01 - God Moving Over The Face Of The Waters - Moby
02 - I'm Only Sleeping - The Vines
03 - The Eraser - Thom Yorke
04 - Angel - Sarah Slean
05 - Butterflies - Sia
06 - Possibly Maybe - Bjork
07 - Bitelip - Mellowdrone
08 - Climbing Up The Walls - Radiohead
09 - Miss Modular - Stereolab
10 - The Movies - Earlimart
11 - Dead Of Winter - Eels
12 - Winter - Tori Amos
13 - Northern Sky - Hole
14 - Imagine - A Perfect Circle
15 - Watch Her Disappear - Tom Waits
16 - Don't Leave The Light On - Belle & Sebastian
17 - Frozen Charlotte - Natalie Merchant
18 - Waltz Across Debris - Chainsaw Kittens
6/28/07
White 08 (The Rose White Bookstore)
Amongst the many shelves bursting with ancient volumes, and stacks of antiquated papers there are untold treasures. As books make their way through the hands of the City's citizens, they almost always return to the Rose White Bookstore, the unofficial library for the City's cultured, curious or bored. Nothing is organized anymore, and half the fun of a trip to Rose White is sifting through the mountains of anonymous drivel, searching for something interesting and unique. There is an illusory tininess to the store... it seems so much larger on the inside than its unassuming exterior lets on. When the bell on the front door jingles, the shopper finds herself in an amazing puzzle box that affords the sort of mental thrill which comes from the realization that something amazing could be right around the corner, or just beneath that pile of dusty encyclopedias. You can find hand written journals, or intricate maps, illuminated texts, battered paperbacks annotated by the last owner or unpublished manuscripts, brilliant and sad in their isolated readership. The amount of knowledge set down by hand or typeset or lithographed is staggering. The history of the City breathes in verses by old poets, adventures by authors who never left their homes, and dissertations by crusty academics so immersed in their ideas that they become worlds of their own.
And beyond what a book contains inside, the book itself, the covers, leaves and spine, is often a talisman in itself. The look and smell of a relic, a time capsule in the heart of a dead reader... a bookshelf becomes a museum. A moment is captured in a butterfly net and pressed and tacked for good between two thick cardstock covers, stitched up and set apart forever. Time stands still, and the only difference years afford to the book is some wear on the leather, or the weakening of the binding. It's a static thing, aging like some prehistoric tortoise, moving in its own little dimension of timelessness while the real world races swiftly outside of it, leaving it virtually unmolested, letting it exist of its own accord. So that even more than just a display of history and accomplishment, a bookshelf, the Rose White Store in its entirety even, is an ever-expanding universe in and of itself. Visitable and enjoyable, but operating by its own distinct rules. Governed by laws that mortals, stuck in their progression of change and rotting from the inside out are not privy to, understandable only in the abstract. Their places shuffle, their owners vary, but beyond death by fire or the obliteration of the words, the book's world is nearly interminable. As much as the dying sun and collapsing universe are immortal. Timeless in comparison to the brevity of life.
Most casual readers do not operate under this laborious pretense of course... to them a book is enjoyment, a diversion. A book might be an escape, or an abandonment of reality. Perhaps it is a means to collect data, to organize thoughts. A teaching aid. Or a memento of things already known, a memory more reliable than the ones in our head. Or it might be dull work. Effort expended in the name of enrichment, or a task completed for the sake of completion itself. It can be a touchstone to connect disparate lives in the shared experience of all knowing a certain story. Most readers do not believe in the internal reality of the book. They do not think of a living world existing in the finite space between covers. It's a collection of words with a beginning and an end, and nothing else really. The parallels between that story and your own might be interesting, even enlightening, but the division is always absolute. For most readers.
The proprietor of Rose White might disagree. She's read enough to know that nothing is actually new, nothing is truly novel, and that every growth of fiction is plucked from an overarching or underlying truth. Fiction takes on its own truth, and reality, she knows, is a very fluid thing indeed. She's lived in other people's stories, and lived in her own... the differences aren't as rigid as most people might think.
It's a commonly used tactic amongst literacy advocates to equate reading with breathing life into something, that to read is to bring a story alive. But that denies a book its own vitality. It puts the impetus of creation (or at the least, mere animation) on the reader. But a reader is still passive. Just an observer. The hubris of an observer thinking she is the reason for a world's existence is enormous. If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?
Arrogant child. Of course it does.
And beyond what a book contains inside, the book itself, the covers, leaves and spine, is often a talisman in itself. The look and smell of a relic, a time capsule in the heart of a dead reader... a bookshelf becomes a museum. A moment is captured in a butterfly net and pressed and tacked for good between two thick cardstock covers, stitched up and set apart forever. Time stands still, and the only difference years afford to the book is some wear on the leather, or the weakening of the binding. It's a static thing, aging like some prehistoric tortoise, moving in its own little dimension of timelessness while the real world races swiftly outside of it, leaving it virtually unmolested, letting it exist of its own accord. So that even more than just a display of history and accomplishment, a bookshelf, the Rose White Store in its entirety even, is an ever-expanding universe in and of itself. Visitable and enjoyable, but operating by its own distinct rules. Governed by laws that mortals, stuck in their progression of change and rotting from the inside out are not privy to, understandable only in the abstract. Their places shuffle, their owners vary, but beyond death by fire or the obliteration of the words, the book's world is nearly interminable. As much as the dying sun and collapsing universe are immortal. Timeless in comparison to the brevity of life.
Most casual readers do not operate under this laborious pretense of course... to them a book is enjoyment, a diversion. A book might be an escape, or an abandonment of reality. Perhaps it is a means to collect data, to organize thoughts. A teaching aid. Or a memento of things already known, a memory more reliable than the ones in our head. Or it might be dull work. Effort expended in the name of enrichment, or a task completed for the sake of completion itself. It can be a touchstone to connect disparate lives in the shared experience of all knowing a certain story. Most readers do not believe in the internal reality of the book. They do not think of a living world existing in the finite space between covers. It's a collection of words with a beginning and an end, and nothing else really. The parallels between that story and your own might be interesting, even enlightening, but the division is always absolute. For most readers.
The proprietor of Rose White might disagree. She's read enough to know that nothing is actually new, nothing is truly novel, and that every growth of fiction is plucked from an overarching or underlying truth. Fiction takes on its own truth, and reality, she knows, is a very fluid thing indeed. She's lived in other people's stories, and lived in her own... the differences aren't as rigid as most people might think.
It's a commonly used tactic amongst literacy advocates to equate reading with breathing life into something, that to read is to bring a story alive. But that denies a book its own vitality. It puts the impetus of creation (or at the least, mere animation) on the reader. But a reader is still passive. Just an observer. The hubris of an observer thinking she is the reason for a world's existence is enormous. If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?
Arrogant child. Of course it does.
6/27/07
White 07 (The Museum)
Exhibit 01 - White Hearts In Pained Remorse
They are ancient, stony things with nothing left in them except a bit of despair, a bit of desperation. They cannot pump anymore, petrified like prehistoric wood, fossil records of living, breathing, loving things. They have sat under glass, slowly changing, ever blanching and whitened since the dawn of time. They were discovered under this very bell jar on the first Sunday of a cold month, a wintry day defeating a verdant spring's advancement. There was a barely audible gasp from the archeologist, amazed at such a pristine and defeating find. He was never the same afterwards. His head never rose again from its bowed and morose position. There was much debate as to whether or not to display them. A narrow margin of the Museum's board, sadness addicts all of them, okayed the exhibition, but placed a stern little placard beneath the hearts: "Surrender is equal to tolerance."
