Chevalier Mal Fet

20 Dec

On a flight to San Diego, I found myself in the not-so-rare situation of having ample time to read, coupled with the increasingly rare situation of having in my possession an actual, honest-to-goodness made-of-paper book. The collection of circumstances leading to this anomaly include disappointment in my current Kindle read, the recommendation and lending of Beardsy (which, when it comes to literature and music, trumps nearly everyone else), and the recurring problem of having read both the in-flight magazine and Sky Mall given the frequency of travel in my life these days. So I opened the cover, started at the top left and read down, over, and on to the next page. It really had been months since I’d handled a proper book properly. And though I am not as nostalgic or Luddite as many, I certainly enjoyed the smell of the pages, the dry course feel of them on my finger tips. And perhaps it did evoke memories of my youth, reading fantasy novels to Mac by lamplight in the fort under my desk.

I apologize for the nostalgia. It is, in part, the season. But it is something more.

As I flew and read, I would occasionally laugh out loud, or stop, go back, and read again. This book has all the magic of my first reading of William Carlos Williams’ “This is Just to Say.” I found myself jotting things down, making notes on scraps of paper (or, when I remembered, in my iPhone) – These are the things you must remember! These are the things that speak to you! Among the things I have written down (out of context):

  • “Everything not forbidden is compulsory.”
  • ” … but it seems, in tragedy, innocence is not enough.”
  • “The Ill-Made Knight”

The offending above-mentioned book is one that I am sure most of you have read, but I am experiencing it for the first time: The Once and Future King. I would say the absence of this book from my nerd catalog is only slightly less egregious than the fact that I have yet to read Dune.

The fact is, I’ve read Arthurian legend time and again, including Le Morte D’Artur and the more modern Warlord Chronicles (both which I HIGHLY recommend) and I am even currently engaged in the paper-and-pen Pendragon campaign. Aside from the mythology of Krynn, there are few areas of fiction I would say I’ve spent as much time devouring. Yet this is the first time I have read this book.

And let me also say, as was told to me when I was handed this tome, that this is a thing which I likely would not appreciate nearly as much as I do right now in my life. There is a certain warmth and emptiness and acceptance of turmoil and release from the frustrations of youth and expectation that accompanies growth and maturity – and perhaps, given this context, certain pieces of art become nearly prescient in their wit and display.

Let me put that another way … I bought the rerelease of The Dismemberment Plan’s “Emergency and I” this year, and it was shocking to me how much that album resonated with my life as an early 30′s failure. I understand that the same sounds and rhythms were present when I was 21 and the album was a frat anthem; but the intentions, the ideas, the mood was clearly aimed at a different set than Drunken Emo Moron. And so I discovered, for the first time, what that album was really about.

The Once and Future King is about a lot of things – it is a humanization of the story of Arthur. It’s about bringing the context of classic human tragedy into the modern era. Its about love and friendship and honor in the face of treachery and betrayal, and how the things inspired by good do not always lead to kind endings, while the things inspire by selfishness and greed do not always beget more suffering. It is about sacrifice and denial of the self. It is about the human condition.

I consider this book to be the flip-side of the coin upon which The Magicians rests as well – this a non-cynical look at suffering and pain while people attempt to make the world a better place; that (The Magicians) a cynical analysis of the selfishness of young adulthood, the disappointments of growing up, and the consequences such selfishness and disappointment wrought upon the world.

I believe that together, these books can teach us not only to be nostalgic for the times in our lives that were simpler, but to be more accepting of the turmoils and tragedies we will face. And to have the strength to know that such tragedies are often our own doing; but more often, it is simply the weight of the tides that push us forward, set in motion long ago by forces beyond our control. And through this, perhaps we may find the dignity to love, and to know that we cannot love without loss, and to bravely face those things when we are at our most alone.

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Pom Pom

28 Oct

A coworker of mine has pretty much the exact opposite taste in music as I do. This is not to say that I dislike his music; rather, that whatever it is in music that makes it such an overwhelmingly personal and spiritual experience for me is exactly what’s lacking in his anthem rock-laden, E-Street Band, guitar-by-numbers catalog of hits. And don’t get me wrong, dude knows his stuff in that very specific area of the world, and I would not question him on his expertise. I appreciate the love he has for his shit; however, the same does not apply for him.

