DID HE FORGIVE YOU?

Middle aged women with boxy haircuts and rotund, American bodies discussing second marriages and the adjustments (called 'training periods,' humorlessly) with despairingly less wit and insight than most 19 and 20-year olds I know. It must be hard, I imagine, to be old with no wisdom in the bank.

I can't help but imagine what these women were like at my age. I imagine "silly little girls" who think well-roundedness is just lines on a resume, pop-fiction is high art, oral sex is scandalous and intellectual curiosity is met by a morning radio talk show. They probably believe that they intend to read more books when find the time, and that deep down they are as smart and interesting as anybody.

It is easier to imagine them as people I would never need to know; the alternative is that it could happen to anyone.

IF I COULD HAVE IT BACK, ALL THE TIME THAT WE WASTED, I'D ONLY WASTE IT AGAIN

Is the Christian doxology aimed at truth? Once one accepts that a thing must be true, no experience in the world is immune to manipulation towards a forgone conclusion. Check out the Christian Posts top 10 news stories of 2011 and see if you can spot a few surprises.

 -----

Earlier today, I considered unfriending all vocal Christians on Facebook. This came on the heels of one of my cousins (a person I love dearly though we do not speak often) declaring in her status a desire to unfriend anyone who frequently posts about failing relationships, drugs, sex, partying, and other such topics. The same cousin routinely posts paragraph long, proud statuses of her own thanking God for everything good, blaming Satan for everything bad, and reaffirming her obeisance to the almighty.

I guess that if I had to choose, I would rather read lame statuses about people's sucky real lives.

Tuneage: The Suburbs by Arcade Fire

I NEED MORE BOOZE

Last night I was visited by my bright dream muse. She was young and blonde, aggressive and powerful. She would let me cuddle her and put her arms around my waist in the front row of the relevant concert.

"Should I get an alarm from the grocery store on our way home tonight?" I said.
"I don’t care," she said, "I’m not going to sleep with you, remember?"
"I remember. I said, but lately I’ve been reconsidering it."

She said that she wouldn’t sleep with me because I couldn’t tell her how to save money on her cable bill.

"I don’t have cable," I said. "I don’t watch TV."
"What do you do?" she said.
"I read," I said. She liked that. She wouldn’t sleep with me because I couldn’t repair her kitchen stove or cook her a meal using just the pipes. She wouldn’t sleep with me because I couldn’t open a difficult box that had been warped out of shape. She said, I don’t need you because you’re older and I can already do anything you can. She said it, and I knew I had been wasting my life.


So what can you do? I recited Howl from memory. But even that was wrong. I found a book of poems in her bedroom and read Howl from the page and the words were completely different. I on her bed sulking surrounded by posters of Ashley Simpson and Liz Light.

I woke up knowing that today was a good day for art.

HAPPY FRIENDSGIVING Y'ALL

White Denim - Drug

WHO BET "YES - CAIN" ON INTRADE?

More details come to light about Herman Cain's 13 year-long (alleged) affair.

Just curious: if all of these sexual misconduct scandals hadn't come to light, would conservatives still be pretending they were going to vote for Herman Cain? I find that hard to believe. Still, even among this year's field of would-be presidents, Mr. Cain's fall from grace has been especially meteoric, likely ruining not only his political hopes, but his chances at getting a job anywhere AND his personal life. This is the part where we joke that "it couldn't have happened to a nicer fella."

Well? Anybody?

Tunes tonight:

Friends - Friend Crush by snipelondon

JESUS CAMP

Downloaded and watched Jesus Camp today, a 2006 documentary about the effort of an Evangelical organization to indoctrinate brainwash raise enthusiasm for God as well as familiarity with the contemporary social and p olitical implications of their religion's beliefs as expounded by its current leading voices. To summarize: God is good, gays are gross, science is stoopid, George W. Bush is awesome (no, really), terrorists suck but have the right attitude (no... really), and abortion.

The children, for their part, are equal measures of adorable and sp00ky. The sincerity of a child's faith is a truly singular thing. Seeing those smiles on their faces and exhuberant tears in their eyes gave me a counterintuitive gut reaction that what was going on here is okay, even though my intellect screamed and clawed in horror. The whole film is very moving and challenging and I would recommend it to anyone with a stronger curiosity than gag-reflex.


