The clouds closed like a curtain
As summer took its final bow.
The poplars applauded in the autumnal breeze,
We walked, ensconced in the enchantment of our sylvan canopy.
It was winter when we met,
When the February mornings were frosted over,
The trees, bare, cold, stoic.
Our love bloomed with the spring,
And warmed through the summer.
I hold your hand, and hold you closer,
Closer than I ever dreamed,
As we anticipate autumn, the harvest, a cornucopia.
After all my hyperactive longing, I got to see Ryan Adams for the third time in a year. And this time, I was accompanied by Haley, who was sporting her pink CBGBs shirt for the occasion.
A longtime, fairly obsessed fan of Ryan Adams, I am always both excited scared to see him in concert, or meet him in person. I have heard amazing live performances over the years, thanks to the bootlegs available over the internet, but each time I have seen him personally, I have always been frustrated by the inconsistency of his performances (and the inconsistency of whether he will even appear, for that matter). His performances are often brilliant and tragic at the same time. The other night, we had brilliance. He never sang more beautifully, the band never sounded better. But unlike the Adams-esque brilliance Kerouac spoke of in terms of roman candles ("the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!"), we got the brilliance of a flashlight: consistent but from a can.
I'm sure he'll find his way. And now, he'll probably be alive to show us.
four score and twenty
me minus you.
it feels like infinity, but
i missed you by about 200 miles.
two hundred miles
sounds so far
when i call
your name in the middle of the night.
we'd be closer in outer space
where distances are measured in light-years.
it's dark here.
i miss you.
as she lay in the verdant meadow,
lightly damp, the earth a cool, contouring mattress of moss
that held her body close,
swaddled in her resting place,
she dreamed a zebra reverie.
it was impressionistic at best, fleeting colors,
the savannah a blur of of gold, dust and fear
heartbeat rising, the heat of terror,
adrenaline running reasonless.
a neck that can't look back
eyes on the periphery
flight escapes her,
a chase without resolution,
i came across a thoroughly disturbing story in today's New York Times, about how increased globalization is driving up imports of tainted food (tainted with "filth," bacteria, illegal pesticides, etc, and not just from China.
Nancy M. Childs, a professor of food marketing at St. Joseph University in Philadelphia, said the quality problems were an inevitable result of companies pursuing the cheapest possible products.
“As long as we are pushing for the lowest price all the time, driving our supply chain, you get more efficient,” she said. “But at a certain point there is no more efficiency and you sacrifice quality.”
While Americans increasingly buy their groceries from Wal-Mart, you'll find me at the farmer's market.
A really wonderful profile of Ryan Adams appeared in the New York Times on Sunday . . .
On Friday, Haley and I attended an Obama rally in Seattle. Of course it was hyped, front-page news on both local papers, 5,000 people were expected. As we approached the Qwest Events Center, we were even solicited by ticket scalpers. People were everywhere - from all walks of life - in fact, it was the most diverse group of people I have ever seen assembled in Seattle, not to mention at a political rally at this stage in the election.
Once Obama finally took the stage (after the African dancers and a young unknown singer-songewriter performed for over an hour as we waited), I started to see what the fuss was all about, even from the cheap seats where we were stationed. The man is inspiring. I cried. I jumped up from my chair. I shouted. I realized that his words had the power to resurrect the hope that had died inside of me the day George W. Bush was elected for a second term. I left thinking: maybe I am not powerless to affect change.
A couple of weeks ago, while Everett and I were engaged in our Sunday ritual of reading the New York Times, I told him about how I've stopped reading about The War, because it's pointless. The only reasons to read about it would be to get angry or merely to appear well-informed so I could appear impressive in my day to day conversations, I reasoned. Since it doesn't matter that everyone is against The War and that it is built on lies and corruption, and since I have stopped my approval-seeking behaviors, I felt pretty justified in ignoring the bulk of the front page.
But after I heard Obama speak, I remembered that I do care a lot about that war and what a shithole this country has become. I care a lot about social injustice, the cycle of poverty and the lack of health care. While I am not sure about whether I will throw my support behind Obama, I do feel like I have recovered a part of myself, my purpose and I believe, perhaps the inkling of a mission.
i have been binging on a buffet of self-help books. Having never read a single self-help book before this year (opting instead for pricey therapy), it's been a fascinating personal journey. But wow, am I learning a lot. In fact, I just inhale 'em, and they have made my therapy so much more insightful - I can come to the session with the basics, and my therapist can finesse them. In the case of my amazing therapist, he brings an astrological perspective to what I glean from the books and work on independently. The net result is I feel like a renewed person.
