Beautiful North Carolina

Ain't No Grave

Yellow and Orange

Blue

So I don't think of myself as much of a colorist, but it turns out I'm quite drawn to blue.   Here I sample some blue photos in this video.  I put this together very quickly (it took 2-3 hours, I suppose), and I wasn't going for interesting cuts, or even interesting sequencing, nearly as much as simply responding to the music. I came nowhere close to going through all my photos, but I did quickly survey most of my blog posts.  I had a tough editing choice, as Rhapsody in Blue lasts some sixteen minutes or so.  I knew my computer could handle about 3-4 minutes of editing, but I found the prospect of cutting out either the beginning or the conclusion of the piece simply appalling.  So I made an editing choice and joined two pieces together in the best place I could find.  I'm sure Claudia will faint from emotional duress when she hears how I butchered the piece.

Yet again, I struggled to come up with a fitting and strong ending.  I decided to play off the title and give you some cheese with my final picture-- some "blue cheese," as it were.  Despite its cheesiness, I think it somehow still works.

Hope you enjoy it.

Summer's End

So it's pretty clear my last two videos--what, with their crazy rock n' roll and rap music and fast-cut editing--did not capture your fancy, beloved readers (excepting Justcurious).  Here I've gone the other route.   Quiet. Calm.  Reflective.

And, in my opinion, very sad.  

Just two images here, but together with the music they evoke loss, at least for me.

Artsy broken record

Virtually every picture here is a repeat from elsewhere on the blog.  It seems that each video is more fun to make than the last.  I had too much fun making this for it to be legal.  However,  I swear I didn't know how to end this thing.  Until I did.  And I haven't stopped smiling since. 

Oh, note that I slipped in one quick eyeball in one image near the end--though the video is not eyeball-y enough, in my judgment, to warrant an "eyeball" label.  Does it make any difference one way or another?  No.  But must one have a hobby?  Well, I don't know, but "I" do.

Let it Bleed

My goal was to set images to the Stones' music sans vocals, focusing on the genius of Keith Richards and, to a lesser degree, Mick Taylor.  What a messy effort this entailed, as apparently all these images were too much for the computer. It died, oh, only about seventy times in the making of the video.  No, I did not take these failures, even in aggregate, as a sign to cease and desist.

Hear that? That's the sound of my arteries clogging.

So here's something just disgusting.  I recently returned from a two-week journey through the Midwest only to discover I gained eleven pounds. 

Eleven pounds!

In fourteen days!

That. Is. Repulsive!

I was hoping that I had become pregnant, but the tests reveal otherwise.  Drat it all!

Most of the fattage I gained at Andy D's house, for Andy and Tracey knew that I had been missing KC BBQ, and they served up sides of the stuff.   Soon my vacation devolved into a contest between how fast Andy's smoker could produce food and how fast I could consume it.  I began to measure my helpings not in portions but in carcasses.  I regret to inform you that I crushed the smoker.

Technoprairie also fed us like we were royalty, and there's no doubt I ate just a wee too much there, too.  Homemade ice cream, vegetables served within hours of being harvested, fabulous grilled meats.  But by the time I left Andy D's and got to Michigan, the damage was done.  My body composition was 12% recognizably human, 83% a combination of bbq sauce and smoked bbq meat, and 5% artichoke dip.  My poor in-laws took mercy on me and constructed an elaborate dolly, puller, and lever system to tote me around a la a post-Godfather Marlon Brando.  Frankly I was tyrannically Brando-esque with that thing.

"No no.  Just dump me in the oversized hammock there.  I need to catch up on my digestion. And bring me another homemade sundae and cheeseburger if you would."

Fortunately since I've arrived back home I have shed much (though not all) of the extra weight.  And with, oh, another sixty pounds or so I'll be in fighting shape.  I've got the fat and washed up part of De Niro's Raging Bull role covered.  Now I just need to get to the lean-and-mean part.  All things in their proper order: First the Bull, then the Rage. Should be easy as pie. 

Speaking of which.....Mmmmm...pie. Yummy yummy pie.

Heavenly bees

Okay, it's your job to eliminate two of these photos.  Which ones go?

Too late.  Jenni and Andy have chosen for us (in a manner), since I more or less just removed the ones I wanted to remove--just as you knew I would. 

And Jenni, so glad to have you back!  I've got to check out your blog now!