It has frightened only a few prospective visitors away.
Exhibit 02 - Sacred Fragments, the Ashes and Bones of the Holy Sister
What was once just a fragile hoax to tempt the gullible has become, over time, a piece of history itself, perhaps even more valuable than any true relic because of the truth behind its lies. The Sacred Fragments were interred in some forgotten, cavernous sanctum, lit by pungent candles and strung through with miles and miles of whispering cobwebs. Pilgrims would come, their blind eyes, their mute lips, their deaf ears, their lame legs and demand justice and healing from the human soot and bone chips that remained of the Holy Sister. Not a single miracle was performed by the ossified remnants, though the steady stream of believers didn't stop until the bones were declared fake by a council of the church's elders. They were disposed of, still in their ivory reliquary, and never thought of again.
But the ornamentation on the box, a mesmerizing pattern of etched and dyed swoops and scrimshawed curlicues caught the eye of one lucky trashman. He had heard the stories of the false bones, of course, but had never really believed that they weren't real. Like many of the defeated faithful, the trashman swore that the elders were merely tired of the parade of supplicants. He held fast to the Bones of the Holy Sister, and lived a long life free of worry or concern. He died peacefully and, in a gesture of kindness, willed the Fragments to the Museum.
The forgotten church, perhaps, would have petitioned for their return, but the walls of that place had long since folded in from indifference.
Exhibit 03 - A Rather Haughty Pearl
See how this one seems to smile at you? There's nothing like friendship in that smile. That, there, is a smile of condescension. Of ill regard. Its iridescent sheen might take you in, might make you let your guard down. But don't be fooled. Don't allow yourself to think for one moment that something so gorgeous, so rare and so lovely could care about anything other than itself. Its beauty is damning and cold. And no matter what it may think of you, no matter how it may treat you, what terrible manners and calculated cruelty it might extend toward you, it will always have a queue of admirers.
Maybe it's best not to look at all.
Nothing good really comes of it.
They are ancient, stony things with nothing left in them except a bit of despair, a bit of desperation. They cannot pump anymore, petrified like prehistoric wood, fossil records of living, breathing, loving things. They have sat under glass, slowly changing, ever blanching and whitened since the dawn of time. They were discovered under this very bell jar on the first Sunday of a cold month, a wintry day defeating a verdant spring's advancement. There was a barely audible gasp from the archeologist, amazed at such a pristine and defeating find. He was never the same afterwards. His head never rose again from its bowed and morose position. There was much debate as to whether or not to display them. A narrow margin of the Museum's board, sadness addicts all of them, okayed the exhibition, but placed a stern little placard beneath the hearts: "Surrender is equal to tolerance."
It has frightened only a few prospective visitors away.
Exhibit 02 - Sacred Fragments, the Ashes and Bones of the Holy Sister
What was once just a fragile hoax to tempt the gullible has become, over time, a piece of history itself, perhaps even more valuable than any true relic because of the truth behind its lies. The Sacred Fragments were interred in some forgotten, cavernous sanctum, lit by pungent candles and strung through with miles and miles of whispering cobwebs. Pilgrims would come, their blind eyes, their mute lips, their deaf ears, their lame legs and demand justice and healing from the human soot and bone chips that remained of the Holy Sister. Not a single miracle was performed by the ossified remnants, though the steady stream of believers didn't stop until the bones were declared fake by a council of the church's elders. They were disposed of, still in their ivory reliquary, and never thought of again.
But the ornamentation on the box, a mesmerizing pattern of etched and dyed swoops and scrimshawed curlicues caught the eye of one lucky trashman. He had heard the stories of the false bones, of course, but had never really believed that they weren't real. Like many of the defeated faithful, the trashman swore that the elders were merely tired of the parade of supplicants. He held fast to the Bones of the Holy Sister, and lived a long life free of worry or concern. He died peacefully and, in a gesture of kindness, willed the Fragments to the Museum.
The forgotten church, perhaps, would have petitioned for their return, but the walls of that place had long since folded in from indifference.
Exhibit 03 - A Rather Haughty Pearl
See how this one seems to smile at you? There's nothing like friendship in that smile. That, there, is a smile of condescension. Of ill regard. Its iridescent sheen might take you in, might make you let your guard down. But don't be fooled. Don't allow yourself to think for one moment that something so gorgeous, so rare and so lovely could care about anything other than itself. Its beauty is damning and cold. And no matter what it may think of you, no matter how it may treat you, what terrible manners and calculated cruelty it might extend toward you, it will always have a queue of admirers.
Maybe it's best not to look at all.
Nothing good really comes of it.
6/26/07
White 06 (Winter's Kiss)
It whispers a night math on cold windowpane,
Swirling cough and hiccupped gunshot...
A glowering prism, sweet frosting's sonnet
And blurring the edges of shortened days.
The hours roll past in the gusts of the gale storm,
Flickering candlelight, rattling hip bones,
Cross freeze plaster landscapes, in harrowing tempest
And burning icicles deep down under pores.
The drudgery lingers,
So much time spent in waiting,
In bound penitentiary, held down at the wrist.
It kills with its back break,
And softens the steeples,
And bleeds out the patience of one long winter's kiss.
Swirling cough and hiccupped gunshot...
A glowering prism, sweet frosting's sonnet
And blurring the edges of shortened days.
The hours roll past in the gusts of the gale storm,
Flickering candlelight, rattling hip bones,
Cross freeze plaster landscapes, in harrowing tempest
And burning icicles deep down under pores.
The drudgery lingers,
So much time spent in waiting,
In bound penitentiary, held down at the wrist.
It kills with its back break,
And softens the steeples,
And bleeds out the patience of one long winter's kiss.
White 05 (Dead Of Winter)
The night hadn't ended well for either of them. There was a screaming match, which was not atypical lately. Tim couldn't remember what had started it, what insignificant spark had ignited the blaze, but it hardly mattered. Something would've triggered it. A stray comment, a misinterpreted look, a perceived tone... any of these things were dangerous around their dry kindling romance now. And whatever it was, it had raged out of control yet again. There was a terrible escalation every time, and this one had burned so badly that he actually felt wounded. He wasn't positive what she was feeling, but if the past was any indication, it was a rage that would die out in a few hours and fade away without a hint of remorse. In the meantime, he was kicked out of her house right about eleven. His hands were trembling. He had a sick feeling in his belly that he was getting far too accustomed to. As he stood on her porch, flooded by light from the open doorway, she launched one last barrage of insults and accusations and slammed the door in his face. He didn't protest. He didn't blink for a few long moments of odd thoughtless abandon. It started to snow.
The trip from the porch to the driveway felt long that night. Each foot step seemed painted, slow by a perfectionist, onto the canvas of black asphalt dotted, now, with the beginnings of bright white snow. Lost in himself and desperately trying to stave off any more thought, Tim absorbed his girlfriend's front yard, taking note of every shrub and landscaped pebble. It filled his awareness, like solid primaries slathered into the black lines of a coloring book. And amongst it, suddenly, was something queasy. In the shadows that dripped from the barren winter trees, he saw something staggeringly frightening. He couldn't name it. He couldn't say what it was at all. It was ugly, a grotesque little thing, colorless in the monochrome night. He thought it made his heart stop. It didn't, of course, but it did upend about a gallon of adrenaline into his bloodstream. Tim froze, unsure of what to do. The little colorless thing turned a wrinkled, tiny face toward Tim, and bared a set of spiny little teeth. Tim shivered. He looked at it, he stared straight at it for far too long and felt a barometer change of vomit rise up into his mouth. He forced it down, cringing at the acid taste of it, and bolted toward his car, whispering to himself in an effort to be convinced that thing was wholly imagined.