It's funny - I always thought I had a handle on all my shit, but it turns out that I didn't quite realize just how deeply some of my shit permeated into my entire existence. I'm really excited to work through my childhood wounds and understanding how I have projected them onto nearly every aspect of my life and created realities that are based on perceptions formed long ago in my personal history. It's an enlightening trip.
Ever since Everett and I saw the Frames in Portland, I have been dying to see "Once" an indie film starring Frames frontman Glen Hansard. After winning an award at Sundance, it is finally opening in New York and LA.
while "420 chicago" and the like continue to be popular referrers to "better than prozac," the craigslist-related mischief continues. I gotta give this mean lady props for creativity in her revenge scheme: place an ad in craigslist that says:
“House being demolished. Come and take whatever you want, nothing is off limits. Items outside and garage will be open for access into house. Please help yourself to anything on property at 1202 East 64th Street. Tacoma"
when the address is that of your aunt, with whom you have a major beef. Oh, and the house was left bare. Everything - including the kitchen sink - gone.
Already, today is developing in an enchantingly, interesting manner. It didn't start so well - plagued by insomnia, i tossed and turned until 2 a.m. The morning scramble was stressful and tardy as always, the bus system... reliably unreliable, the 358 late, and packed full. When I accidentally bumped into an old lady with my attache, she actually hit me. I was rescued by a sweet, not as old man who insisted I take his seat, as I was clearly burdened with my sky-high boots and baggage.
But it got better from there. Jeff Tweedy serenaded me as I popped open the laptop and got caught up on the morning mail, thanks to my wireless broadband connection. It was beautiful - the commute felt quick and I instantly made up for lost time. When I was finally deposited at the coffeeshop, (about 30 minutes later than expected) Abbey Road was playing, and people were actually dancing in the coffee line to Octopus' Garden. Dancing.
It's going to be a good day.
This should be a "live music" post, as I am *supposed* to be at the Dolorean show at the Tractor tonight. Being the masochist I clearly am, I let my ex-husband off the hook and elected to hang out with the little one instead. Besides, after spending the day sick in bed, I suppose going out to a bar would have lost out to sleeping anyway.
I'm a little slow on the uptake here, but after hearing them on Cheryl Waters' show this afternoon, I am an instant superfan of this Portland-based band. Their beautiful, lush, dreamy songs tinged with sadness and kissed with the occasional steel guitar remind me of of a cross between the Great Lake Swimmers and Earlimart.
I'm listening today to "You Can't Win" . . . I think I'm on the third rotation , and I have no desire to listen to anything else at the moment. I'm afraid I'll project too much of how I am feeling right now to review it, but wow, I am smitten.
Ryan Adams has "Two" up on his myspace page.
Only a month to go!
Last night, something great happened: Mel inspired me to write a song. I have been wanting to explore the format for a while, since I do have a thing about great songwriters, which has honestly intimidated the hell out of me. In fact, I was listening to Summer Teeth on the bus yesterday, and thought to myself, "I wish I could write a song like that." There's also the issue that I don't know how to write music, I don't play an instrument and I really don't know if I can sing anymore, since I'm always completely hammered when I do it at some dank Karaoke bar, and it's been like a million years since I took the stage.
But anyway, last night Mel shared with a fantastic little ditty she composed, "therapy girl." It even had a melody. I was impressed. As I drove to work today, I was moping a little tiny bit about missing my guy and the song (which did have a melody in the car, but I am pretty sure I ripped it off from whatever song was playing at the time), just flowed out of me. Anyway, I dunno if it's good, if it will ever have music, if I will ever sing it or if it will be magically discovered in the blogosphere and I will join ASCAP . . . or if it will freak out my boyfriend when he reads it (of course it shouldn't, sweetie), but you never know if you don't try, right?
"I can't stand sleeping alone
I can't lie down, either
When I sleep with him I
Can only lie to you."
She's got her little hobbies
Like her knitting
She likes drinking a little
out with her friends
But she's got little
But he's always gone and
She's always lonely.
She's always wondering
What he's doing.
Because she knows it's important.
More important than her.
"I can't stand sleeping alone.
I can't lie down, either.
When I sleep with him I
Can only lie to you."
She's an insomniac,
She walks at night
Looking for someone to kiss.
But when she can't find him
She finds herself lost
And discovers that
She really hates him.