Tree of ignorance



The Garden of Eden.  God wants his children to be fundamentally ignorant--or at least to remain children, or moral infants.  (Or perhaps I should rephrase that declarative as a question:  Is there any religion that encourages adults to seek truth freely wherever reason and evidence takes one?  Is there any religion that encourages persons to pursue their conscience without the mediation of a priestly class or without consultation to sacred writings?)  Arguably all religions discourage if not punish persons for seeking knowledge of any kind, but especially for seeking knowledge suitable for adult living.  Which raises a question about children.  Can it be said that young children have any religion at all?   How can they?  Isn't religion an attempt to deal with questions that children do not have?  When my daughters were wee ones, were they Christians?  Were they Presbyterian?  I hope not.  Not that there's anything wrong with Presbyterianism, but there's something unseemly in my opinion about a four year-old adherent of any denomination.  I think a lot of parents would be (rightly) disturbed if their young children considered themselves as firm Democrats or Republicans, so why is it so commonplace to expect our children to adhere to a religion?   Perhaps the Southern Baptists, with their strong conviction in adult baptism are actually on to something smart. 

So let this be known as the blog post in which I praise the Southern Baptists.

Great job, Southern Baptists!

And....I enjoyed Justcurious's commentary about the differences between the cover dish meal performances of the Methodists and Southern Baptists so much--and thought it so deliciously written--I thought I'd bring it forward here as a redemptive coda to my ramblings above:   

"Having witnessed the Truth as it pertains to earthly sustenance in each of those denominations, there just ain't no comparison, bro. You clearly think you've been to the heavenly feast but I'm here to tell you, you've merely eaten outside the gates. Now, my points of reference are a small, country Baptist church and a small town but "downtown" Methodist church, so maybe this is more a study of expression of zeal or pride than cooking abilities, but here's what I'm recollecting... At the SB supper on the grounds, the tables were groaning under the weight of hopes fulfilled, obligations met, and culinary gauntlets thrown down. As preacher man gave the benediction and blessing all rolled in one (which must have also granted us protection from the botulism of all those dishes sitting outside for so long), there was much anticipation for the famous dishes waiting. The ten layer chocolate cake that Carol Ann would aww shucks about, the fried chicken that Sammi said was nothin', the deviled eggs and lemon ice box cake that Earlene kept secret tabs on to guage how much more they were liked than Sarah Jane's frankly also ran apple pie and deviled eggs without the relish (novice). We waited our turn in line, peering anxiously around those in front to see if the homemade yeast rolls were holding out, but no worry, as the dishes proved bountiful and saw the adults to sated, post dinner tea drinking and story swapping and the kids to sugar fueled running and chasing about. The stuff of pride and legend, time and again.

 Now at the Methodist church, the minister would remind the congregation that the covered dish supper was coming up and that meant everyone should get to cooking. Please. Then the church would buy ham and some other things to supplement what they knew would be somewhat lean offerings. Families straggled in after the appointed time by which the dishes should be on the table and waiting, tossing their bag of Sunchips onto the dessert table as they got in line, apparently hoping the loaves and fishes line had been invoked earlier. Let's see, what's more appealing... the beans out of a can or store bought cookies. Hmmmm. No, no - put one of those carrot sticks back, there are more people behind you who need one. Everyone would ooh and ahh over the rare, homemade dish that appeared and rapidly emptied. There was always sweet tea, so I guess that's something."

if I were a superhero....

Truth:  I had a dream last night that I was communicating with a Supernatural Power.  In English, and out loud.  Sadly, I don't recall whether the power was God Himself (or Herself, as the case happened to be) or merely a paranormal entity.  The divine voice was that of a young female, and she said "yes" to my questions.  One question I asked her was whether I should communicate her presence to others. (And now I shall consider that obligation fulfilled.)  In this dream I also possessed a measure of supernatural powers myself, and I used them to cause various objects to glow at my command--proving, I suppose, that I would be neither an evil villain nor an especially useful superhero.  Rather I would just be me as I am presently with the added ability to indulge my desire to darken the room and cause certain objects to glow. 

"Boys and girls, you may call me....Chiaroscuro Man!!!"

I also dreamed that U2's  Bono told me if I want to be a rock and roller  like him I need to practice without ceasing playing the drums on the Violent Femmes song, "Blister in the Sun."   Then he bungied himself off of a building.

These were two of the best dreams I've had in years.

And then immediately after that I burst into tears in a third dream.

Well, at least my subconscious gave happiness a shot.  Thanks, subconscious.  I owe you one. 

It's not so bad!

