god.
HDS: I'm not kidding. I've had two heart surgeries. Two. And I'm sixty years old.
Sabitathica: Pull your shirt down.
HDS: (pulls shirt back down) Do I know you from somewhere?
Sabitathica: No, I really don't think so.
HDS: My mother's funeral?
Sabitathica: Your mother's funeral. You think you know me from your mother's funeral? No, I'm pretty sure I wasn't there.
HDS: Are you sure? I remember there was a computer geek there.
Sabitathica: Yeah, well, I'm not really a computer geek.
HDS: Oh.

The handyman entered around then. He and I shook hands, then he took Harry Dean Stanton by the arm and led him away, back to the rear of the house.

I don't notice those things anymore.

This morning even before my feet hit the floor, a serious conversation, one I felt I handled poorly.

Today the kiddies are back from spring break. I was busy. 200+ unopened emails, a full voicemailbox, everybody needing something, everybody needing my time. For each email I sent, two more appeared, hydra-like in my inbox to take it's place. But I left work midday to spend my time with the amnemonic chiropractor. I almost threw out my back last night and was in some pain.

In general life is good though, the weather is beautifulish, but the past weighs heavy on my mind today. We picture ourselves on a timeline, facing forward, facing the future, with our backs to the past. But when I read Pirsig back in '88, he suggested the reverse is actually more accurate. He said the ancient Greeks saw the future as coming up on us blindly from behind our backs, that all we're able to see is the ever-accumulating past, receding before our eyes...

Thursday was my Rialto gig. While I was on stage, somebody stole my leather bag, and my checkbook along with it. They threw the rest of my things into a garbage bin in the Rialto men's room: two books - Thought as a System by Bohm and Notes of Jane Heap, the program from my cousin's funeral service, and some GSU work, all of it in the trash. This was a violation.

I saw Mark on Saturday. We drank the Don Julio he'd brought with him and talked and caught up and worked and made plans.

Josh and I have begun talking about going to Europe this summer, maybe over my birthday. I'm feeling some wanderlust. Amsterdam, maybe Prague. It's possible markandwanda may join.

Lily texted me earlier. She got in a car accident. Apparently "some bitch" hit her from behind. She's alright, but she banged her nose up pretty bad, though from her description it doesn't sound broken.

~~~~~~~

My new neighbor moved in. Lilian, the woman who used to live in back of the Nunnery, moved out a few weeks ago and a new guy moved in with his girlfriend and, strangely, their handyman. That little studio space is barely big enough for one person, let alone three. And they're loud.

I met him walking back from the market sometime last week. He was sitting on the side of the road, on a rock, homeless-style, and looking for all the world like Harry Dean Stanton on a bad day. He's 60 but I swear to god he looks a raggedy 75. Here's how our meeting went:

Sabitathica: Hey, are you alright?
Harry Dean Stanton: No.
Sabitathica: Oh. Okay. So... do you need help?
HDS: No. I'm only walking home. I just moved in up the street. But I've got a bad heart and I can only walk a little at a time. I need to rest here for a few minutes.
Sabitathica: Oh. So... which house did you move into?
HDS: [pause] Are you Sabitathica?
Sabitathica: Um, yeah... Are you my new neighbor?
HDS: Harry Dean Stanton. Nice to meet you.
Sabitathica: Yeah. [we shake hands.]
HDS: Do you teetotal?
Sabitathica: You're asking...? Seriously? No. No I don't.
HDS: That's good. I live with my girlfriend. I don't like the word "girlfriend" though. I'm going to ask you a favor.
Sabitathica: [sigh] Yeah...
HDS: Just for a little while, you might hear some commotion, some yelling and some noise and whatnot. My girlfriend's still getting used to the transition. Just give her a few weeks to calm down. I don't really like the word "girlfriend".
Sabitathica: What? Wait a minute... What are you talking about?
HDS: Just for the first few weeks. She's not well...
Sabitathica: [pause] What's the matter with her?
HDS: She's not well.
Sabitathica: Oh.

This was a few days before I learned the handyman was living with them too. They drink all the time, all three of them. These are serious drinkers - serious drunks, really. Alcohol has left it's unmistakable mark on their faces. I've met all of them now, and they actually all look a little like Harry Dean Stanton, with the handyman taking the lead on that front and edging out the other two. And they scream at each other too, all the time. Loud, drunken incoherent yelling.

Good times, good times.

Strange women lying in ponds distributing swords

I found a dinner on my porch tonight when I got in, which is strange because... where did it come from? Roast turkey with gravy, turnip greens and beets, fried chicken salad, a fourth of cornbread, a banana and one cookie. In a styrofoam cooler, all on ice, at the foot of my front door, with no note.

Auditions went well. You know how I say there's always a crisis when it comes to audition days? Well there is, a different one each time. I think I could distill each crisis into a one-sentence summary and write them all down for you in a list, chronologically. Or better yet, lay them next to each other, sentence after sentence, head-to-toe, and watch them form a thirty-something sentence story - a record of the evolving sense of humor of St. Ella, Our Lady of the Rialto, and patron saint of Audition Day. This time the crisis was: Two flaky singers I'd asked to perform tried (and failed) to de-commit themselves at the last minute.

Today's work here at the Nunnery is brought to you by the letter F, which is the first letter of many useful phrases and sentences, as for instance: Flaky people will flake.

A lesson in tightropes

I slept badly last night. Auditions are in two days and I'm wrangling cats to stand still. And I'm not going to write anymore about how I don't sleep these days either much or regularly. Shirley, there are more important things for us to talk about.

Like: I've got moths again. Or moth, since I see only one. I've got moth. But there's never just one, is there? Where there's one there's like millions, right? So if I wait a few days I figure I'll start seeing them all over the place. My plan: wait. Wait and kill them en masse. I don't think they - or it - suspects.

The LBC on Monday, wine with L last night.

Neutral Spectator's Inertia Syndrome

Went to see There Will Be Blood, the longest movie in history tonight with Laurel and Tim. Good times, good times. And then back here for drinks and conversation. DD-L is a good leading man, but the story arc was a little too soap-operatic for me. Like, just when things can't possibly get worse, the long lost twin brother shows up ...or is he? The storytelling style is narrative-heavy and does not truck with the "beauty-through-simplicity-of-form" school.

Drinks with Cassandra Thursday, time with Lily Friday. Exile on Main St. rocks.

Remember back last year at this time? An information-dense time. Lots of things going on, weren't there? One of which, and maybe the first that springs to your mind, was the world premiere of that film Josh made: The Now Today Society: The End. Remember that? It was the first world premiere to feature footage of people viewing video of themselves watching the world premiere, I'm guessing. And it sort of happened again.

This year there was lots of video from the northern holidays. Of The Narrow Way, of dinner New Year's Eve, of absinthe toasts, and of lighting fireworks down the jetty. On multiple cameras, hours and hours of it, all cleverly and creatively edited together by Josh. And viewed at a distance. It may even be better than last year's.

In other news, I don't sleep anymore, which is something that I guess is just the way things are now. My body crashed last weekend while successfully fighting off a nasty bug. In some ways I feel as good as I've ever felt, healthy and robust, but this sleeplessness is strange. My body's tempos are changing.

I'm listening now to Fox Confessor Brings the Flood.

ollie ollie oxen free

Thursday I was after work with Stuart and Esteban to play at the Rialto. Little Jen, turntablist extraordinaire couldn't make it. This music is completely improvised and we don't play together outside this context, so things are unpredictable and situation-specific. Thursday night in my opinion was our best yet.

I met up after for drinks with Lily, who's been living out of state for a few years. It was good to see her again. A fine time was had by all.

Friday at work was quiet, which my autistic nature experiences as relief, and plus I was operating on about one, maybe two hours of sleep. Yeah, I don't get much sleep anymore.