How he makes her cheat herself
he must be a monster
She looks in the mirror and
figures they're even.
So they lie
Together in her bed.
She covers her secrets
With soft pretty blankets
And whispers in his ear,
"I can't stand sleeping alone
I can't lie down, either.
When I sleep with you I
Can only lie to myself."
i pick my scabs
refuse to accept my wounds,
keep them open
for further consideration.
I kick my stomach
to see what comes up
i smile, beguiled,
I state the obvious:
it's painful to speak.
I resign to
a surprisingly decent list from the Seattle P-I. So far, have made few commitments to the summer sched... I will do my best to hit the Georgetown Music Festival, as one of my faves, Earlimart will be there, and I'd love a lo-fi version of the Capitol Hill Block Party . . . I'm planning a picnic at Chateau Ste. Michelle with Chris Isaak and am seriously tempted by the Willie Nelson Fourth of July show at the Gorge, but my boy doesn't dig on the twang and I don't dig on seeing shows without him...
ahh...here comes the Avalanche... a new Ryan Adams record means my google alerts are a-blazing (yes I am obsessed, I admit) with Easy Tiger news. On Pitchfork, Stephen King waxes fan-boy on Adams (while ripping off Wilco by using "blue-eyed soul" as if it were original, but what can you do?) and on 100 years of trash, we get a track listing as well as some live versions of some of the songs.
Word is that the new Ryan Adams record, Easy Tiger, is coming out June 26th, and that none other than my girl Sheryl Crow (who Adams once joked that he thought a line from "My Favorite Mistake" referenced the Bat Cave).... Although I have not heard any leaked tracks yet (hint, hint!), I am eager to hear the latest and greatest from my favorite artist, especially since just the other day, I was thinking about Gold (an excellent AMG Review here).
As you all know, it was a bright and sunny day on Monday, and Gold seemed like the perfect accompaniment inside my car, where things were partly cloudy; loneliness spiked with sunshine, love just spiked). I listened to it loud, windows down, as I drove to the suburbs. Like me, that day, Gold fluctuates between spirited anthems (New York, New York) to sweet/sappy, peppy love notes (Somehow, Someday) and somber, regretful ballads (Harder Now that It's Over). As is typical, there are a few that really aren't good enough for the record - indeed I hate two of them, a fact that is counter-balanced by two favorites, "Rescue Blues" and "When the Stars Go Blue" which may have well been the musical theme of my week:
"Where do you go when you're lonely?
Where do you go when you're blue?
Where do you go when you're lonely,
I'll follow you."
And Ryan Adams' music generally does follow me to those places.
I also thought about how much Adams has evolved as a songwriter and musician since then, and about how much better those old songs sound live, rearranged, more intricately played, more passionately sung. I'm eager to see him perform again- both recorded and live (especially now that he is apparently sober).
we're on the second day of the first flirtation with summer. it's been in the sixties and sunny and the entire city is drunk on it. Yesterday, as I sat on the bus and crossed the Aurora bridge, which spans the point where Lake Union and the Puget Sound connect, I admired the sapphire water, the Cascades and Olympics, illuminated, blazing, in the clear sky. A certain cheerfulness, prevailed, everywhere. There was a lightness in my heavy constitution as I returned from my walk with Cosmo, passing various neighbors enjoying their tiny patches of urban greenery, to jump in the car and commute for another 40 minutes to meet Mel and Ryan for dinner and much-needed company.
It was just the blast of sunshine I needed, as the past several days have been full of stress and loneliness. There has been so much to adjust to, both wonderful and otherwise, that it's been hard to catch my balance and too tempting to fall.
I found an interesting story about the environmental impact of grocery sacks. Apparently, neither paper nor plastic is a good choice - both are terrible for the environment, in different ways.
Since I have switched to using re-used paper grocery bags for containing the trash, it's probably the most responsible choice for me, but I think I have waited long enough to buy proper cloth shopping bags as I am making my effort to reduce my carbon footprint. So far, the bus is working great - I'm saving money, exercising more (hello, James Street!), reducing stress, listening to more music (since I can't talk on the phone) and dedicating more brain power to my poetry and other creative pursuits, all in the process of saving the world in my own little way.
Wake up and
I flip over the mirror,
that turns pores
to sand dollars
turn the light on to
see if there's more,
something to scrub
undetectable by the naked eye,
so uselessly small.
Like me in the dream
where naked, I,
stand before your door.
It's snowing, I shiver.