In Andre Agassi's acceptance speech to the Hall of Fame, he notes how he discovered at some point that his problems were of his own making, a product of his own decisions. Put differently, a product of his character. You can try to run away from your problems, but you cannot run away from yourself. Sometimes a move to a happier place is necessary because external circumstances do matter. Life can turn on the things happening around and to you. But it turns in equal measure on what goes on within. We feel with our heart, and the heart is hidden. How we orient ourselves to the world matters surely as much as the state of the world itself.

I directed the following question to my friend, Janet: What percentage of our happiness turns on our attitude?

Janet's response, paraphrased: "I'd say about 100%. But how much of our attitude we can control is not clear to me."

I thought that was a brilliant insight. And correct. I’ve found that chronically cheery people are more than eager to say that life is at their disposal, that their attitude is a soft and warm clay ready to be molded and directed to their advantage. Look at me, they say. I've experienced hard times, and I just bucked it up, pulled myself up by the bootstraps and engaged in a score of  other golly-gee-willikers can-do metaphors.

Maybe.

I have doubts. I suspect that attitude is more like sexual preference. There is certainly a measure of volition that contributes to shaping the persons (or things) to whom (or what) one is attracted. One can make decisions that reinforce or run counter to one's natural inclinations, but how much of those basic inclinations one can affect permanently is far from clear to me. I doubt that the percentage is very great. I mean, I find Johnny Depp as dreamy as dreamy can be. And I’m more willing to admit it than, well….everyone. Still, as dreamy as he is, he’s still a dude, and there’s something about his dudeness that means that Johnny and I can only be (pretend) platonic friends. And this isn’t a matter of a social taboo. It’s just basic and visceral. He’s a dude, and dudes are basically disgusting. Sorry, Johnny.

Similarly, how much of our attitude is given a natural bent is far from trivial. 

A related upcoming post: Why argumentation is basically useless. Hold your breath!

Sweeping away the old

Spent the past week with my parents, and in addition to joining my sister in assisting my mother and father in making arrangements for custodial care for my father and a surgery for my mother, I cleared out virtually all of the few vestigial elements of the house from my own childhood.  Over the years I had culled and gleaned and parsed through a lot of childhood stuff, and what I owned that remained easily fit in a mid-sized Rubbermaid container.  I tend toward nostalgia, but this was not a nostalgic trip though I imagine that had I given myself a spare moment it might have easily developed into such.  It was a work trip, and a productive one at that.  I imagine I'll have moments for reflection and nostalgia in the days to come.  But for now, business had to come first. 

A Minivan Country Song

A Country Song....

We won't make it through the night

And we will not see the sun

Cars and bikes are flying by

Everyone but us in flight

And for this we bought Japanese

Sold out American workers short

Cuz we're stuck at the KC Toyota shop

Blame it on doggone Consumer Report

Turn the key now, freedom calls

Gathering speed on the ol highway

Then we stop to get some gas

And then it sputters and then it stalls

Minivan blues breakin' Juli's heart

Oh Mr. Mechanic, Josh, be the best

Putting Timekeeper's patience to the test

For your sake, Good Sir, I'd make that engine start

Mona in the glass sphere, inverted, right side up

Like our eyeball, flippin' that thing around.  And then our brain fools us into flipping it right side up.  

Brain, thank you.  Thank you for that lie, and for the many many many other lies you tell us to construct our self and reality.  

Summer 2010

I'm all about vivid colors, you know.  Mr. Color, they call me.  That and Mr. Chronically Cheery.   And Dr. Organized (aka Dr. O). 

From abstraction to apocalypse

This summer I have enjoyed two happy and self-indulgent opportunities to spend time with friends in the Appalachian mountains.   I took two trips, and both trips were planned relatively late, which suits me perfectly.  As I long ago noted in an earlier post, my two default temporal references are (a) the immediate next ten minutes, and (b) eternity.   Most of the time the future feels altogether fictional to me, a place like Narnia or Oz—a place that can be discussed with clarity and rationality but without reference to the real world and without any discernible path from this place to that.   As a general rule, I loathe talking about the future.  I have a near-pathological aversion to planning; it entails a full-body visceral physical hurt.  When I plan for some future event, rather than feeling a surge in power as I gain control over my (perfectly fictional) future life,  it feels like dying, as though I'm relinquishing my soul piece by piece.  Attempting to control any moment in the deep deep distant future (say, a month or more from this point), feels to me a futile, vain and hopelessly excruciating exercise in abstract thinking.   And it remains as an abstraction, as a fictive concept with virtually no significant bearing on my course of action or my well-being.

Until.

Until the moment arrives.   And then.....

