The Field of Kings

There were three cows sitting out in the field, about two hundred yards off, under the shade of a nearby oak tree, the only tree growing in the apparently limitless field.

Our feet moved slowly, probing across the ground in careful circles, not eager to stumble upon any nesting serpents. Our eyes were on the distant cows, who with each hesitant step grew closer, so much so that now we could both clearly distinguish a subtle grunt of breath coming from their massive bodies. My compatriot, a shade older than myself at twenty-eight looked at me nervously, in his peculiar glance that seemed eternally amused, despite the severity of the situation.

The dark was a sort of complete yet taunting shade that made shapes visible but indistinguishable. 

When the ground began to rumble, we could see a blacker region in the great surrounding black region coming our way. 

A hushing grunt of breath as the bull strafed us at what seemed like five feet but was probably closer to twenty.

We decided to leave the field as fast as we could, forgetting our former fear of serpents.

The paltry bounty of our great mid-night hunt was a singular, pathetic, two-day-old cap. We felt like kings when we stumbled upon it. By the time we were home, it was already brown and gooey. 

I tossed it in the back yard and every time it rained after that, I would check the spot to see if a troupe of king-makers had sprung through the peat in the middle of the night.

Fiction friction *or* "hello free-time, what's up man? We haven't hung out in a while."

So as this semester winds to a gentle pulsing close, I'm left with an odd feeling. While I was packing this evening, this song from Deltron came on Pandora

I remembered hearing this song at the beginning of the semester, what seems like a decade of small occurrences ago and being floored. I was in a foreign place, surrounded by complete strangers and this song somehow stood out in all the chaos as being just the right sound for where I was mentally.

When I left for school, I left with the assumption that I would continue with the NOVEL once I was on break. I decided that I wasn't going to work on it during the semester because I needed a break from it.



Looking back, it hit me that I stopped because I have writer's incontinence. There were plenty of times over the semester when I had nothing better to do than write, but I usually ended up doing something else. Now that I have all this new found free time, I have no choice but to get back into the trenches.

I can't escape it. It is...my destiny. 

Something that dialates my pupils...

The work of Saul Bass

I think I might need to add another slot to my xmas list. 

This is encouragement to finish my series about The Lost Art of the Opening Credit Sequence.

5/4

It's a pentagon, dancing a formal waltz, turning at intervals.

12345
12345
12345
12345

It's so much fun to play because it's so weird and odd. The extra beats make room for all kinds of craziness like ghost notes.

I love ghost notes, especially in a shuffle. But I digress.

Here is the song that got me hooked on jazz and the coolest time signature there is. Also, Joe Morello was a fucking beast on the drums. He knew his rudiments like a carpenter knows wrench sizes. John Bonham was undoubtedly watching.

Debussy

Ahh, the beauty of a liberal arts education!

I was studying for my humanities final last weekend. We're required to memorize several pieces of music and a few keys facts about them. I came across Clair de lune and was stopped dead in my tracks.

Being a fan of classical to begin with, I was familiar with the title but I couldn't place any music with it.

The version was the orchestral arrangement. I'd only ever really heard it on piano. I was smitten. This is what love sounds like...

As well as pretty much every love theme from every movie ever made.

I don't know which arrangement I prefer--the piano or the orchestral. They both have their merits.

But those big, fat romantic chords w/ a full string & woodwind section backing--oh my.

If anyone needs me...

I'll be at Senior Tadpole's getting a margarita made in my mouth with a girl named Krindy from Sacramende.


OT: a preview of coming attractions. I'm working on a blog series about the Lost Art of the Opening Credit Sequence. I thought this was a brilliantly clever idea, if not somewhat lo-fi in its realization

Helplessness Blues

Who wants to rock...sensibly?

You go on your own where ever you go...Reminds me of Huxley's Through the Doors of Perception.

Metaphor

I can't seem to get off this metaphor kick. I think is the one I should have turned in.

The Fox

I was five miles from the nearest house, ten from the nearest road, deep into the quiet whispers of the woods. But still close enough to the place we met that you were preying on my mind. The forest was thick and the trees were clicking with afternoon bugs.

Up ahead, a scratch of path unfurled revealing rich black soil. Sometime not too long ago, wild boar were through here. Every rush of wind was a bear of blinding height with dripping jaws and claws.

I pressed in deeper, along the twisting path, under the towering cypress and the domed oak hammocks, running from the creaking branches and my stimulated imagination, all the while fighting the specter of your taunting smile, promising from just around the next bend.