Before Tim reached his car, a set of headlights focused straight on him. He stopped, doubling his terror and wondering what the hell was going to happen next. He whirled back toward where the little hobgoblin had been, and felt first a wave of relief followed by a crushing assault of anxiety when he saw it was gone. It could be anywhere, now, and that was much worse. For a moment, Tim forgot the headlights. The sound of a car door opening brought him back, and he whipped his attention to the vehicle staring him down with mammoth glowing yellow eyes. A tall figure emerged, dark and obscured. And then he said, "Hey."
Squinting into the headlights, Tim struggled for a second with his own voice recognition software. Cycling through a list of candidates, he finally determined it belonged to Gavin, a co-worker and newly minted friend. "Hey," Tim echoed. "What're you doing here?"
"I figured you'd be here. I wanted to see what you were doing tonight."
"I think I saw a monster," Tim said, unsure of he wanted to sound like he was kidding or not.
"Oh. Wanna get some coffee?"
Tim didn't. He wanted to run. He wanted to go home, crawl under his covers like a child and forget about the whole stupid night. The initial shock of what he'd seen had dribbled out of him, and he was sure, now, that it had been a product of his unhappy imagination. The picture of it, the idea of it was swiftly fading, losing its clarity like removed generations of photocopies. Now, mostly, Tim felt terrible about everything else that had happened, and more than slightly silly for being rattled by a bugbear in the shadows to begin with. Maybe he just needed sleep. His heartbeat was slowing, and his quivers had almost entirely subsided. He felt like a train wreck, a twisted heap of metal and emotion that he didn't want to ply through at all. He decided coffee wasn't such a bad idea after all. "All right." He got in Gavin's car.
"What's open?" Tim asked, buckling himself in. The smell of the car overwhelmed him at first, a kick in the face combination of some sort of linen-esque air freshener and weeks worth of preserved Burger King waste. An unidentifiable indie-rock screed was blaring way too loudly. Reacting to a sharp pain in his thigh, Tim pulled a Jesus action figure out from under his rear end.
"I'm not sure," Gavin said, paying more attention to his stereo than the road as he sped out of the driveway and into the cloned home subdivision. "Nothing here, probably."
"Probably," Tim agreed.
Gavin was flipping through a binder full of CD's, periodically (though not often enough in Tim's opinion) looking up over the steering wheel and adjusting their position on the street. He finally chose one and began the one handed juggle of switching discs.
"I can do that," Tim offered.
"Don't worry about it. It's ok." The car veered into the wrong lane. Gavin whooped and swung it back to its correct place. "You saw a monster?"
"No."
"Oh."
"I'm just tired, right?"
"Probably."
"Probably," Tim agreed.
"I got the new Eels album," Gavin said. "This is it."
"Yeah? I can tell. I mean, I thought it was them. It's good."
"Yeah. So far I like 'Electro-Shock' better. But I just got it, so you know."
"I know."
"It's good though. I'm really into them now. I'm like America's number one Eels fan."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. They're awesome. Do you remember their video for 'Novocaine For The Soul'?"
"Uh... maybe." Tim watched out the window as they drove deeper into the city. There was a weird calm that he got from the reflected street lights and traffic signals. He hated the city in the day time. The crowds bothered him, the possibility of crime jangled him, and the amount of cars clogging up the roads made him absolutely crawl in his skin. The city at night, though, was entirely different. Seeing the empty streets, especially abandoned late on a Sunday, was soothing. The few cars they passed moved slow and deliberately. The buildings stood cold and quiet without any trace of menace. The snowflakes looked perfect as they meandered past the illuminated lamp posts in fluttering patterns. There was something romantic about it, something that created an instant nostalgia. Tim clung to it, drank it in, tried to fill in the scared quaking void of the day with it. His lungs were moving in time with the beat of the light passing through the car windows. It was hypnotic and perfect. "Is that the one where they're floating?"
"Yeah. It's in black and white. Have you ever seen another video of theirs?"
"No. I don't think so."
"I love their music. E is a genius, don't you think? Well, maybe not genius... But I had no idea they were so good. I mean, I always liked that song. It was on the radio all the time, remember?"
Snow was collecting on the cars parked along the street. Tim was suddenly aware that he wasn't nervous about the weather at all. This was strange because he'd been nervous about it since he'd heard the forecast the night before. Tim liked to plan ahead with his anxiety. Driving on snow hazard roads was high on his long list of fears, just below being a passenger on snow hazard roads. But he wasn't nervous now. He was content. The only anxiety he felt was his dread for the end of the drive. He wanted to ride in Gavin's car all night. "Uh huh. I remember."
"I actually got sick of it. I would've never picked up 'Beautiful Freak' if it weren't for you."
"Yeah?"
"Oh yeah. You played... which one was it?"
"Huh?" Tim was entranced. "Which one what?"
"Which song did you play me?"
"Oh. Let's see... it was 'Manchild' I think."
"That's my favorite one. Was 'Susan's House' a single?"
Gavin rolled to a stop at a red light. Tim took a deep breath and made eye contact with an old man at a bus stop. The old man looked remarkably happy, happier than anyone Tim had ever seen. There was a sparkle in his eyes that even the night couldn't hide. He was smiling broadly and his teeth were Easter white. They stood out shockingly against his black skin. Tim smiled back at him, hoping the old man would see. He nodded at Tim as they pulled ahead when the light went green. "Uh huh. I think it was."
"It should've been. That's a great song too. I guess they're all pretty great. And that's not even their best album, you know? I mean, it's awesome, but 'Electro-Shock' is so much better. I would kill to make a record like that. I would kill to make any record, actually. I mean, I would love to be able to sing or write a song... play an instrument or something. I wasn't even in band. My mom didn't want to buy a trombone or anything like that."
"Uh huh. Me neither," Tim said. His mind drifted from the old man back to the imagined hobgoblin. He felt a weird twinge crackle through his gut. "It wasn't real. I'm just tired."
"The monster?" Gavin asked. Tim noticed a hesitation in the question. It didn't surprise him. It was a weird thing to have to ask.
"Yeah. I didn't see anything."
"Oh. Well... that's good."
"Yeah." Tim felt suddenly sad. A very overwhelming heaviness settled down on him, and he decided he should want to cry. But he didn't. It was bigger than that. It was beyond crying. It had skipped, straightaway, to acceptance. "You know something, Gavin?"
"What?"
Tim stared out the window for quite a while. They were close to an all night coffee shop near the university. The snow was falling harder now, and it looked very cold out. "I don't think I love her," Tim said, miserably. "I don't think I ever did."
Gavin found a parking spot on the street and did some parallel acrobatics to cram the car into the tiny space. "Yeah. I know."
"Oh," Tim said, and got out of the car.
The trip from the porch to the driveway felt long that night. Each foot step seemed painted, slow by a perfectionist, onto the canvas of black asphalt dotted, now, with the beginnings of bright white snow. Lost in himself and desperately trying to stave off any more thought, Tim absorbed his girlfriend's front yard, taking note of every shrub and landscaped pebble. It filled his awareness, like solid primaries slathered into the black lines of a coloring book. And amongst it, suddenly, was something queasy. In the shadows that dripped from the barren winter trees, he saw something staggeringly frightening. He couldn't name it. He couldn't say what it was at all. It was ugly, a grotesque little thing, colorless in the monochrome night. He thought it made his heart stop. It didn't, of course, but it did upend about a gallon of adrenaline into his bloodstream. Tim froze, unsure of what to do. The little colorless thing turned a wrinkled, tiny face toward Tim, and bared a set of spiny little teeth. Tim shivered. He looked at it, he stared straight at it for far too long and felt a barometer change of vomit rise up into his mouth. He forced it down, cringing at the acid taste of it, and bolted toward his car, whispering to himself in an effort to be convinced that thing was wholly imagined.