And then abstraction is transformed like melting wax into utter shock, into complete disbelief that unreality somehow inexplicably--somehow altogether improbably--became real, a most unwelcome visitor to the concrete here and now in which I live.  A sickening horror infuses my entire outlook and life feels like a vertiginous spiral of impending doom.  At this tipping point, I rigorously interrogate my former self, asking him what grudge he held against my current self, who keenly feels like an innocent victim of an outrageous injustice.   What kind of gall my evil former self had to take my current self hostage! 

No! 

And thus I must face the day of rue-ing.  For this is the day of reckoning. 

The Apocalypse has arrived. 

And such is how I live life day after day, decade after decade--as a long series of descents from abstraction into the apocalypse.

Stupid Stupid Pachelbel

As you all know, Claudia was a Cool Cat right from the start, and I was forever trying to earn from her the Cool Cat Certificate of Coolness. Or at least the Cool Cat Certificate of Approval. Or I would have even settled for the Cool Cat Certificate of "I know who you are and know your name."

She has absolutely no recollection of this.

None.

Zero.

Because that's how the cool cats at the pinnacle of the inner circle roll (to mix four metaphors). In the economy of coolness, cool cats are universally noted but get to note others selectively.

I do recall that Claudia worked at Penny Lane records. In comparison to my peers I was far far more knowledgeable about classical music, and I decided to impress Claudia with my classical music savvy at one of my (many many many) visits to the store. Perhaps I could leverage this to win the Certificate of Acknowledgement. As Andy D will attest, at this stage of my life I was intensely (and profoundly unhealthily) enchanted by (obsessed with) the music of Mahler, and I definitely should have taken the Mahler conversational route with Claudia to establish my classical credentials. So very regrettably, I did not choose this path. Instead, I panicked. Pachelbel's Canon in D was being played over the store's sound system, and I immediately identified it to Claudia and--tragically---told her how lovely the piece was.

Her response?

"Ah yes, the Taco Bell Canon! Is this not the MOST overplayed piece of music EVER?! SO trite!!! I am SICK to death of this piece; if I hear it even one more time in a commercial or movie I think I'm going to get sick." And then she made the universal gagging gesture.

To which I just kind of smiled meekly and slunk away.

Stupid stupid Pachelbel!

Define the term and use it in a sentence!

Today I heard someone use the word explitcific.  Since I know this person and I heard the context in which it was used, I'm confident that this person simply merged two words together.  But it's a great word, if also a new word.  So your task:  In the spirit of Oswald Bates, the character in In Living Color who reached a little too far and ended up speaking almost entirely in malapropisms, you are to:

1.  Define explitcific.

2.  Use it in a sentence. 

Bonus points for tying the word to the photo.  

Champagne Charlie

From Andy (a comment from the last post): "Look boy. Don't make me repeat for the blog here what I told you (i.e., shouted at you, so the entire store heard) 25 years ago in Pennylane Records, when you dared question "who is that??!!" as they played Leon Redbone's greatest album and song, Champagne Charlie."

My response to Andy's comment:

I don't remember the song. That memory was discharged from me like a hairball from a cat.  I do recall this: The Pennylane Records "conversation" was the verbal equivalent of walking into a buzz saw. No, wrong. It was more like Mike Tyson walking up to me and then belting me with a left-right combination because I had the audacity to ask him the time.  True, I was puzzled by the song they were playing.  Unenlightened rube that I was, I didn't recognize Leon's vocals as a musical style nearly as much as the drunken mumbling of a white New Orleans pimp caught on tape. Now I do not recall how much of this attitude I conveyed in my question to Andy, but I must have asked it in a very very very offensive manner.  Because Andy’s (LOUD) response was merely three words. The first word being a quick "Well," and the ultimate word was "YOU!!!"  I'll leave the penultimate word to your imagination, which need not be especially astute or creative--or even awake--to accurately guess.

Being the fighter that I am, my response to Andy's "suggestion" was to lower my head, quiver my lips, and splatter the floor of the record store with big plops of salty cry-baby tears. 

Life does to us what she wants, and it turns out that nowadays I like Leon Redbone just fine. And Andy is correct: Champagne Charlie is a terrific little tune--er, masterpiece.  But at the time I was young and ignorant and…well, what can I say?  Oh how wrong I was. How so very very VERY wrong.  At the time, I had not known that Andy was raised on Leon and that my question was tantamount to wishing leprosy on his family.

I didn't know. I just didn't know. Oh sweet Being in heaven, I just didn't know.

--- This video commemorates the Hunter Museum of Art (the New NOLA) and that lovely memory of the beauty of friendship from some twenty-five years ago.