I went alone into the pine flats, insulated by green explosions of palmetto. Only deer tracks, delicately crossing through the gray sand hinted that the forest breathed life in my absence.

On my back were the things I carried that I thought I would need. Only now was I finding that water was all that mattered. I pulled out the bottle and stopped and what was behind me, what I'd left behind caught up. The memory clung like the remnants of a fever. I rested in the verdant grass and felt the power of my fingers passing over blades and pulling others absently from their holds, panting and remembering your voice, your touch, the memories I'd wanted to make with you.

When it was time to go, I had forgotten. I recited the mnemonic of sympathy that reminds me to move on. And so I lifted my leaden pack once more onto my back and pressed forward, towards a clearing.

As I entered the clearing, a fox crossed my path. I stopped, my eyes drawn from the ground by the sudden flash of smoothed brown fur, reflecting the waning sunlight. She watched me as she sauntered across the trail, her tail close to the ground, pulsing left and right. Our eyes met in the the silence of the forest—I stopped for fear of loosing my step. She approached the edge of the tree-line and sat on the grass, panting, alternating between watching me and scanning the nearby forest. Her legs were black with mud and the tips of the fur on her downy white stomach were covered in matted dirt.

I could think of nothing to do but crouch on one leg and place my hands upon the ancient earth.

A spin of glistening brown and a soft scratch of paws on needles and she was gone, back into the ether of the thicket.

And I, there on the well trodden path, defined through the woods like an explanation of how I could never leave, could never wander from the winding lines of civilization.

I turned and began back the way I'd come.

From your good friends down @ The Food Barn

This is a revision of an Awkward Moment Story I had to write for class. 

It seemed to Carl that discomfort and awkwardness formed a vital aspect of the so-called relationship he was attempting with Carol. 

Even their first meeting was scarred by hideous misfortune—a few months back when he was still a new employee, Carl had come into work a little late one day and was in a rush to use the restroom before his shift started. Being the upstanding, proprietary gentleman that he was, Carl implicitly followed the directions of the nearly scratched off sign on the bathroom mirror: ALL EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS BEFORE RETURNING TO WORK. 

And so he had.

Only to his extreme disagreement, the paper-towel dispenser was absent of its namesake and Carl was left with no choice but to hurriedly dry his sopping hands on the front of the new khaki trousers he'd been required to purchase as a condition of employment at The Food Barn. And of course the pattern of the water on his crotch was glaringly obvious and seemed indicative of some-sort of gross misfortune on his part. Carl tried desperately to smooth the stain but he really only ended up spreading it around and increasing his overall appearance of slovenliness.

It shouldn't have surprised Carl at all that he should encounter Carol coming out of the break-room as he went back to punch-in. As of course this was the first time they'd met, Carl saw that he really only had two choices: be a dick and ignore her or stop and introduce himself.

And he probably would have gotten away scott-free too had he not inexplicably felt the urge to bring attention to his trouser stain by looking at it, shuffling about, and trying to non-chalantly cover his crotch region with his hand. 

For her part, Carol was intrigued by the shuffling, stuttering mess of a man before her. “How do you like The Food Barn so far?”

“Oh—it's great! I love it here! I mean—I love having a job, you know. Money is important. Plus it's nice to—you know, have something to do all the time. It took me forever just to get this one. Like five months almost. It was awful...”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Well...”

“I better punch in, I'm almost late.”

“Right, see you later Gary.”

“Um, it's actually Carl.”

“Right! Sorry.”

“No your fine...I think I like Gary better anyways. Haha!”

This economy of language bullshit is for the birds, man.

The Florida Review and The Southwest Review are accepting submits.

I think I might also try and get something published in Thread but I'm not sure what. Everything that I have that is worth a damn is too long.

I'm so self-conscious of my short stories. I'm a long form man. Give me a solid 400 pages to set up a story arc and characters and back story and rising action, etc.. I can't competently express my ideas in 6000 words or less. That would be like trying to explain the plot of the Matrix Trilogy under water. I guess I just have a lot to say...or write, as it were. 

Paradiddle

Played drums last night with my band for the first time since the August going-away-party. It really is just like riding a bike.

It made me wonder where we would be as a group if I'd stayed behind...would we still be playing shitty festivals and local events for free beer and groupies or would that contact at Rolling Stone have finally passed our demo on to someone who could give us $20000 to record the greatest album ever...?

The world may never know.

Also, grapefruit juice for hangovers.

Warpaint

Pretty girls playing hypnotic music, distracting me from my homework. The part between 2:51 and 3:42 is melting my face onto the floor, repeatedly.