Before Tim reached his car, a set of headlights focused straight on him. He stopped, doubling his terror and wondering what the hell was going to happen next. He whirled back toward where the little hobgoblin had been, and felt first a wave of relief followed by a crushing assault of anxiety when he saw it was gone. It could be anywhere, now, and that was much worse. For a moment, Tim forgot the headlights. The sound of a car door opening brought him back, and he whipped his attention to the vehicle staring him down with mammoth glowing yellow eyes. A tall figure emerged, dark and obscured. And then he said, "Hey."
Squinting into the headlights, Tim struggled for a second with his own voice recognition software. Cycling through a list of candidates, he finally determined it belonged to Gavin, a co-worker and newly minted friend. "Hey," Tim echoed. "What're you doing here?"
"I figured you'd be here. I wanted to see what you were doing tonight."
"I think I saw a monster," Tim said, unsure of he wanted to sound like he was kidding or not.
"Oh. Wanna get some coffee?"
Tim didn't. He wanted to run. He wanted to go home, crawl under his covers like a child and forget about the whole stupid night. The initial shock of what he'd seen had dribbled out of him, and he was sure, now, that it had been a product of his unhappy imagination. The picture of it, the idea of it was swiftly fading, losing its clarity like removed generations of photocopies. Now, mostly, Tim felt terrible about everything else that had happened, and more than slightly silly for being rattled by a bugbear in the shadows to begin with. Maybe he just needed sleep. His heartbeat was slowing, and his quivers had almost entirely subsided. He felt like a train wreck, a twisted heap of metal and emotion that he didn't want to ply through at all. He decided coffee wasn't such a bad idea after all. "All right." He got in Gavin's car.
"What's open?" Tim asked, buckling himself in. The smell of the car overwhelmed him at first, a kick in the face combination of some sort of linen-esque air freshener and weeks worth of preserved Burger King waste. An unidentifiable indie-rock screed was blaring way too loudly. Reacting to a sharp pain in his thigh, Tim pulled a Jesus action figure out from under his rear end.
"I'm not sure," Gavin said, paying more attention to his stereo than the road as he sped out of the driveway and into the cloned home subdivision. "Nothing here, probably."
"Probably," Tim agreed.
Gavin was flipping through a binder full of CD's, periodically (though not often enough in Tim's opinion) looking up over the steering wheel and adjusting their position on the street. He finally chose one and began the one handed juggle of switching discs.
"I can do that," Tim offered.
"Don't worry about it. It's ok." The car veered into the wrong lane. Gavin whooped and swung it back to its correct place. "You saw a monster?"
"No."
"Oh."
"I'm just tired, right?"
"Probably."
"Probably," Tim agreed.
"I got the new Eels album," Gavin said. "This is it."
"Yeah? I can tell. I mean, I thought it was them. It's good."
"Yeah. So far I like 'Electro-Shock' better. But I just got it, so you know."
"I know."
"It's good though. I'm really into them now. I'm like America's number one Eels fan."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. They're awesome. Do you remember their video for 'Novocaine For The Soul'?"
"Uh... maybe." Tim watched out the window as they drove deeper into the city. There was a weird calm that he got from the reflected street lights and traffic signals. He hated the city in the day time. The crowds bothered him, the possibility of crime jangled him, and the amount of cars clogging up the roads made him absolutely crawl in his skin. The city at night, though, was entirely different. Seeing the empty streets, especially abandoned late on a Sunday, was soothing. The few cars they passed moved slow and deliberately. The buildings stood cold and quiet without any trace of menace. The snowflakes looked perfect as they meandered past the illuminated lamp posts in fluttering patterns. There was something romantic about it, something that created an instant nostalgia. Tim clung to it, drank it in, tried to fill in the scared quaking void of the day with it. His lungs were moving in time with the beat of the light passing through the car windows. It was hypnotic and perfect. "Is that the one where they're floating?"
"Yeah. It's in black and white. Have you ever seen another video of theirs?"
"No. I don't think so."
"I love their music. E is a genius, don't you think? Well, maybe not genius... But I had no idea they were so good. I mean, I always liked that song. It was on the radio all the time, remember?"
Snow was collecting on the cars parked along the street. Tim was suddenly aware that he wasn't nervous about the weather at all. This was strange because he'd been nervous about it since he'd heard the forecast the night before. Tim liked to plan ahead with his anxiety. Driving on snow hazard roads was high on his long list of fears, just below being a passenger on snow hazard roads. But he wasn't nervous now. He was content. The only anxiety he felt was his dread for the end of the drive. He wanted to ride in Gavin's car all night. "Uh huh. I remember."
"I actually got sick of it. I would've never picked up 'Beautiful Freak' if it weren't for you."
"Yeah?"
"Oh yeah. You played... which one was it?"
"Huh?" Tim was entranced. "Which one what?"
"Which song did you play me?"
"Oh. Let's see... it was 'Manchild' I think."
"That's my favorite one. Was 'Susan's House' a single?"
Gavin rolled to a stop at a red light. Tim took a deep breath and made eye contact with an old man at a bus stop. The old man looked remarkably happy, happier than anyone Tim had ever seen. There was a sparkle in his eyes that even the night couldn't hide. He was smiling broadly and his teeth were Easter white. They stood out shockingly against his black skin. Tim smiled back at him, hoping the old man would see. He nodded at Tim as they pulled ahead when the light went green. "Uh huh. I think it was."
"It should've been. That's a great song too. I guess they're all pretty great. And that's not even their best album, you know? I mean, it's awesome, but 'Electro-Shock' is so much better. I would kill to make a record like that. I would kill to make any record, actually. I mean, I would love to be able to sing or write a song... play an instrument or something. I wasn't even in band. My mom didn't want to buy a trombone or anything like that."
"Uh huh. Me neither," Tim said. His mind drifted from the old man back to the imagined hobgoblin. He felt a weird twinge crackle through his gut. "It wasn't real. I'm just tired."
"The monster?" Gavin asked. Tim noticed a hesitation in the question. It didn't surprise him. It was a weird thing to have to ask.
"Yeah. I didn't see anything."
"Oh. Well... that's good."
"Yeah." Tim felt suddenly sad. A very overwhelming heaviness settled down on him, and he decided he should want to cry. But he didn't. It was bigger than that. It was beyond crying. It had skipped, straightaway, to acceptance. "You know something, Gavin?"
"What?"
Tim stared out the window for quite a while. They were close to an all night coffee shop near the university. The snow was falling harder now, and it looked very cold out. "I don't think I love her," Tim said, miserably. "I don't think I ever did."
Gavin found a parking spot on the street and did some parallel acrobatics to cram the car into the tiny space. "Yeah. I know."
"Oh," Tim said, and got out of the car.
White Intermission (A List)
01. Watch the television for two hours. Keep a tally of every unbelievable actor, noting the number who appear in programming and the number who appear in advertisements.
02. Dismantle a clock and catalog each part. Put it back together with a blindfold on.
03. Shatter a mirror. Cower from the bad luck.
04. Map out the joints in your skull. Name them after your favorite rivers.
05. Write a book. As you reread your work, make sure to second guess each and every word.
06. Run into an old acquaintance on the road. Don't flinch from the mind-numbing small talk or the awkward way you never make eye contact.
07. Listen to an old, unmarked homemade audio tape. Wince at the horrible music you so enjoyed once upon a time.
08. Pretend to admire a painting by a modern artist beloved for his or her use of color and line. Chastise yourself, internally, for the nonsense you're willing to put up with.