He recently railed on “electronic techno music” which, in addition to making him sound like a grandfather, also revealed a gaping chasm of misunderstanding, over-generalization and ignorance in the realm of something I dearly adore. Attempts at re-education were met with outward hostility and constant citing of “beep boop music” which, to be honest, if’n you’re going to make “computer noises,” you should always add in the “L” – BLEEP BLOOP BLEEP!

At any rate, I’m pretty sure he now believes I sit in my office listening to Technotronic and La Bouche all day. Which is silly, because I only listen to that shit between 2:00 and 4:00.

I thought of it this morning because I popped on Matthew Dear as I worked on a memo, and “Pom Pom” came up. Sadly, the only video versions of this song online are a remix and a few terrible fan videos, so I won’t share it (however, I highly recommend you do go ahead and listen to it while watching something else on a tabbed browser). At any rate, as Pom Pom played, I realized that this song is pretty quintessential to what I like in a lot of electronic music – circular lyrical base, repeating melody, playful and bouncy and upbeat, a conflicting simultaneous significant weight and vapid superficiality to its message, amazing arpeggios when listened to on headphones, and an inherent ability to really make me question the art of music and the infinite possibilities for expression based out of emerging technology. On some level, music is a constant existential crisis for me, as exemplified in something so simple and yet so deeply confounding as “Pom Pom.”

I stepped out of my office for a moment, song still playing. And when I returned, I realized something else of equal importance.

There sure are a lot of BLEEPS and BLOOPS in that song …

Somebody’s Watchin’ Me

12 Oct

If my neighbors ever look into my windows, here’s what they probably observe:

  • Subject spends a lot of time admiring himself in mirror. Ill-spent or at least ill-advised time.
  • Despite attempts at “feeling it,” has no discernible rhythm.
  • Sings excessively. Either to self or to indifferent cat.
  • Loves “Naked Night.” Not a real celebration. Not a party if alone.
  • In love with own semi-emergent triceps.
  • Not as good a singer as subject believes himself to be. Needs more “Jesse’s Girl” and a cappella backup.
  • Slaps belly repeatedly. Possibly an attempted mating ritual. Perplexed by solitary status.

Not just some shitty bar in Ballston

9 Oct

I survived the Grand Canyon. I’m going to write down my story soon in an attempt to capture what was both a very personal and a very life-changing experience for me. I equate it to taking the Bar Exam – many people take and pass that stupid fucking test every year. In a lot of ways, its the same exact story told over and over again, minor variations on a theme. But to the individual taking that test, this is their (hopefully) one story of the anguish and triumph, the experiene that encompasses and changes every aspect of their being, even if that same story is being played out a thousand times over in unison. That will be my Grand Canyon story, and it will always be one of the most important things I ever did in my life. I hope everyone who hikes that beast feels the same way.

But tonight I simply wanted to chime in with a thought that has been plaguing me all day now. Something I placed in the trash bin but never bothered to actually empty. Something that somehow made its way back onto my shelf.

I’m not a very good person.

This isn’t some cry for affection or attention, some need for an online hug. Truth is, even the best of those I know are fallible. We all make mistakes in life, and hurt people we love, and do things we will regret forever. Or neglect to do the things we should have done. It doesn’t make us bad people. It doesn’t stink of some grandiose Evil inherent in our spiritual soul. It just makes us people.

But there’s a special spot reserved for me.

This isn’t novel. This is an ongoing dilemma for me. I’m always fascinated with people who are multilingual. The thing that blows my mind is how you can know multiple languages, but fundamentally think in one language. There is a base language that your mind works in, and no matter how much French or Mandarin you pick up, the analytical self will always default to that single language. Its completely unshakable. It is so inherent to the way your brain works as to become part of the actual machinery itself. It is a part of your intellectual identity, inseparable from the self.

For me, that inherent machinery is a healthy dose of self-loathing.

