so, not all of my dreams are bad, I guess, if my morning condition is any indication. I don't remember most of my dreams.
I did have another fucked up one, recently, in that I was walking through a trench dug into a mass burial site. The bodies were "fresh", as in, not decayed beyond recognition.
I have no idea where my subconscious wanders at night, or why it chooses these dreams to be the ones I remember, but it's a part of me, with or without my consent. I dunno, maybe traumatized by the news, when in reality, there's probably people who have seen this kind of thing in real life.
So, I'm in the world of the awake, and keeping these kinds of dreams to myself, for the most part. Absolutely morbid.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Friday, April 24, 2009
The Guitar Player
He opens his eyes
Slowly
As he rolls back
The volume
On his guitar
Coming back out of his trance
Slowly remembering
The unlit cigarette
In his mouth
And the unopened beer
In front of him
Wondering
If what he'd just played
Brought anyone else
Close to where
He'd just been
Slowly
As he rolls back
The volume
On his guitar
Coming back out of his trance
Slowly remembering
The unlit cigarette
In his mouth
And the unopened beer
In front of him
Wondering
If what he'd just played
Brought anyone else
Close to where
He'd just been
Monday, April 6, 2009
Go To Church
Not that I do, or anything, but I've spent a few Sunday mornings in churches of various blends. The reason I think you should do the same has less to do with the obvious benefits of participating in your local community, than it does with something I'm reminded of every time I see someone get on a stage and start preaching to a crowd. Whether it's a Hollywood star voicing their opinions on the weather, a lead singer in a band trying to sell drinks and generate tips to the staff, or the President of The United States preaching to some adoring European crowd in a foreign nation, there's something to the craft of public speaking.
And the reason I don't think many of us do go to church, is that when I watch The President of The United States speak, I'm reminded of the traveling preachers who used to come to Sunday mass, and try to whip up the crowd in an orgy of frenetic enthusiasm. It was because of one of those traveling preachers that I finally picked up my guitar and walked out of church many years ago. I'd seen enough. To me, there wasn't much distinction between playing in a bar band, and playing in a church band. You carefully arrange the songs and interludes to manipulate the mood of the audience, pass the hat, end with a lively upbeat tune with a hook that'll last in the listeners' ears at least until they reach the parking lot. Then you pack up the gear until the next rehearsal.
And when I watch the guy who was elected President of our country, I realise many people must not go to church to not see this guy for what he seems like to me, a traveling preacher. Now humbly bow your head, while we pass the hat.
And the reason I don't think many of us do go to church, is that when I watch The President of The United States speak, I'm reminded of the traveling preachers who used to come to Sunday mass, and try to whip up the crowd in an orgy of frenetic enthusiasm. It was because of one of those traveling preachers that I finally picked up my guitar and walked out of church many years ago. I'd seen enough. To me, there wasn't much distinction between playing in a bar band, and playing in a church band. You carefully arrange the songs and interludes to manipulate the mood of the audience, pass the hat, end with a lively upbeat tune with a hook that'll last in the listeners' ears at least until they reach the parking lot. Then you pack up the gear until the next rehearsal.
And when I watch the guy who was elected President of our country, I realise many people must not go to church to not see this guy for what he seems like to me, a traveling preacher. Now humbly bow your head, while we pass the hat.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Trying to tie it all together.
When I first started doing this, I signed up in various places for various blogs. I'm still sorting it out, but with the beta of Twingly.com, I at least have a thought that I'll be able to find all of these various creations at some point.
So this is basically just a post to remind me I have a place here to blog, if I should ever get started.
So this is basically just a post to remind me I have a place here to blog, if I should ever get started.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Twitter needs to fix it's "in reply to" function.
There are a number of things twitter could and should do better. I thought I'd list a few, based on my experience.
"In Reply to" to me, is the biggest time-wasting feature that needs fixing.
There is no way to know what tweet you are going to be taken to when you click on the "in reply to" link. Sometimes you can trace a conversation backwards, but more often than not, it will take you to a completely different conversation.
The "reply to" arrow is only featured on the timeline. If you are browsing a user's profile, or a specific status, the "reply to" arrow is absent.
This seems like something that should be addressed by twitter.
"In Reply to" to me, is the biggest time-wasting feature that needs fixing.
There is no way to know what tweet you are going to be taken to when you click on the "in reply to" link. Sometimes you can trace a conversation backwards, but more often than not, it will take you to a completely different conversation.
The "reply to" arrow is only featured on the timeline. If you are browsing a user's profile, or a specific status, the "reply to" arrow is absent.
This seems like something that should be addressed by twitter.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
very bad dream.
holy fuckin' hell I just had a violent dream. Was stabbed to death, and each time I died, I was the next person who was stabbed. Was on my knees bleedin' to death could feel stab wound in chest (not the pain, but the puncture, my heart flapping like in a breeze) trying to warn someone. I was supposed to be the hero, everyone in dream shocked lookin' at me, maybe yelling something, maybe silent widemouth staring at me. was focus of everyone in room except for whoever was doin' the stabbing. woke up.
holy shit. Not a cool dream.
holy shit. Not a cool dream.