09. Defang a potential predator. Revel in society's burgeoning safety.
10. Lift up your heart one last time before the bell rings. Do it quickly, as you may never have this opportunity again.
02. Dismantle a clock and catalog each part. Put it back together with a blindfold on.
03. Shatter a mirror. Cower from the bad luck.
04. Map out the joints in your skull. Name them after your favorite rivers.
05. Write a book. As you reread your work, make sure to second guess each and every word.
06. Run into an old acquaintance on the road. Don't flinch from the mind-numbing small talk or the awkward way you never make eye contact.
07. Listen to an old, unmarked homemade audio tape. Wince at the horrible music you so enjoyed once upon a time.
08. Pretend to admire a painting by a modern artist beloved for his or her use of color and line. Chastise yourself, internally, for the nonsense you're willing to put up with.
09. Defang a potential predator. Revel in society's burgeoning safety.
10. Lift up your heart one last time before the bell rings. Do it quickly, as you may never have this opportunity again.
White 04 (He Grins Bloody)
The folding and the unfolding keeps it all going, between circles of fear and misgiving and wide-eyed mystery, all of it just spilled into the thankless abandon of wretched solitude. I have waited and I have prayed, and nothing seems to stem the tide or spin the chord in the right direction. This may be the greatest day of your life, it would whisper, but the sarcasm in its voice was drippingly obvious. What appears in its place is a Shadow, a soot lined specter drilling upwards from the nothing black cascade of an empty room, chosen at random from the ones in your head and the ones in your heart. A little diorama of bleak void filled with porcelain doll faces cracked from worry. It will lead fate into coincidence, faith into doubt and anything pleasant or comforting somewhere into the region where all terrible things go when bitten by the dust of sleep. My monster, I called it. My best friend.
Does it make you angry? Do you hate her for what she's done? How do you sleep now? Is it that difficult? Why can't you just move on? It shouldn't be this hard. You shouldn't have this much trouble. Life goes forward. Nothing changes. The world never stops spinning. Get a grip. Get yourself together. Stop worrying so much. Stop trying. Hold on. It will all get better. Time heals all wounds. Nothing lasts forever.
This too shall pass.
The minutes drag with an imperious sense of their own righteousness, and they collect in the hair trap drain of the shower. I've watched it with giddy and monstrous illusion, praying for it to come visit in the night, even as I've prayed for just the opposite. The stagnation of my own self preservation and all of the accompanying naive world views I'd pushed on with the militant voice of a firecracker commandant have left me without tools to fix the gaping holes, to make sense of what might not have anything sensible in it. I drive aimlessly, I watch wind pouring waves and I see time seal itself into musty vaults and old graves. I watch the Sun set behind the silhouettes of churches and I beg myself for strength to weaken enough. But I don't. I cling tight to the dock, to the posts slippery with Seaweed and I barely breathe. The summer has been over for a long time. The autumn has left and now all that's left is a white chill spike hammered into my temples, completing a long and dissonant symphony with one thunderous clang.
Too much. All of it seems too much. As if there aren't enough spiraling swathes of pretension and arrogant dribble sounding off through the airwaves, under the water's swift current or just in the notebooks of silly children trying so hard to be seen, now there is this. A commitment, and a romance of the awful spit-soaked, dry lipped, wet-eyed blur of days that seemed destined to go on forever, this is sickness, do you know that? It's the fever dream of my monster, my best friend, and it still licks at old scars, opens them with the vicious assault of a pack of wild wolves and fills them with the black Moonglow of backwards intention, of futility's pretty fragility, of the exact opposite of hope masquerading as its antonym. Too much of everything. It needs to stop.
And there is no story to it, no arc that can be traced, I suppose, because it's a lingering, bubbling cauldron sort of underlying drift. Wherever I go, whatever I do, that blood-soaked grin is always a step behind me, a mile ahead of me, glistening overhead with polished but still-stained fangs that consume the sky and all of its promises. I whisper little spells to keep it at bay, sure, but I have no authority over what my addled spinal column has birthed. I don't enjoy it, but in my own gross way, I love it. I value the discolored tissue of my scarred skin, not for anything aesthetic or proud, but because of the memory infused into the cut, the lovely-in-retrospect veil and fog that gauzes the infuriating misery that I've plugged into every light socket and outlet. There is a fissure between him and me: my longing for something pretty amidst the ugliness, and his need to rip asunder anything calm and replace it with the snatched lightning seeds stolen from fairytales and books with sour endings.
I call him He-Grins-Bloody. I remember the songs he would sing me when I was just a baby.
Does it make you angry? Do you hate her for what she's done? How do you sleep now? Is it that difficult? Why can't you just move on? It shouldn't be this hard. You shouldn't have this much trouble. Life goes forward. Nothing changes. The world never stops spinning. Get a grip. Get yourself together. Stop worrying so much. Stop trying. Hold on. It will all get better. Time heals all wounds. Nothing lasts forever.
This too shall pass.
The minutes drag with an imperious sense of their own righteousness, and they collect in the hair trap drain of the shower. I've watched it with giddy and monstrous illusion, praying for it to come visit in the night, even as I've prayed for just the opposite. The stagnation of my own self preservation and all of the accompanying naive world views I'd pushed on with the militant voice of a firecracker commandant have left me without tools to fix the gaping holes, to make sense of what might not have anything sensible in it. I drive aimlessly, I watch wind pouring waves and I see time seal itself into musty vaults and old graves. I watch the Sun set behind the silhouettes of churches and I beg myself for strength to weaken enough. But I don't. I cling tight to the dock, to the posts slippery with Seaweed and I barely breathe. The summer has been over for a long time. The autumn has left and now all that's left is a white chill spike hammered into my temples, completing a long and dissonant symphony with one thunderous clang.
Too much. All of it seems too much. As if there aren't enough spiraling swathes of pretension and arrogant dribble sounding off through the airwaves, under the water's swift current or just in the notebooks of silly children trying so hard to be seen, now there is this. A commitment, and a romance of the awful spit-soaked, dry lipped, wet-eyed blur of days that seemed destined to go on forever, this is sickness, do you know that? It's the fever dream of my monster, my best friend, and it still licks at old scars, opens them with the vicious assault of a pack of wild wolves and fills them with the black Moonglow of backwards intention, of futility's pretty fragility, of the exact opposite of hope masquerading as its antonym. Too much of everything. It needs to stop.
And there is no story to it, no arc that can be traced, I suppose, because it's a lingering, bubbling cauldron sort of underlying drift. Wherever I go, whatever I do, that blood-soaked grin is always a step behind me, a mile ahead of me, glistening overhead with polished but still-stained fangs that consume the sky and all of its promises. I whisper little spells to keep it at bay, sure, but I have no authority over what my addled spinal column has birthed. I don't enjoy it, but in my own gross way, I love it. I value the discolored tissue of my scarred skin, not for anything aesthetic or proud, but because of the memory infused into the cut, the lovely-in-retrospect veil and fog that gauzes the infuriating misery that I've plugged into every light socket and outlet. There is a fissure between him and me: my longing for something pretty amidst the ugliness, and his need to rip asunder anything calm and replace it with the snatched lightning seeds stolen from fairytales and books with sour endings.
I call him He-Grins-Bloody. I remember the songs he would sing me when I was just a baby.
White 03 (Nivea's Thoughts)
Nivea read the preceding with a hint of revulsion shivering down the snow blue skin on her neck and arms. Her crystalline wings beat a nervous little swathe into the icy air as she hovered over the shoulder of the slumbering polar bear.