More to come...

ZEN AND SKIN MAINTENANCE

Sara,

My love, I have chosen to write you a letter during the day because I have failed, at times, in articulating myself off the cuff on most frustrating matters, to wit, skin maintenance.

                When I was in high school, I suffered from frequent acne breakouts. I tried many products and took many trips to the dermatologist, but nothing seemed to control this adolescent affliction. Of course, a lack of diligence and patience was perhaps the biggest obstacle between me and the clear skin I desired. After all, by the cruelty of an apathetic and unloving god, this aesthetic development coincided with my discovery of girls and things of a sexy nature. What good was a skin treatment if it didn't help me tomorrow, when tomorrow I still had to go to school and take off my hat before entering the building? Was it not enough, I wondered, that my developing body cut an awkward figure in the unflattering Oakridge School boy's uniform? In puberty, enough is never enough.

                My condition persisted through college, though breakouts eventually became less frequent and less severe. Additionally, the freedom proffered by young adulthood permitted me to wear hats over my forehead and silly stickers on my cheek. In the worst case scenario, when that awful vainity of mine was unduly threatened, I could always skip class altogether and take a few "Don days" to recover. I have skipped birthdays. I have skipped presentations. Machi once would not speak to me for months because I cancelled as her escort the morning of her friends' wedding. I have never told anyone this, but anxiety over my skin was the first powerful deterrent to my seeking out regular employment. Although I am no longer as burdened by my skin, the insecurity is deeply imbedded into my psyche, partly informing my aversion to the "day job" in ways I cannot fully perceive or control.

These anxieties have been mostly conquered thanks chiefly to my relationship with you. You have seen me at my best and worst in so many ways that it just seems silly to lock myself in my room every time I have a pimple or two. But I still want to look my best. I know how to do it. I should wash my face twice a day every day and probably use some sort of mask treatment once or twice a week. I should drink enough water because my skin is prone to drying and dry skin is more easily damage. I should avoid sleeping on my face or with my face in my hands because unblocked pores are happy pores. I should do all of these things knowing that there will always be elements of my skin that are beyond my control and that breakouts will still happen.

That's not on me. I am not the master of everything. To be my best, I must only work to master what I can (in this and many other ways).

Tracks tonight: That M83 didn't already have a song called Midnight City is hard to wrap my head around.

Midnight City by M83

FRACKING, CAPITAL PUNISHMENT & WEED

I got side-tracked earlier today on a challenge from a man I knew in college. Because I love pretending that I have nothing better to do, I accepted. Because I haven't blogged in a long time, I'm posting the results here for public scrutiny. It's not like I nailed this shit or anything, either. In total, this took about 40 minutes.

The rules of today's challenge stipulate the following:

• all responses have to be made on the fly (no research allowed - no exceptions)
• Guessing is okay. Lying is okay (if you don't get caught).
• choice of topics is the privilege of the challenger
• responses must be completed in a single sitting.

Stem Cell Research:

Sadly, I did not save a copy of my response to this, although it was my favorite. The gist, however, is that no matter where you land on where life begins or the morality of abortion, there are a number of proven methods to create a line of embryonic stem cells that do not involve the destruction of embryos. There is room for compromise in this matter of policy without compromise in values if people would just pay attention to the facts.

On Hydraulic Fracturing:

Hydraulic fracturing is the use of a high-pressure fluid solution to break up earth to facilitate the commercial extraction of natural gas. My position on the topic is somewhat at odds with itself. On the one day, fracking is not inherently unsafe. Ideally it should be done with pure water far from any sources of water of a population. On the other hand, safety issues arise because frackers tend to save money and boost performance by using solutions than regular H2O, solutions which contain hazardous chemicals, and do it in locations where natural gas could find its way into public water supplies. Public policy could be changed to deincentivize these practices. On an anatomically implausible third hand, I feel like we would be better off using public funds to incentivize renewable energy development, rather than dump it into a palliative like dirty domestic energy.