I wanna jam with that funky ass drummer.

Signifying nothing

You wouldn't remember because you weren't there. But I do.

I was worn out from working all morning under the summer sun. I went to CVS after work to use their bathroom, gripped in sweat and anticipation, trying to freshen myself up as best as I could.

We were supposed to meet at your mom's flower shop for lunch. Remember? Of course not.

I got there and dicked around by the rhododendrons, feigning interest in a display. I saw your mom instantly--she looked pretty just like you, with a few extra years on her back.

I waited thirty minutes and when the staff started looking at me like I was a shoplifter, I approached your mom and asked about you.

You were sick, she said. In bed all day. You weren't going to show up--I must have turned bright red. If only you'd told me that BEFORE I drove twenty miles out of the way, just to see you.

I flirted with your mom for a while and asked her how much a single rose was and whether or not she could give it to you with a message to "feel better soon."

I drove home with nothing on my mind but you.

I think you liked to say yes just to see what I would do. If only I'd been wise enough to stop asking.

I waited around so long just to hear you tell me that I'd wasted everything. That I'd taken the blind plunge, assuming you'd catch me. Nothing but spikes and dragons waited at the bottom.

God I hate still having to carry all that around.

I've found it!

I feel like I've been waiting my whole life to hear this song. Soooo much class, so much funk. It's like a slice of butter, melting on top of a big ol' pile of flapjacks...yeaah.

Perfection

The high-water mark of musical expression is in the first three minutes. 

Imagine being deaf and hearing this in your head. It would almost be okay.

Almost. 

 

 

Future Folds

I have this weird habit.

I like to get to class early and write shit on the board.

Today I got to my lit class an hour and four minutes early.

I have no life.

School is my life.

I've been thinking a lot about life after school.

Jobs. More school.

I've been thinking a lot about law school.

When I got to lit class an hour and four minutes early, I wrote an LSAT question on the board:

True or False: This sentence is false.

Believe it or not, this question has an answer. I just can't remember what it is. That's my problem.

The teacher pulled the projector screen over the question before anyone else got there.

Acronyms

GAH!


See, normally, I'm a lover of all things acronymical. It started with re-runs of that old British TV show The Avengers, which always had funny acronyms meant to poke fun at bureaucratic efficiency.

Two I can remember right off hand:

FOG: Friends of Ghosts

SMOG: Scientific Measures and Inquiries of Ghosts


NEPA, CERCLA, EPA, CEQ, DOD, EIS, EA, BLM, RCRA, DOA, USGS, USDA, GAH

GAH of course stands for Grating Acronym Hell

Coniferosaurous

The Bald Cypress or Taxodium distichum is a conifer prevalent in the swamps, floodplains, and river banks of the South-East US. It prefers really wet soil and is often found growing in water. A member of the Cupressaceae family, the Bald Cypress is related to the giant Redwoods and Sequoias of the Western US, thus explaining its proclivity to grow to monumental size.

Most large specimens have been logged due to the Cypress' wood being considered very favorable for construction. 

The Senator, found at the aptly named Big Tree Park in Longwood, FL is a mammoth. 

It was growing dark and the park was closing. I feared I would not have enough light to get a good picture.

But I had to see the tree. When you walk into the clearing, you feel like Alan Grant in Jurassic Park, walking under the legs of the Brachiosaur.

Working the Shop

Did the old story in class today.

It's always fun to get your stuff picked apart.

And I'm being serious here. It's nice to have other people read what you've written.

The funny thing: every tiny criticism that you have for your piece will be pointed out to you.

Everybody notices something different. It just proves that you're not paranoid--it really was a crappy ending.  

Eximius Obscurra

Here is a super obscure British band that I don't think ever made much other than an EP (which is excellent).

I had a thought to put here.

Something profound and deeply pertinent.

I started watching Mulholland Drive. Deeply troubling. The bit with the gremlin-guy jumping out from behind that restaurant--I jumped.

David Foster Wallace, in his interview with Charlie Rose, said something to the effect that the first time he saw a David Lynch film, it changed his whole perspective on creating. It broke all the rules he'd established for himself.

Needless to say, he was inspired to create excellent, experimental fiction.

I feel kind of like Wallace inspired me in the same way. When I finished Infinite Jest I was floored and in shock. I couldn't imagine a human mind being able to really go where he went.

But so I have to get back to this Lynch film.

...nothing like the sun

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun.

dark like the moon

shining only at night.

I steal away to the forest

under her gaze

to spy and smoke and pass the night.



there is nothing like a full moon. nothing like the glow of the green leaves, incandescent in the night's glow...