"It's sad... I think," Nivea said, her fragile voice issuing a cloud of steam that froze and fluttered to the ground with the sound of a symphony of shattering glass warbled notes. Each ice droplet sang as it fell, perfectly beautiful in its brief moment of musical life before it exploded on the snow covered ground below. "I can't really tell..."
The polar bear, whose name was Elijah, grumbled, half-asleep and annoyed. He lifted a massive paw up toward Nivea, making the effort, at least, to acknowledge her.
"It certainly seems sad... Do you think it's sad?" she asked, crinkling her tiny faerie features. "It seems sad."
"Mmmm... sad," Elijah mumbled.
"It's confusing, isn't it? It seems awfully confusing..."
Stiria, then, the wiser of the two snow faeries, flew by, and noticed the look of consternation on poor Nivea's face. "What's wrong, Nivea?" she asked.
"We found this little book," Nivea responded. "I don't really understand what's inside, though. I think it's sad. It seems sad."
"Mmmm... sad," Elijah reiterated, still asleep.
"Let me see," Stiria said, grabbing the little book. "What is this?"
"Elijah found it in the snow," Nivea explained.
"Mmmm... sad," Elijah added.
As Stiria read the little booklet, her eyes narrowed. "It's not saying anything," she whispered. "It seems like nonsense."
"It seems sad," Nivea said.
"You've mentioned," Stiria snapped. "I don't know... I don't think it makes any sense at all."
"Mmmm... nonsense," Elijah said, sleepily.
"I think it does. I do. I think it does make sense. I think it's about dreams," Nivea said. "About dreams and memory. About fantasy."
Stiria lifted her head up quickly. "Fantasy?"
"I think so. But not the sweet kind of fantasy," Nivea said, shaking her head and letting her white hair flit about, soft and slow. "Not our kind of fantasy."
"Ah. No. Not our kind," Stiria agreed. "Is that why he added us? Is that why the author added us into the book?"
"I think so, maybe," Nivea said. "I don't know. It seems confusing. Like there's a story, there..."
"But there's not," Stiria said. "There doesn't seem to be a story..."
"Mmmm... nonsense," Elijah said again.
"No, I suppose not. But we do seem added intentionally, don't we? A way to lighten the mood? A way to bring a slightly magical narrative to a collection of dreariness and..." Stiria started to say.
"Sadness," Nivea concluded.
"Yes, I see," Stiria said, unhappily. "It seems like a strange thing to do, doesn't it? To prattle on incessantly about all of the awful things that run through a mind? Especially when there's so much beauty in the world. So much prettiness."
"That's why he has us, right?" Nivea asked. "To remind him?"
"To change the direction of the story..." Stiria said.
"Even when there's no real story to speak of..." Nivea said.
"Right. So, then, see? It's not so sad," Stiria said, closing the little book and returning it to Nivea. "It's not so sad at all."
"It's sad... I think," Nivea said, her fragile voice issuing a cloud of steam that froze and fluttered to the ground with the sound of a symphony of shattering glass warbled notes. Each ice droplet sang as it fell, perfectly beautiful in its brief moment of musical life before it exploded on the snow covered ground below. "I can't really tell..."
The polar bear, whose name was Elijah, grumbled, half-asleep and annoyed. He lifted a massive paw up toward Nivea, making the effort, at least, to acknowledge her.
"It certainly seems sad... Do you think it's sad?" she asked, crinkling her tiny faerie features. "It seems sad."
"Mmmm... sad," Elijah mumbled.
"It's confusing, isn't it? It seems awfully confusing..."
Stiria, then, the wiser of the two snow faeries, flew by, and noticed the look of consternation on poor Nivea's face. "What's wrong, Nivea?" she asked.
"We found this little book," Nivea responded. "I don't really understand what's inside, though. I think it's sad. It seems sad."
"Mmmm... sad," Elijah reiterated, still asleep.
"Let me see," Stiria said, grabbing the little book. "What is this?"
"Elijah found it in the snow," Nivea explained.
"Mmmm... sad," Elijah added.
As Stiria read the little booklet, her eyes narrowed. "It's not saying anything," she whispered. "It seems like nonsense."
"It seems sad," Nivea said.
"You've mentioned," Stiria snapped. "I don't know... I don't think it makes any sense at all."
"Mmmm... nonsense," Elijah said, sleepily.
"I think it does. I do. I think it does make sense. I think it's about dreams," Nivea said. "About dreams and memory. About fantasy."
Stiria lifted her head up quickly. "Fantasy?"
"I think so. But not the sweet kind of fantasy," Nivea said, shaking her head and letting her white hair flit about, soft and slow. "Not our kind of fantasy."
"Ah. No. Not our kind," Stiria agreed. "Is that why he added us? Is that why the author added us into the book?"
"I think so, maybe," Nivea said. "I don't know. It seems confusing. Like there's a story, there..."
"But there's not," Stiria said. "There doesn't seem to be a story..."
"Mmmm... nonsense," Elijah said again.
"No, I suppose not. But we do seem added intentionally, don't we? A way to lighten the mood? A way to bring a slightly magical narrative to a collection of dreariness and..." Stiria started to say.
"Sadness," Nivea concluded.
"Yes, I see," Stiria said, unhappily. "It seems like a strange thing to do, doesn't it? To prattle on incessantly about all of the awful things that run through a mind? Especially when there's so much beauty in the world. So much prettiness."
"That's why he has us, right?" Nivea asked. "To remind him?"
"To change the direction of the story..." Stiria said.
"Even when there's no real story to speak of..." Nivea said.
"Right. So, then, see? It's not so sad," Stiria said, closing the little book and returning it to Nivea. "It's not so sad at all."
White 02 (Snowflake Cruelty)
Iamtooeasilyannoyed.Iamarrogant.Iamcruel.
Imockwonderfulthings.
Ilackcompassion.Ilackwarmth.Ilackkindness.
Iamscreamingagainsttheprisonofmyskull.
Iammean.Iamintolerant.Iamstubbornandunwillingtomove.
Iamhamfistedandheavyhanded.
Iamunimportant.Iaminsecure.Iamuninteresting.Iamineloquent.
Iamnervous.
IamawreckatthebottomoftheSea.
Iamworried.Iamfitfull.Iamugly.Iamstupid.Iamwastingyourtime.
Iamahypocrite,abastard,aliarandacheat.Iamathief.Iamaterribleperson,awretch.
Iamweak.
Iamacoward.
Iamsick.Iamlazy.Iamslow.
Iamploddinganddimwittedandworthless.
Iamaconiving,backstabbingpileoffilth.
Iamalwaystired.Iamalwaysfallingapart.Iamalwayspooledinapuddleofsoppynervesonthefloor.
Iamaloser.Iamascatterbrain.
Iamobsessedwithdeath.Iamterrifiedofdeath.Iamalways,nightandday,thinkingaboutdeath.
Iamdreadfullyboring.Iamfrighteninglydull.Iamincapableofasingleoriginalthought.
Isuck.
Iliveinasickeninglystupidinternalworldofcloisteredneurosisandidioticfear.
Iamtoobullheadedtovisitthedoctor.Iamtoobigacowardtovisitthedentist.
Iamgoingtowitheraway.Iamgoingtocontractanawfuldisease.
Iamgoingtobeinvolvedinsomesortofdebilitatingaccident.
Iamgoingtobecomeanamputee.
Iamgoingtodie.
Iamparanoid.Iamirrational.
Iamtooemotional.Iamtoofragile.Iamtooselfaware.Iamtooselfobsessed.Iamtooselfcentered.
Iwillneverwinafight.