 On Capital Punishment:

I don't know how I feel about capital punishment. When you take a look at states like Texas, my home state, it is easy to see the execution numbers as excessive. It is even sobering to consider how many death row inmates are innocent, or at least undeserving of the harshest sentencing. However, the alternative seems to be to provide room and board for such criminals for their entire lives on the taxpayer's dime. And lets not kid ourselves, this is money we'd all like to see spent doing something more positive, whether that means strengthening our public schools or just keeping our hands warm in our pockets. Of course, its callous to suggest we should kill off people to brighten up our balance sheets. Also, as we are all members of a society, are we not collectively responsible for the conditions that help create many of our criminal offenders?

On the Legalization of Marijuana:

Does prohibition work? Marijuana is a drug, true. But people use it voluntarily. Decades of studies have failed to support allegations that it is physically addictive, particularly when compared to a number of other substances that enjoy legal status in this country. Decades of studies have failed to support allegations that it has harmful physical effects, including long-term impaired brain function or cancer, quite unlike certain substances which enjoy legal status in this country. Rather than introducing an argument for why marijuana should be legalized, the onus should be on those who would justify its continued prohibition. For what reason does our country intrude of the personal freedom to safely enjoy a drug?

I am inclined, at this point, to take note that the cost of enforcing the prohibition on marijuana is high. It is high in dollars spent by local, state and federal law enforcement agencies to surveil and arrest offenders. It is high in resources to the these governments to try and inter offenders. It is high in less tangible ways to all sorts of offenders, particularly those who commit no other crimes but possession and distribution, to be treated like criminals. It is high in the public safety concerns it fosters by essentially creating a black market for the product: it forces even casual marijuana user to become involved with drug dealers, and drug dealers to resort to further crimes in the course of their industry because their government affords them no legal alternatives.

Naturally, a major concern about legalizing marijuana is that the public will be less safe if everyone is high all the time. However, we already have a framework, vis-a-vis alcohol and certain pharmaceuticals, for addressing drug abuse and unsafe behaviors. It could certainly be argued, given the incidence rate of drunk driving-related accidents alone, that existing measures do not go far enough. That is, however, can be a wholly different discussion from which we could arrive at policy measures that actually have a chance at working.

Note:

If anyone else wants to play, I propose: gay marriage (no pun intended); tax-hike for the rich; "teach the controversy."

or, for non-wonks: ethics of online piracy; existence of God; the origin of homosexuality

CUZ ART DOESN'T PAY FOR ITSELF

Some days I make dollars. Some days I make art. You can measure the difference in empty wine bottles on the counter.

GOLDEN AGE

Take it from Amanda: we have reached a weird age.

I’ve been settling into life in St. Louis with the girlfriend. As it turns out, taking a month off of work while supporting a social life in three cities is a major financial risk at #thisage. The month of September was rewarding in more ways that I can describe. However, an abundance of available freelance work upon my return to normalcy was not part of the benefits package. As a result, the girlfriend has been footing my share of the bills more often than we would like.

Every weekday, she jumps out of bed at the crack of dawn, assembles a stunning work power-outfit, kisses me goodbye and drives off to the office. An hour or so later, I crawl reluctantly out from udner the covers, shimmy into some worn jeans and a sweatshirt I’ve owned since college, make some lunch, clean the living room or do the week’s dishes, play with the cat, commit us to some social engagements, and ask the girlfriend what time she’s getting home so I can get started on dinner.

 Is "housewife" a controversial term?

Lana Del Rey - Blue Jeans (Penguin Prison Remix) by Penguin Prison

THE MAN, THE WORLD AND EVERYTHING THAT MATTERS

Hiyah, cyber folk.

When we were young and at war with the older generation, I bet most of us pictured ourselves one day as hip, young parents with all the answers. I pictured it—from drinking a martini in a hospital waiting room and passing out cigars, later dunking on Jr. on the indoor basketball court I was so sure I would have in lieu of a living room, to spiriting away the wife for a weekend in Vegas so the kids can throw a high school kegger in peace. I imagined watching MTV with my kid all day and playing the latest Sega console so late into the night that I have to call in to my work and their school.

That was how it looked from the far shore of childhood. I didn't know that Martinis make me retch and cigars make me stink. A lot of the fantasy, though, I still try to hold on to. The broad strokes.