~~~~~~~

We could not follow but bliss and peace poured down on us...

Today was beautiful, everybody outside and walking around wearing short-sleeves. I however, spent most of my day editing The Marshfield Tapes. The Marshfield Tapes are several hours of Vlindinhauer Haverhast, Sabitathica, Mr O, and Josh playing music the eve of New Years Eve, 2038. The material draws heavily from The Narrow Way, with post-production flourishes by Adrian Marcato, all now edited down to 70 minutes of bliss.

Some bartenders have the gift of pardon.

Imported absinthe and domestic good times with Mark on Saturday till 00:30.

Met up with JB and Spank at Onyx at 01:30 for the tail end of Spank's day-long birthday celebration. This was more good times. Returned home around 03:30, but couldn't sleep until past 06:00. Up again at 08:30 to begin my day. Have I mentioned I don't get much sleep lately?

A former music student died on Wednesday. I was unable to make it to Athens Sunday morning for the service.

The Superbowl came and went; life somehow manages to go on much as before.

Today at work I was assisted by trusty apprentice Katie Sue. But I've been like a slepherd who's lost his sleep lately, so I left the office early to try and wrangle me up some.

I didn't sleep for long, since I had to join my boyz for a meeting of the La Fonda Business Consortium (LBC), replete with margaritas and arroz con pollo. This week's meeting met quorum with R, JB, and your humble blogist. Among the many topics up for discussion: women (including R's most recent date and my correspondence with the dishy 40ish blond I met at Logan last Tuesday), business (what else would you expect from the LBC?), and the Superbowl. And yes it's true, the good times did roll.

They put weights down in your coattails to burn you out...

Auditions yesterday went well. Awake before the squirrels and birds, I was organizing things at the Rialto long before sunup.

My afterwork began at Sidebar with Laurel. We were joined by Rashid, JB, and Spank. And J stopped by for a minute too. They all fell away, alone or in twos and it was me and L until past midnight. We bounced to Slice for a late dinner, tennish. A good night.

Seated on my right at Sidebar was Pastor Pierce from Vermont, in town for a convention of pastors. We talked a bit, he and I. A highlight, from him: They can't do anything about Abu Ghraib, so they're trying to get something on Belichick.

Oh, and L managed to lock my keys in my office, don't ask how. Who was it said it's women's jobs to cause problems, so men have something to do? Or did I just make that up? Anyway, tons of fun.

Every morning in the car I pass some graffiti that says, invest in good time$

I'm not sure what that $ is doing there, but I agree with the larger proposition.

My return flight last night was turbulent. God frowns on people who fly and he punishes us for our hubris with turbulence. And fiery crashes. You'll apologize for everything you've ever done wrong when the ride begins to buck.

snow borne sorrow

I'm in Boston staying with family for three days. My cousin died suddenly and I'm here to pay my respects and help where I can. She's being buried on the cape, in the Bourne military cemetery, or she will be when the ground thaws.

There were twelve of us cousins growing up, eleven now, and she was unique even for this group. She was what she was, and then some: conspicuous and colorful, unflaggingly friendly and decidedly un-autistic; rough around the edges, she had more heart than two average people put together.

Her family are grief stricken and bereaved, while remaining outwardly thoughtful and composed. But they're Catholic and Irish so that's what you get. We're tough motherfuckers, I tell you. We have to be, we go to our graves carrying everything that's ever happened to us, a lifetime of effort and sorrow. But we love to laugh, and live to love, so there's some hard-won balance there.

And she was well loved. Notice of her death was on the front (and second) page of the Patriot Ledger, and the line at her wake was long and robust. Life as she lived it was a bold, feet-first adventure, and she deserves her rest.

Amen. Amen. Amen.