Iamaloser.
Iamshatteredlikeaplateglasswindow.Iamwrithinginmyskin.
Iamdrowninginmyfear.IamdrowninginaSeaofdoubt,ofsickly,queasy,ruinousdoubt.
Inursetoomanygrudges.
Iamnauseousaftereverymeal.
Iamaninsomniac.
Iamtwistedinmystomach.Iamtwistedinmybrain.
Iamtwistedinmyprunish,wrinkledsoul.
Iamgrotesque.
Iamnearlyalwaysburningwithavagueandveryilldefinedsenseofanger.
Iamtwirlingthroughavoidofabsolutelyinfiniteterrors
(thekindthatseepintothedarkrecessesofthemindandgrabholdwithtalonlikeclawsintotheflesh-
(andthenperchthere,gnawing,slowlychewingthesanityawayuntilallthatremainsisabloodied-
(soiledstumpofwhathadoncebeencontentment,andnowisjustauselesstumor,ahammeredthumb.)
Iamthrough.
Imockwonderfulthings.
Ilackcompassion.Ilackwarmth.Ilackkindness.
Iamscreamingagainsttheprisonofmyskull.
Iammean.Iamintolerant.Iamstubbornandunwillingtomove.
Iamhamfistedandheavyhanded.
Iamunimportant.Iaminsecure.Iamuninteresting.Iamineloquent.
Iamnervous.
IamawreckatthebottomoftheSea.
Iamworried.Iamfitfull.Iamugly.Iamstupid.Iamwastingyourtime.
Iamahypocrite,abastard,aliarandacheat.Iamathief.Iamaterribleperson,awretch.
Iamweak.
Iamacoward.
Iamsick.Iamlazy.Iamslow.
Iamploddinganddimwittedandworthless.
Iamaconiving,backstabbingpileoffilth.
Iamalwaystired.Iamalwaysfallingapart.Iamalwayspooledinapuddleofsoppynervesonthefloor.
Iamaloser.Iamascatterbrain.
Iamobsessedwithdeath.Iamterrifiedofdeath.Iamalways,nightandday,thinkingaboutdeath.
Iamdreadfullyboring.Iamfrighteninglydull.Iamincapableofasingleoriginalthought.
Isuck.
Iliveinasickeninglystupidinternalworldofcloisteredneurosisandidioticfear.
Iamtoobullheadedtovisitthedoctor.Iamtoobigacowardtovisitthedentist.
Iamgoingtowitheraway.Iamgoingtocontractanawfuldisease.
Iamgoingtobeinvolvedinsomesortofdebilitatingaccident.
Iamgoingtobecomeanamputee.
Iamgoingtodie.
Iamparanoid.Iamirrational.
Iamtooemotional.Iamtoofragile.Iamtooselfaware.Iamtooselfobsessed.Iamtooselfcentered.
Iwillneverwinafight.
Iamaloser.
Iamshatteredlikeaplateglasswindow.Iamwrithinginmyskin.
Iamdrowninginmyfear.IamdrowninginaSeaofdoubt,ofsickly,queasy,ruinousdoubt.
Inursetoomanygrudges.
Iamnauseousaftereverymeal.
Iamaninsomniac.
Iamtwistedinmystomach.Iamtwistedinmybrain.
Iamtwistedinmyprunish,wrinkledsoul.
Iamgrotesque.
Iamnearlyalwaysburningwithavagueandveryilldefinedsenseofanger.
Iamtwirlingthroughavoidofabsolutelyinfiniteterrors
(thekindthatseepintothedarkrecessesofthemindandgrabholdwithtalonlikeclawsintotheflesh-
(andthenperchthere,gnawing,slowlychewingthesanityawayuntilallthatremainsisabloodied-
(soiledstumpofwhathadoncebeencontentment,andnowisjustauselesstumor,ahammeredthumb.)
Iamthrough.
White 01 (Waking)
I wandered in the face of it, heavy with the anesthesia of morning, the stillborn sense of reason that accompanies almost waking up. I practically fell into it, the light ahead of me, blinding and melting the face from my skull, spilling brightly burning liquid yellow onto the paper fragile landscape of dreaming, disintegrating it and leaving just the mild yelps of sketchily drawn fragmentary people in the daisy syrup wake behind it. Eyes opened to painful sensation, then quickly closed to retreat behind fleshy thin walls that failed to keep out the intruder completely. It sizzled through, searing half caught blurred neon nonsense into the black, then letting it heal and drift away into a sea of cloudy gray-white fog. There is the tug, the pull of sleep, the revenant remains of night bliss wrapping cold, comforting skeletal hands around your brain, burying it in the cozy warmth of a beckoning pillow. The revulsion of early revolution. The snapped rejection of the coup of consciousness. I fought back, like I always do, trying to casually embrace another minute of slumber, but the constant shrill beak crack of the goddamned alarm pushed me further and further from it with every repeated shriek.
What had preceded was certainly amazing. I could feel that, the rush of excitement still burrowing tunnels in my stomach, still sending trolley car cable sparks of adrenaline up my spinal column. There had been an acquaintance long forgotten, a composite of childhood friends and favorite characters from television shows, the kind of dream companion that's mutable and shifting, but not in a distracting or disorienting sort of way. There had been a remote location that mixed the most mundane bits of real life with the most fantastic issues of pulp, so that battlement towers rose like boney fingers from the aisles of the grocery store, and a steep, thorny valley populated by albino crocodiles dropped swiftly from the parking lot, filled with stray shopping carts and some sort of psychedelically sparkled thought-toads. There was no unrest or confusion caused by the radically altered landscape accessible through the freezer doors, and though the point of view might vary frighteningly and include views from eyes of people stuffed dead in their coffins, the narrative remained, in its conjoined twin logic, understandable. More so, for those first terrible moments of shift change, than the harsh light story sucker punching me in the face.
And soon, the whole of it, at least the crisply ill-defined details that struggled against any sort of pin and label, burned off entirely, leaving a void resulting in hysterical and thankfully short-lived, but still absolute confusion. As the fake world of dreams was booted out, left to wither in the spotlight of analysis or drown in a sea of sensibility, the real world reasserted itself with a hastily sketched outline skeleton shot through swiftly with the incalculable tiny bits of data that align themselves quicker than lightning to encompass the whole of the known world, the stable one that lives outside of dreams and seems to remain the same from day to day, provided our memories are to be trusted.
There is that little bit of me that always worries about the veracity of what my mind, the devious stranger in my own attic, compiles as real in that first moment of waking, since during my sleep it can easily convince me of a million unreal stories that I dismiss because of their oddness. I assume I live the same life from day to day, with the same characters, the same chunk of rock spinning through space under my feet, the same specter of death looming over me. But I wonder sometimes how I can be sure of what I haven't made up, positive in its truth only because it happens during the time I'm awake. But what difference is there in the perceptions? And if I have a memory, whether it really happened or not, in the waking world, isn't the faked experience of dreaming just as valid as the honest experience of being awake? It confuses me, sometimes, to the point of crippling, but eventually, some unseen, unknowable governor inside my piloted brain sorts the two halves of my life out into their respective boxes and allows me to interact with the world I see as relatively stagnant and real while still holding onto the memories of a handful of faded dreams.
And while that disorientation is frustrating in itself, what's worse is the window it opens into the creeping mystery of my own brain... the various parts of my consciousness that operate without any input from me. There's the odd film maker that creates the nocturnal fictions that confound me and confuse me and rip contentment with the questions they lead into. And there's the traffic cop directing logic and nonsense and keeping the division between them as strong as it can be. There's the foreman keeping the machinery of the body operating without any real effort on my part. And there is the generator of stray thoughts... all of the unfocused bits that wander through my mind without my asking or my permission. And the crowd of passengers and drivers stuffed into the gray matter folds of brain sometimes throw anything of my autonomy into question. I'm not sure where all of that music, all of that noise, all of those commands are really coming from. I never get to be fully confident in who I am at all...