This doesn’t make me unique. This is not somehow insightful for anyone else – those who know me well have seen it for years, and those reflecting on the idea see it as a binary issue: either you are inherently self-loathing, or you are not. I don’t expect many of the people I know would relate to it. Call it recognition of a pattern deep-seated, deeply ingrained from youthful traumas and missed opportunities for affirmation. A youth misspent in overachieving in the hopes of approval, trying to fix things that, while logically were never my fault or within my power to control, nonetheless felt like the effects of my causality: existence.

Here’s some perspective: in June of 2001 my mother was on a flight next to a woman who was crying. My mother asked the woman what was wrong. The woman had been dating a man of “Middle Eastern descent” for several years. The man was kind, had a lot of money, and had treated her as a queen. Then, suddenly, the man wrote her a letter, saying he could never see her again. The woman spoke of how odd it was – the man and his friends had been taking piloting lessons and none of them had jobs but all had gobs of money. And then he just disappeared – his house, where he lived with his friends, was deserted and there was no forwarding address. The woman cried and my mom thought how odd this story was – middle eastern men with lots of money, taking lessons to learn to fly.

When my mom first told me this story, she had tears in her eyes. I asked her why she was crying, and she said, “Don’t you see? If I had said something, if I had done something … I could have prevented 9-11!”

Yep. My mom believes that on some level, 9-11 was her fault.

This is the stock from which I am sprung.

I tend to overdo it with my new friends. I gush about how wonderful it is to have a new friend, how unexpected and wonderful. I know how corny it must seem, how overbearing and ridiculous. But that doesn’t make it any less true. I never expect people to like me, or to want to have me around. My closest friends can attest to how long it has taken me to stop questioning their motives in being my friend – what gains to you achieve? What possible benefit is there to having me around?

Henri disagreed with me so vehemently. He says I am so likable, so compassionate. I say I care too much about things that don’t matter, expect too much of people and then blame myself when they let me down. I sit and wait for everyone to leave.

Inevitably, they all do.

None of this matters, of course. Just smatterings and ramblings after a tough day of being me.

All of the best things I’ve written down have been quotes from someone else. But right now, my life is a whirlwind of things to love and hate, to be proud and ashamed of. I will continue as I have, the Year of Saying Yes.

I am a leaf on the wind – watch how I soar.

Word of the Day

30 Sep

Dede stands in the doorway, arm on her hip and a stack of papers in her hand. The look in her eye wavers between utter incredulousness and utter annoyance. This is the disdain that bonds us all together; a contempt for anyone working against us. In our world, a private attorney’s prime directive is to attempt to drown us in fruitless motions and memorandum. In our view, they underestimate the competitive pettiness of the easily annoyed.

“Read this!”

I take the papers, a simple redundant Response to the Reply to the Answer to the Addendum to the Reply to the Response to the Motion for Leave to File a Memorandum in Response to the Original Request for a Postponement. Or something to that effect. The content is pretty standard … Big Government conspiracy, keeping down the small business owner, cameras set up in the lamp post, plight of the Native American tribes on the trail of tears, dolphins are space aliens … all for an employment dispute. The gist of it: apparently the lawyer needed more time and when Dede did not consent to allowing more time, the lawyer filed papers calling her a two-faced lying bitch. Or something to that effect. Pretty standard stuff after a while here.

“Did you see it?!”

I’ve read through the two-page memo twice before it jumps out finally. “You mean this one here?” I point to the offending word.

“What the fuck is multifarious?” she asks. “That’s some pretentious bullshit is what it is. Multifarious.”

Having many different parts, elements, forms. Numerous and varied. Diverse or manifold. I make a sticky and place it on my desk. Word of the Day. Try to use it in a sentence. Try to use it in a filing. Try to work it into opening argument.

Its been weeks since this happened. The sticky stares at me from my monitor, every day reminding me of a tiny failure in my life. Learn a new word, use it in a sentence. How tough is that?