Crying Like a Church on Monday

I am the epitome of sloth. I failed to accomplish anything meaningful today. But I rejoice. The day is through. At this late hour, I await tomorrow for promise of greater things.

On the plus side, and this is really a plus here--I discovered my car does not need to be put in the shop. The funny barbie-car whine is from a lack of power-steering-fluid.

I felt quite manly when I discovered this.

It's the little things.

Marine Mammals

These were taken last weekend at the dock near my parents house on the Indian River near Mosquito Lagoon and Canaveral National Seashore. It seems like every time I go out there around dusk, there is a pod of ten to fifteen of them swimming around, playing and feeding.

At first, we thought they were sharks.


The dock is also frequented by birds, as you can see.


You can see the Lagoon off in the distance. On a clear day, you can also make out the lights on the complex at Kennedy Space Center.

Waitresses Don't Flirt

Waitresses Don't Flirt

Dear Son—

You are young but soon you will be a man. Maybe you will be lucky enough to have a girl to call your own. But if you don't, if you find yourself alone when you hit the age that it's socially acceptable to go out by yourself and do things on your own then I hope this advice will find you well.

You see Son, there is perhaps no more complicated social relationship you will ever encounter than the one between a single American male and his waitress. You will be confused. You will be troubled. You might even be hurt. Just know that it's okay to feel these things. Everyone has to go through them.

First off, let's get this out of the way—she doesn't like you. There are about a hundred to two hundred guys a week (depending on where you're eating) that talk to her and that interact with her and chances are, you're no different than any of them. And I don't want you to think you're not a cool kid. Because you are. But son, what you have to realize is that this woman is working for peanuts and her whole hope for regaining any shred of dignity after putting up with all the leers and ill-timed jokes is that you're going to tip really, really good. 

When this girl sees you, if it's slow she will fight with the other waitstaff to seat you. She will see you are alone. She will see that you are shy and that her attention is making you blush. She will see that you're whats called an “easy tip.”

And here I want to point out that tipping is not a bad thing. These people really deserve it. You're too young now but when you come of age, you will probably have a job in the service industry and if you do, you will see that it is a thankless, meaningless, hopeless means to an end and that every gratuitous penny you make helps to maintain the facade that the job isn't as bad as you know it really is.

So give her a tip. Whatever you can afford, though. Don't try and put her through college.

When this girl comes to your table and takes your order, and later, when she delivers the food, you will gush thanks for her attention like she is giving you free money. This is her job. You're paying for the food don't forget, so if something looks amiss—if the steak is overdone or if you asked for coleslaw instead of a salad, don't be afraid to say something. You won't offend her. She's not going to take it personally if you ask for a refill on your root-beer.

Slurping an empty cup to get to the last bit of watered-down drink at the bottom is rude. It's also the quickest way to get her attention. They hear this sound all day, every day—often in their dreams when they sleep at night. So when you start slurping and sucking through your empty straw, she will be there almost immediately with her smiles and cheer and a new root beer. Do not abuse this power.

And do not eat the ice-cubes. They're filthy, often times just a nic cleaner than the water in the toilet bowl. Seriously, I've read studies on it. Don't do it.

She might call you something when you tell her what you want. She might say something like “that sounds good, hun” or “coming right up, sweetie.” You will feel special, like this is a pet name—something she would say after a night of fuzzy yellow light, spent together in arms, huddled against the cold wind. You are not her sweetie. You are not her hun. You do not know this girl. She might not even be wearing a name tag. She is no one. You are no one. You might be no one together, briefly, in that place. But then it's over, the bill is folded on the table and she is looking at you from over by the counter, wondering when you're going to leave so she can seat another party.

When you leave, she'll smile sweetly. You'll be distracted by the smile, so much so that you miss the eyes—vacant and maybe a little sad or distant. Not for you to see. Not for you to know.

Pay and get out.

Maybe you will read this son. Maybe it won't matter. Maybe your mother will hide this letter with all my others in the bottom drawer of her dresser, under the shirts she doesn't wear—that she's forgotten she owns. Maybe she will give it to you someday when all of this has come and gone and I'm nothing but a dusty scratch of memory on your history.

I write to you sitting here, watching her as she grabs the coffee mug off of the burner. In front of everyone, a steaming white mug. She will approach me soon with my own bill and her smile will say be nice, tip well, pay, and get out.

Don't be a fool. Remember yourself, your loves and the lives they live.

Yours Faithfully,

Dad

Slay the beast! SLAY!