What had preceded was certainly amazing. I could feel that, the rush of excitement still burrowing tunnels in my stomach, still sending trolley car cable sparks of adrenaline up my spinal column. There had been an acquaintance long forgotten, a composite of childhood friends and favorite characters from television shows, the kind of dream companion that's mutable and shifting, but not in a distracting or disorienting sort of way. There had been a remote location that mixed the most mundane bits of real life with the most fantastic issues of pulp, so that battlement towers rose like boney fingers from the aisles of the grocery store, and a steep, thorny valley populated by albino crocodiles dropped swiftly from the parking lot, filled with stray shopping carts and some sort of psychedelically sparkled thought-toads. There was no unrest or confusion caused by the radically altered landscape accessible through the freezer doors, and though the point of view might vary frighteningly and include views from eyes of people stuffed dead in their coffins, the narrative remained, in its conjoined twin logic, understandable. More so, for those first terrible moments of shift change, than the harsh light story sucker punching me in the face.
And soon, the whole of it, at least the crisply ill-defined details that struggled against any sort of pin and label, burned off entirely, leaving a void resulting in hysterical and thankfully short-lived, but still absolute confusion. As the fake world of dreams was booted out, left to wither in the spotlight of analysis or drown in a sea of sensibility, the real world reasserted itself with a hastily sketched outline skeleton shot through swiftly with the incalculable tiny bits of data that align themselves quicker than lightning to encompass the whole of the known world, the stable one that lives outside of dreams and seems to remain the same from day to day, provided our memories are to be trusted.
There is that little bit of me that always worries about the veracity of what my mind, the devious stranger in my own attic, compiles as real in that first moment of waking, since during my sleep it can easily convince me of a million unreal stories that I dismiss because of their oddness. I assume I live the same life from day to day, with the same characters, the same chunk of rock spinning through space under my feet, the same specter of death looming over me. But I wonder sometimes how I can be sure of what I haven't made up, positive in its truth only because it happens during the time I'm awake. But what difference is there in the perceptions? And if I have a memory, whether it really happened or not, in the waking world, isn't the faked experience of dreaming just as valid as the honest experience of being awake? It confuses me, sometimes, to the point of crippling, but eventually, some unseen, unknowable governor inside my piloted brain sorts the two halves of my life out into their respective boxes and allows me to interact with the world I see as relatively stagnant and real while still holding onto the memories of a handful of faded dreams.
And while that disorientation is frustrating in itself, what's worse is the window it opens into the creeping mystery of my own brain... the various parts of my consciousness that operate without any input from me. There's the odd film maker that creates the nocturnal fictions that confound me and confuse me and rip contentment with the questions they lead into. And there's the traffic cop directing logic and nonsense and keeping the division between them as strong as it can be. There's the foreman keeping the machinery of the body operating without any real effort on my part. And there is the generator of stray thoughts... all of the unfocused bits that wander through my mind without my asking or my permission. And the crowd of passengers and drivers stuffed into the gray matter folds of brain sometimes throw anything of my autonomy into question. I'm not sure where all of that music, all of that noise, all of those commands are really coming from. I never get to be fully confident in who I am at all...
Prelude: White
The rushing clouds above her head
That speak to youth's fragility,
All blanket in the frosty calm
That comes from cold soliloquy.
And breezes laced with fall's last gasp,
Iced wind to cut the failing heat,
Stab the heart and choke the lungs
And lay dead petals at her feet.
That speak to youth's fragility,
All blanket in the frosty calm
That comes from cold soliloquy.
And breezes laced with fall's last gasp,
Iced wind to cut the failing heat,
Stab the heart and choke the lungs
And lay dead petals at her feet.
6/25/07
A Beginning
So this is where I struggle.
How to begin?
It's a daunting task isn't it? I mean, a beginning sets the tone for everything to follow, everything that comes in its wake. And here it is. Just a slight ramble about the nature of beginnings... hardly worth reading, much less repeating. And once it's set down, like it is now, there's no going back. It's just there. Worthlessness on the page. Or the screen, as it happens.
And it isn't like I don't have anything to say. I mean, I'm constantly babbling. Honestly. Words just spill out of my head like drool from a baby. And there's nothing I don't have an opinion on. Name it. Politics? Sure. Music? Definitely. Comedy, literature, current events, ancient history, etymology, art, the inferiority of plays when compared to film, Spider-Man, giant squid, "Simpsons" trivia, the Mayans, Spike Jonze, conspiracy theories, modern bastardizations of folk and fairy tales, the name of the metal faced weapons expert from "G.I. Joe" (Destro, by the way), occult sciences and stop motion animation? Yep. I could write at length about any of those topics. But did I? No. I wrote about how I could write about them, thus sidestepping writing about anything at all, and proving my inability to focus on anything interesting whatsoever.
How are you enjoying it so far?
But, I suppose there's an upside to this. After all, once the beginning has begun, there's nothing you can really do to stop it. I mean, it's already started, and even if it ends here, it's still a beginning, and then, no matter what, I've got it out of the way. And that's a nice feeling. So I dread how to start it... but now it's started. And sure, I may cringe when I look back and see that this, this load of drivel is what kicks off what I'm certain will be an illustrious and wholly popular foray into the insanely cluttered world of internet babblery, but it's there, set down in black and white, saved on some stranger's server for the entire world to see.
Huh.
So, yes, this is my blog. The Manta Ray Taste X-Plosion. And it's just begun, so please cut it some slack. I swear it'll get better from here on.
I mean, really, could it get much worse?
How to begin?
It's a daunting task isn't it? I mean, a beginning sets the tone for everything to follow, everything that comes in its wake. And here it is. Just a slight ramble about the nature of beginnings... hardly worth reading, much less repeating. And once it's set down, like it is now, there's no going back. It's just there. Worthlessness on the page. Or the screen, as it happens.
And it isn't like I don't have anything to say. I mean, I'm constantly babbling. Honestly. Words just spill out of my head like drool from a baby. And there's nothing I don't have an opinion on. Name it. Politics? Sure. Music? Definitely. Comedy, literature, current events, ancient history, etymology, art, the inferiority of plays when compared to film, Spider-Man, giant squid, "Simpsons" trivia, the Mayans, Spike Jonze, conspiracy theories, modern bastardizations of folk and fairy tales, the name of the metal faced weapons expert from "G.I. Joe" (Destro, by the way), occult sciences and stop motion animation? Yep. I could write at length about any of those topics. But did I? No. I wrote about how I could write about them, thus sidestepping writing about anything at all, and proving my inability to focus on anything interesting whatsoever.
How are you enjoying it so far?
But, I suppose there's an upside to this. After all, once the beginning has begun, there's nothing you can really do to stop it. I mean, it's already started, and even if it ends here, it's still a beginning, and then, no matter what, I've got it out of the way. And that's a nice feeling. So I dread how to start it... but now it's started. And sure, I may cringe when I look back and see that this, this load of drivel is what kicks off what I'm certain will be an illustrious and wholly popular foray into the insanely cluttered world of internet babblery, but it's there, set down in black and white, saved on some stranger's server for the entire world to see.
Huh.
So, yes, this is my blog. The Manta Ray Taste X-Plosion. And it's just begun, so please cut it some slack. I swear it'll get better from here on.
I mean, really, could it get much worse?
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