Did I mention I went to a pirate-themed bar and drank grog? That I got my face painted at the Renn Fest with inappropriate language and a giant sparkly pink flaming dragon? Did I mention my current middling learning of French and guitar? My continuing yoga practice? My efforts to become one of those bike people? My trip to the grand canyon? My very first fantasy football team? My meeting of the people who fondly refer to me as “that guy from the internet?” Did I mention my friend from law school? My friend from work? My friend from the nerding group? My friend with a kid? Did I mention my abs hurt? That I stayed out late on a Thursday night for no good raisin? Did I mention my Halloween costume (yes, I did, excessively)? Did I mention my new fall jacket?

The Year of Saying Yes continues. It has been a humbling year of my life. It has destroyed some good and some bad parts of myself, and has allowed a new me to emerge. I hate phoenix analogies. I keep thinking of myself getting catoonishly SPLAT’d by a big flat rock. For the sake of being obvious, let’s say it has the word “LIFE” painted on it. Sure, some splooshy goo of the Self shoots out – some compassion gone, some self-loathing, some self-righteousness, some optimism. But the pancake emerging from underneath (or perhaps accordion man) now has room inside for new traits – some good, some bad. But best of all, undiscovered.

Where once my life seemed straight and unwavering in its intents and outcomes, this multifarious existence spreads out before me as a million tiny beams of light. All simultaneously become and already are me.

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Home (is where I want to be)

21 Aug

This isn’t going where you might think.

It starts with a passion.

I can’t remember the last time I felt a passion. I’m tingling with it right now. I feel like I woke up one morning recently and remembered that I speak a different language. Not one that I learned over years of study, but one that I always knew. The language of my thoughts. The language I communicate through. Somehow I forgot, and everything was this secondary, translated form of communication. Nothing felt right the way I said it, or thought it, or felt it.

And then I remembered what it’s like to feel passion.

Do not assume this is anything uncharacteristic or romantic (which I acknowledge would be completely characteristic of me – I do fall in love frequently and easily in an objectifying way). My passion is a simple thing – a band. I recently came into possession of the entire catalog of a band that I had neglected to research and procure for years. I lack the words to properly describe it all without it sounding like anything other than an obsession. But I promise, its more than that. Its touching, and moving, and tear-inducing, and speaking to soul-parts. It’s such that I will talk about it endlessly if asked, but will never try to push it onto another person, for feel of taking their rejection of the music as a rejection of my person.

Its that kind of connection.

We all have those connections in life. Our things. Our people. Ourselves. That which, when stacked into a pile, starts to become a pile of things shaped exactly like us. All of those things that, on an infinitesimal level, are the very molecules of matter that makes us ourselves. Here’s another large heap!

I have to say that its been a very selfish year. I say that not in a self-demeaning way. I think, on some level, it’s what I needed to get to where I am right now. But it has been a year of me me me me me me me me me me me me.

That’s been changing.

It’s not my place to speak about the woes and troubles of others. But we’ve now reached an age in our lives when trouble doesn’t come as frequently, but it comes more profoundly. In the last two weeks, several friends have had their lives affected in unspeakable ways. The drama of our youth was fickle and overblown and in some ways contrived. The troubles of adulthood strike hard and deep. With just enough years under our belts, the things that can hurt us now hurt not only our status quo, but reach back to our pasts to rip away something we believed to be forever. Friends, loved ones, memories.

I am not the only one who has felt pain. I have spent too long in that place. As life continues, life continues to hurt sometimes. I have to leave this place to make room for others who are in need, who hurt. I’ve taken this spotlight for too long. And I don’t need it anymore.

I don’t mean to find solace in that. I am not self-assured by the hurting of other people. More so, it just served as a check on my status quo. Its no longer me who is the one most in need. It’s no longer me who hurts. It’s time to be there for someone else, instead of constantly asking for someone to be there for me. It’s time to let my friends be there for someone else.

This is a good thing. This is the realization of strength, and progress.

This is the way life goes now:

I woke up with a minor hangover. Its unlikely it was the beers. Its likely it was the bourbons. I had just enough time to shower, throw on some clothes and rush to McDonald’s before breakfast ended, then jump on the Metro to head to Courthouse. For the first time ever, I carried coffee with me on the Metro, and kept looking over my shoulder for fear that the “Food and Drink Metro Cops” would find me and ticket me for my indiscretion. Thankfully, I made it.