Here we are. Tuesday--the day of reckoning. In a few hours, a test. A few hours after that, a presentation.

It's funny, I have no fear for the test and I'm terrified of the presentation, even though I'm really well prepared for the presentation and not so much for the test.

Ever since I was little I've had trouble dealing with these kinds of things. It makes no sense either. I know completely that all my fear and trepidation is internal. I know I know the material. I know I'll probably mess up a little. I can almost predict how the whole thing is going to go.

And yet my mind won't be still. It's rushing over scenarios like a bored channel surfer.

I should be more confident. I should not let my fears control me. I should use them to my advantage. I am in control.

When you shut down the internal machine, everything is so clear. The world simply IS. Everything that you thought becomes just memory. The trick is to not focus on that memory. The trick is to recognize that this is now and this is really happening and you are completely in control of everything you do.

Now, if I could just believe that.

The British are coming!

Instead of rambling or posting some personal vignette today, I'll post some music. I have a great affinity for British bands and one of the bands that stands out to me the most from this genre is Wigan's The Verve.

They evidently broke up again after the release of their fourth album Forth. Personally, I loved about half of the music and could do with the other half (mostly the poppy stuff). The Verve were always a band that succeeded best when every member contributed equally. Their jam-oriented songs allowed every member to showcase their abilities. The music is often mid-tempo and fluid with the songs developing slowly and organically. These were people meant to play together.

Needless to say, I was bothered when I found out we wouldn't be getting any new music.

And then I discovered the B-sides.

Quite ironically, The Verve's B-sides are vastly superior to some of the songs that they ended up putting on their final albums. For your listening pleasure--I've posted links to a couple of obscure b-sides that got my ire up and reminded me why I'm such a fan of this band.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k-suq_XD_lI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzsXsxAcy_A

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7Y69sot9zc

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avD58sht-90&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXJcDuXTIrE&feature=related

Return

So here we go. Two solid weeks of effort. Two midterms. A presentation. Readings. Another paper. More readings. And then I can go home again.


As you can imagine, I'm most bothered by the presentation. Just the very thought of it fills my consciousness with uncertain anticipation. I think of home and the tranquility of the backwood, the gentle thicket and I am comforted that at the end of two weeks time I will yet again sally forth homewards to be comforted by the kind warmth of home and hearth.

My dog will be waiting with patient smiles and a steady pant of joy. I will pet his stomach and under his chin and he will shake his leg and go stiff in ecstasy. Dinner will be warm and aromatic and there will be many great stories to tell and many great times to be had. And all will be good.

On this lonely, ill-feeling night, the only comfort I find is in the promise of my return.

Exegesis

Dropped Dad off at the Enterprise in North NSB this afternoon and was overcome by feelings of fetid nostalgia.

For a brief period, I sold my services to the Enterprise Holdings Corporation in exchange for my "excellent interpersonal customer service skills" and my "ability to operate a motor vehicle according to the standards of traffic law" and my "ability to follow written directions."

For the most part though, I was asked to clean the thin veneer of grease from all the flat surfaces within the vehicles; to scrape and scrub the mutilated bug carcasses from the grills and nooks and folds of the front of the vehicles; to remove all garbage and clean all glass, inside and out; to vacuum and spray down upholstery, carpets; to remove stains and undesirable smells. To undo the intentional, often inhuman damage caused by the multitude of human bodies who, for a brief period, exercised complete control over something that was not their own.

But so Dad left for Maryland in a Hyundai Sonata and Mom and I went shopping for some essentials for my dorm experience.

I return home tomorrow to two weeks of solid work and I'm fairly certain this cold has returned and settled in my lungs this time. Joyous life!

Home

This is my first attempt at this. I can promise no great effort, given that I've spent the vast majority of the day strapped within the confines of a small metal box, traveling at 80+mph across one of the state's many concrete scars. Alas, it is the second weekend and time to return to the bosom of my youth, sweet Atlantic breeze and gentle, swirling evening. Also, it was time to do my laundry.

As an afterthought, it occured to me whilst controlling my hurtling box this afternoon, that the posted speed limits are in fact misleading--it would seem that anyone fool enough to try and drive 65 through Altamonte Springs would be quickly run into the median and killed. Maybe they should change it to 65 minimum speed. I tried obeying the speed limit but soon found I was impeding the flow of traffic for a substantial portion of the view behind me.


And another thing, concerning that view--there were a few times I crested off ramps and looked into the distance to see rain. Only, when I got there--it was nothing but smog.

When I arrived home at last, I felt ill.