The other day I passed some time between WRITING ASSIGNMENT A and WRITING ASSIGNMENT B by taking a survey on my attitudes about parenting. The form asked, in a number of different wordings, some easy questions:

• "I would prevent my child from spending time with someone with different religious beliefs": STRONGLY DISAGREE
• "There is only black and white/right and wrong": STRONGLY DISAGREE

• "If my child fell in love with a person, I would be happy regardless of that person’s gender": STRONGLY AGREE

Then there were some question I never realized that I’d never considered:

• "A good parent should shelter a child from life’s problems": UMM…
• "I believe in physical punishment for certain negative behaviors": WELL, THERE’S A LOT OF…
• "Holding a baby when he or she is crying is good for him or her": AREN’T THERE BOOKS ON THIS!?

Then there were some uncomfortable questions about who I really am:

• "I believe that I am special because others tell me so": NEITHER AGREE NOR DISAGREE
• "If I do not have not made money by middle-age, I will not feel validated": NEITHER AGREE OR DISAGREE
• "It is sometimes necessary to take advantage of other to get you way": NEITHER AGREE OR DISAGREE

Perhaps the biggest questions of all, but was rendered mute, as naive and useless as a baby.

When I first moved to Columbia for college, it was because I wanted to grow into the person I saw in my fantasies. When I left, it was because I was ready to present myself to the world as an almost finished product. Imagine my disappointment upon taking this survey to learn that I was still so uncertain—that I was still so vain, and nervous, and little and flawed.

The other evening, I was sitting out front of a St. Louis café next to an attractive family of four. A young woman, a well-dressed man who was a little older with the guiding lines of future wrinkles and silvery hair, a baby—unisex for all I could tell—and little boy named Ryan who was maybe 3 or 4. Ryan and I had been making funny faces for nearly a minute and I was running out new moves.

“The moon is bright tonight!” I said, changing course.

“The moon is bright! The moon is so bright!” said the hyperactive little human, twisting his torso with uncontrolled energy in the manner unique to toddlers and crack fiends. He pointed to the moon for his father, who smiled a little warily. “My dad says the moon is bright because it reflects sunlight.”

“Your dad is absolutely right,” I said. “He’s a smart guy.”

“What is the moon made of?” he said.

“Just rocks and rock dust,” I said. He didn’t buy that at all. He didn’t believe that something as dull as rocks could shine so brightly.

“It’s made out of mirrors,” he said. Having little experience with children, I couldn’t tell if Ryan was clever or not for one. Then I wondered for a second if covering the entire moon in mirrors would turn night into day. “If it wasn’t a mirror we wouldn’t be able to see it at night.”

“You’re not a mirror and we can see you at night,” I said.

“There’s lights shining on me!” He pointed to the streetlamps and to the windows of the café.

“The sun shines on the moon the same way these lights shine on you,” I said. He pondered a moment and seemed to accept that explanation for now.

By the time I have children of my own, I am going to have that answer mastered so that my progeny will be the only preschoolers talking about photons, albedo, refraction and entropy. I'm not sure exactly how that lesson will go, but I know how it starts:

Look all around you, little human. In every inch of everything you see there are gazillions of little things you can't see. Every brick of this house is made up of little molecules that are made up of littler atoms that are made up of stuff so little scientist don't even agree on how little they are! And—stay with me now—even that stuff is made up of stuff so teeny-tiny that they only exist in our imaginations! 
 
The world is like that. There always so much going on and we only see the smallest part of it every day.

I'm telling you this because there are a lot of people out there who think they know everything. They look out in the world and think that all that matters is what they see. Worst of all they think the world has to be this way. They think we're stuck because the world is made out of brick, not gazillions of little moving parts. 
 
I'm telling you this because the bricks aren't the important stuff. You, me, your mom, your friends, your cat (Count Sinbad III), and everyone you've never even meet—people are what matters. That we aren't sad, but happy; aren't scared, but safe; that none of us are ever alone and all of us are loved.

Now let's cracking into those protons, buddy!

Sara/Saradactyl/TriSaraPops (I haven't seen you in hours)

That night we stuffed ourselves on sweet potato fries and ice cream our stomachs sang choruses all night with the crickets outside your bedroom window.

In life news, three weeks of travel is rather enough. I'm thinking about settling down in St. Louis with the girlfriend for at least a few months. Not my first choice (hallo Austin! hallo Denver!). As long as I've got Keyan Still to make me whiskey cocktails, it'll be fine.