Your house looms
I reach up, too diminutive
to grasp the doorknob.
i admit to being a people magazine whore, but don't usually use this forum to gossip. However, the latest load of nonsense coming from the Tom Cruise PR machine is too weird to pass up. In this People Magazine story, TomKat does not just get their usual army of famous Scientologists that we are all sick of hearing from (Leah Remini, doesn't get written about unless she is talking about TomKat, Jada Pinkett Smith, John Travolta, etc.), they pull in SMART Scientologists (apparently there is such a thing - that should be the headline) Terry Semel (Yahoo! exec) and Sky Dayton (founder of Earthlink and Helio) to testify that Tom and Katie have an idyllic marriage and she is not being controlled or held prisoner by her insane husband. My favorite quote, by Mr. Dayton:
"When you come over, the first thing [Katie] does is say, 'Are you hungry? Let me make you something,' " their friend, Internet mogul Sky Dayton, tells PEOPLE.
A favorite pastime is family movie night: "Tom and Katie will get in the kitchen and make this amazing popcorn with chocolate," Dayton says. "Suri is there playing. Kate feeds her a bottle and then Tom feeds her."
You have GOT to be fucking kidding me.
As a PR lady, I have to say, WTF? Who is advising this desperate form of spin control? Listen up: most people think that Scientologists are weird and that Scientology is a cult. So weird people from a cult attesting to the normalcy of anything is ridiculous by definition, no matter how smart the weirdos are in their business lives.
some of you have heard of "the ugly box," a collection of clandestine photos taken without the knowledge of the subject (who is either horrifically ugly, tragically clothed or both), and my dream to take it online.
thank god glamour magazine has an online version of the "Do's and Don'ts" page of the magazine full of photographed nastiness. I am totally addicted.
As an alumnus of a school that gets very little national recognition, I was delighed to see the good ol' Drake and the quasi-famous Drake Relays commanding number-one status on Yahoo's "Most E-Mailed" stories.
The Drake Relays, now in the ninety-eighth year, were always a highlight of my college experience. While major feats of athleticism were happening in the colleseum, the entire student body was in a constant state of inebriation for a week, which is the best state to be in, in the middle of the state of Iowa.
my heart murmurs, it
makes sounds it
it aches from
time to time, chest pains or karmic remains
from from a beaten heart?
hell if i know.
they'll run me through the paces
check me out
take some pictures
listen to my heart
as it fibrillates.
will they find out i'm scared?
what will it murmur?
they'll learn all about us,
what they did to me and
how i got this way.
on the treadmill, under observation, measured.
it is my lot,
to love, to run, to bleed
with a fragile heart
when it best be
I need to take the bus more often.
This morning, I decided to walk haley to school and take the 358 downtown to work. After I got over the catcalls that a girl standing on Aurora Avenue will sometimes find herself subjected to, I was able to enjoy the community of the bus. I realized immediately that I am completely closed off from my neighbors - everyone on the bus was a stranger to me. Living in the city, it's so easy to blend in, so easy to drift through the day silently, so easy to turn away and not make eye contact. But it the bus, during the commute, it is unavoidable. You notice how the people boarding the bus change as the 358 transcends neighborhoods in the course of its lengthy route. There are the scraggly folk from up North, the conservative, dowdy women from even further up north, who dress like schoolteachers and use the Park 'n Ride. The old woman reading Aldous Huxley next to the door as the well-dressed professionals boarded in Greenlake, the skinny hipster boys in their designer jeans and iPod earbuds in Fremont. I was sitting next to a fellow who fancied himself punk today, and who coincidentally got off at my stop (the end of the line), and I wonder what his story is, where he is going. But we all just sat, silently, in this intimate, public space, stealing glances, flashing smiles and reading the body language of our seatmates so we could make their eventual disembarkment as anonymous and non-verbal as possible.
i have had a crush on david duchovny for a long time. it began with a geeky infatuation of fox mulder on the x files and blossomed into something more substantial when i learned the guy was at one time on his way to getting a Ph.D in pastoral poetry (if i recall correctly) from yale. imagine how giddy i was to learn i had one-degree of separation from him, as he is married to my friend's cousin.
in this article, he talks about his upcoming projects: "The TV Set" and "Californication" a new showtime series that might get me to possibly updgrade my cable. It's decribed in the article as:
a darkly comic series for the Showtime cable channel in which he'll portray a successful author who goes to Hollywood to watch his latest serious book, "God Hates Us All," get turned into a Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes vehicle retitled "Crazy Little Thing Called Love."