The car battery was dead. To start and run the vehicle, Micah kept the battery from his boat plugged in. We couldn’t stop the car at Rudey’s house, and I will tell the story as if we had to keep coasting up and down Rudey’s street while he ran alongside the car, tossing in the car seat and buckling Mr. Muscles in while we coasted up and down again. Then we headed to Rudey’s parent’s house to board the boat.

We boated towards Tim’s Rivershore for lunch. I say “towards” because we got almost there, stopped to gas up at the bikini gas station (not a joke), and then the sky turned black. The Nothing was closer than I had ever seen it. Wisely, we high-tailed it back to the Elder Rudey’s where we decided on a more casual lunch of Gin & Tonics, Wine, Beer and food from the earth. Literally. The food was pulled from the garden, cleaned, cooked, and served.

Except the salmon and steak. That was pulled from the freezer.

Anyway, what follows are some pictures from this lunch.

The thing I wanted to say, though, was this: today reminded me of how lucky I am to be alive, and to have the life I have. Today was an experience that grew out of mishaps and complications. And it, for whatever reason, was my favorite day I can remember for years. At one point, riding the chop and admiring the mansions on the banks of the river, I just smiled and turned to Micah and said, with as much genuine affection and love as I have have ever felt – “Life is effing good, man. Life is effing good.”

It is. And I am so sorry that I forgot that for so long. I hope I never end up in that dark place again, so full of hate and loathing and apathy for myself and my existence.

Life truly is wonderful, and I am finding out what Home really is.

You can still see the dirt on the veggies from the GD ground they were just pulled from.

Phallic Squash!

G&Ts in progress.

Trub limes.

Da's potato boil.

The lunch spread. The yellow tomatoes were unbelievable.

The aftermath. Wine, beer, coffee, cordials, chocolate cookies, stomachache.

Random Thoughts I Compiled, Turned Into a Lazy Post

18 Aug
  • Crystal Castles makes for really good Metroing music
  • I need to watch more MST3K
  • I go use the bathroom to pee, and I thoroughly wash my hands with soap and hot water for a good minute or two. Guy in stall at the same time comes out of stall, doesn’t flush, and walks right out. Somewhere in between is the right amount of cleanliness.
  • When in an important meeting with your boss’ boss’ boss, it’s terribly distracting that your godson and the high school version of his dad are staring at you from pictures on her desk the entire time!
  • Lafayette, IN does not sound like a fun place to visit. I was informed there are a lot of engineers there. It reminded me of that thing that ever nerdy person I know who was in a Masters or PhD program has said to me one time or another: “Oh man, you might think [physicists] are boring, but NOBODY parties like [physicists]!” Apparently nobody parties like anybody. I wonder if engineers all believe nobody parties like them. In my experience, these sorts of parties usually involve a 12-pack of Coors Light split between 5 people … I am not looking forward to this trial in Lafayette, IN.
  • Cat’s love boxes more than anything in the world. Kir is going to be pissed when you throw that thing away. Just let her keep it, and keep putting catnip in it so she’ll get all zonked out and not bite you for attention.
  • When your apartment is so small, “taking a night to clean up,” including sweeping, mopping, recycling, cat litter and possibly even laundry will take well under an hour. Except the laundry. That takes about an hour and a half. Don’t include that on the list when you write this fact down – it’ll ruin the impact.
  • It has been surprisingly easy to transition to two spaces after a period at work, only one space after a period in the rest of my life. I feel kind of rebellious, like I have a secret life outside of work.
  • Beards get terribly itchy at one point. People who quit at this point are pussies. The itch is how you know the beard is working.
  • Rudesy has promised to handle the more important aspects of your future funeral. Specifically, he is going to tell the story of the 40% joke. He also says he’ll do his best to get it put on my tombstone (note: mention that you’d rather not be buried but would love an awesome statue with a plaque that reads: We Miss Our Friend. “What is that, 40% off?”)
  • If you die having never done anything funnier than the 40% joke, you’ve still lived a more fulfilling life than most. Know that you one time achieved greatness.
  • Seriously … that guy pooped! I could smell it! How could he not have washed his hands?!
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