HERE, EACH ZERO IS A CAPITAL "OH!"

Today, I stepped on the tail of my girlfriend's cat. He did not cry. He did not seem to mind. He listened to the rain outside and, when he was ready to talk, purred out the morning's feelings. With that, he seemed well-satisfied.

Genesis of a sentence:
I used to say that good days start with me already awake minutes before my alarm, but I have not attempted an all-nighter since I drove through Nebraska and my alarm is still set for 3:OOPM from my Texas writing schedule. The first sentence of my new short story: "Good days start with James already awake when his alarm goes off, downstairs and cooking breakfast by 3:OOPM."

As you can see, it is hard to write from St. Peters, Missouri. The suburbs have always made me profoundly uncomfortable.

Checking in from the road

I hit the road with two of my best men.

It's 2:30 in Wyoming, which is gorgeous and expansive like an ocean. I'm on my back in the backseat Of Nicky's vintage Benz ("Betsy Lou") listening to a great song on a day filled with great songs. The scale of this state amazes me-off in the distance, mountains seem both towering overhead and still farther from us than the moon. In the face of such vastness we are drawn inexorably to quiet soul-searching and loud, American rock music.

There are ways of thinking that only work in the "Wyoming" space.

One day, I'm going to come back here to die.

IF I HAD TWO MORE HOURS, I WOULD MAKE A FLOW CHART

For you entertainment, my impression of Pitchfork Media's editorial process:


Step 1: Find pop-crossover indie 1st album everyone loves and dances to naked. Review. Call it unqualified hyped in accordance with the "inverse popularity-coolness law"—defined by hidden inverse popularity-coolness equations, for you theoretical physicists ;-) Score it a 6.3 for effort.

Step 2: Wait until everyone's enthusiasm dies down. Spend the next two years falling in love with indie 1^st album. Do feature on indie band. Find out secret of crossover appeal. Select every song for “Tracks” playlist.

Step 3: Impatiently unwrap indie band's 2^nd album. Review. Tell us it betrays everything that made 1^st album THE FUCKING MASTERPIECE it is. Tell us how listening to 1^st album was like STARING INTO THE EYES OF ANGELS and listening to 2^nd album makes you want to quit your job. Not because you're mad, because you're bored. Score it a 6.3 for effort.

Repeat

*****

I kid because I care, P4k.

Tracks tonight: Equal Dreams by Rewards (ft. Solange (indiegueststarqueen) Knowles)

MY FAVORITE THING ABOUT THE LAST POST WAS THE TITLE

I found a pair of binoculars tonight and sat out on the porch to look at the moon and stars. When I was a child, I used to on a small telescope. I don't know what happened to it--whether it was sold in a garage sale or stuffed into one attic after another every time we moved. My dad set it up and tried to sit with me once so we could conquer the universe as a dynasty. We were much closer then. I found the optics too involved and after a few days just carried around the finderscope through the backyard for its decidedly simpler use as a--help me out here--"monocular"? It lent verisimilitude to playing pirate captain anyway.

That's the bourgeois childhood for you: Dad buys your admission into an obscure interest just to try out, spends a few hours telling Mom "maybe he'll grow up to be an astronomer," even though you don't like math, and the next week he's buying you a soccer ball, a chemistry set or a calligraphy pen. 15 years later you can't find any of it at playtime.

*****

Mom and Dad took good care of me as a child. Girlfriend and Como-Friends take pretty good care of me now. I miss them, so I drew a picture for their fridges. Can't wait to see you guys next week.

(all heights and hairstyles approximate)

Tunes tonight: Father, Son, Holy Ghost (leaked) by Girls

IN THE PAST WOMEN WERE WARRIORS AND MEN CRIED ABOUT THEIR FATHERS

This is a photograph of a famous cave-painting from Lascaux, France. It was painted by a cro-magnon 16,000 years ago.

Looking at this painting, particularly the line work around the hooves, I am moved by the particular choices that the artist made. It strikes me that he was not merely portraying something that he'd seen, he was dreaming of it. I can't help but to think of the artist--sensitive to the point of frailty, long stone-trimmed bangs swept to the side--and what concerns may have weighed on his shoulders. Did his father regard it as a waste of time? It could have been graffiti--cave paintings tend to be found in the least accessible of areas.

Did the artist have to paint in secret?

*****

On an (un?)related note, I'm beginning to regret the loss of my innocence--which is to say that I regret that I do not have it to lose again, violently and repeatedly, until the end of time.

Tunes tonight: Kanye West vs. The Notorious B.I.G. - Suicidal Thoughts Runaway (White Lotus Mashup) by Hypetrak  

THOMAS DID NOT REALIZE AT THE TIME THAT METAPHORS ARE NOT TO BE TRIFLED WITH

This is Heather, one of nature's ever-changing mysteries. It affects every single one of us every single day of our lives, yet we know almost nothing about it.

Heather--now that's something we'd sure all like to do something about.

*****

I'm reading through some old writing and thinking a lot about my long-lost muse, the bright young woman in the photograph who once possessed the uncanny facility to remake me from the marrow into who I really am. I still think about her every time I write and try to make her laugh, impressed.

It isn't easy settling back into writing from Dad's house. Sometimes, very late at night, I see him awake wandering silently through the house to check up on me without being too intrusive. It is a rare experience, watching an old man sneak. I snap momentarily out of the writing delirium knowing I've awakened him hammering on the keyboard and whispering spooky lines in the dark just to nail the tonality like, "the spell is broken... the spell is broken... the spell is broken."

The spell is broken, cyberfiends. Good night.

Tunes tonight: You Forgot it in People by Broken Social Scene and parts of The Unbearable Lightness of Being are playing in my head like-enough to a love song.

LICHENS, ENTROPY AND TRANSNEPTUNIAN OBJECTS and what they have to tell us about the meaning of life

"the Obama administration should be focusing on jobs for the American people, not encouraging foreign governments to utilize abortion as a means of population and deficit control.” - Boehner on latest (admittedly fucked) Biden-gaffe.

You see, as a politician, you never know which news stories Mr. & Mrs. Adam Voter are going to see and which ones they are going to miss, one can only fathom, to have monthly heterosexual sex in the dark for the purposes of procreation.


That means you have to work in the Message every time you're asked for a quote, no matter how far-removed the topic.

Welcome to soundbite culture.

Going to try to wrap things up in the lab early tonight. Bon nuit, cyber-amis!

Tunes tonight: Bon Iver - Bon Iver and Bright Eyes' debut, Lifted or The Story Is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground.

FROM THE LAB

Another late night writing "sesh" by the pool. Every night these start a little later than the night before. Every day I wake up a little later in the afternoon. Only a brilliant diagnostic or twisted conspiratorial mind would think there is some sort of connection.

I'm back at Dad's house in Arlington because Mom appears to have left. We've known this was coming for a long time, and I know, kind of, that it has nothing to do with me. Even so, even at 25, there's something about hearing that you mother won't be coming home that makes a kid feel abandoned--that makes you want to cook something, and fold the laundry and clean up after yourself and say "Look, mom, I can do stuff now! You don't even have to take care of me!"

Look up: that right there is the pastel blue of pre-sunrise. That sound you hear is the dawn chorus of birdsong. Today I'm going to sleep until 5, do some work, then go shoot some pool with my dad.

Tunes tonight: "Machine Gun" by Jimi Hendrix and the Portisthead record, Portishead.

DON'T SLEEP WITH SCIENCE

I had a dream last night that I was trapped in a hadron collider facility with a handful (minus a finger or two) of white men who were trying to kill me.

Finding no other weapon at hand, I snatched up the experimental Heisenberg Uncertainty Gun and ambushed my attackers. The gun sprayed like a super-soaker a torrent of large (maybe one inch-by-one inch) blurry pixels which clung to any surface they touched. I nailed them all, but in my delirious celebration I spilled a few of the pixels over my left hand.

Things got bad from there. As I quickly discovered, the pixels only existed on my hand while being observed. Anything that my hand touched while observed would lend its color (so obviously its essence) to the pixels, Photoshopping it permanently and very painfully to my hand. So long as no one looked, I could use the hand as normal, but the pain would not go away. Every time anyone looked, fresh swatches of color--of the lamp, of the air, of my face--were blurrily affixed to it forever.

When I finally awoke the pain stayed with me fading slowly over half an hour.I rubbed and rubbed until it went away and I could sleep again.

Dream with me at your own risk.