Friday, March 14, 2008
The Legend Of Mat The Webel
The Legend of Mat The Webel
This story comes to us by the way
of the failing mem'ry
of one El Mer Fud
Who says he recollects the day
When Mat the Webel
Helped get his truck unstuck
From that red Georgia clay
The old-timers like to sit around
on the front porch towards twilight coming nigh
stroking peach fuzz gone to kudzu
as is sometimes a grey beard's way
lighting a corn-cob pipe
from the fleeting flare of a dried piece of grass
held briefly to the homemade buttermilk-scented candle
A puff, another, then as the grass burns
perilously close to the crooked and weathered fingers
A single ember glows red
and a deft flick of the wrist
extinguishes the flame
while a single column of thick white smoke
billows forth from the locomotive
passing by on the near-by tracks.
"I was coming back through the mountains"
says the old-timer
"after a month camped at Dalton's Pass,"
"and the mules was lookin' right scarce, havin' wintered on a diet of scrub and frozen grass."
The others looked at each other silently,
imperceptibly exchanging a knowing glance.
With age comes the wisdom not to point out the inaccuracies of geography or season;
sometimes it's better to just let a tall tale pass.
And so it was, that the old-timer continued.
"We were just coming up to a bend in the road, when I came upon a young lad
gathering wild leeks that were growing along the side of the road, and packing them into a basket made of thin wooden slats, bound by a pair of rusty metal bands."
The lad paused in his efforts, grimily wiping a sweaty brow with his forearm, as he took measure of the approaching outfit. Encounters between strangers was a common enough occurence in rural areas, but marauding bands of armed men were everywhere, and a keen sense of diligence was the most basic of survival instincts. The old-timer heaved in his mules alongside the youngster. "Laddy, might ye be willing to spare some of yer catch, as my team is a bit spindly and would do well, with a bit of feed." The young man looked over the old wooden cart, the old oak plank construction grey with age, and barely held together with random cut nails and strips of frayed soggy leather and anything else readily available. "I reckon if you'd hitch me a ride into town, in exchange, I could spare your mules some of my haul".
As it turned out, the young man had been quite enterprising, and had four more of the rickety baskets stowed away in the bushes, and by the time the two had loaded the cart, and gave the mules a pittance of sustenance, they were on their way under a gathering grey sky.
Up around a bend in the road they came to a railroad crossing, and with the heavy spring rains, the going was rough, in trying to get the cart through the ruts and over the steel rails. Suddenly, the situation became urgent, as the sound of an approaching train, men shouting and gunshots grew near. But the mules could not navigate the wagon out of the ruts, and over the rails. The young man, looked desperately at the teamster, who had let loose with a tirade of cussing at the tired mules. The train came into sight, trailed by horse-mounted men with rifles, exchanging wild gunfire with the men on the train.
At what seemed like the last moment, the teamster surveyed the unscheduled arrival of the oncoming train, and turned to the young man, and yelled, "A rebel has stolen the General, we need to get rid of those baskets!", the young man, puzzled, yelled frantically "what do you want me to do with them?". The old-timer shouted "Throw 'em at the rebel, throw 'em at the rebel!". And when the young lad had emptied his five baskets of wild leeks, the wild-eyed mules suddenly gained purchase, and the cart jarred suddenly free across the tracks just as the locomotive with its band of pursuers passed by.
The lady of the house came out on the dark porch, and freshened up the old-timers' glasses of sweet tea, as the old men contemplated on the adventure they'd just been told. A magpie called off in the distance, as the cicadas imparted an electric buzz to the willow tree they had congregated in.
"And that," concluded Mr. Fudd, as he slowly took a sip of his tea, " is how Mat The Webel got his name."
*notes
Story is fiction borrowing from a real event:
The story of the General:
http://ngeorgia.com/history/raiders.html
Style borrows heavily from O. Henry
matthewebel is a real person, (and talented musician), and I haven't asked permission to butcher his name thusly. This came from reading the name in all lower case, and, well...
This story comes to us by the way
of the failing mem'ry
of one El Mer Fud
Who says he recollects the day
When Mat the Webel
Helped get his truck unstuck
From that red Georgia clay
The old-timers like to sit around
on the front porch towards twilight coming nigh
stroking peach fuzz gone to kudzu
as is sometimes a grey beard's way
lighting a corn-cob pipe
from the fleeting flare of a dried piece of grass
held briefly to the homemade buttermilk-scented candle
A puff, another, then as the grass burns
perilously close to the crooked and weathered fingers
A single ember glows red
and a deft flick of the wrist
extinguishes the flame
while a single column of thick white smoke
billows forth from the locomotive
passing by on the near-by tracks.
"I was coming back through the mountains"
says the old-timer
"after a month camped at Dalton's Pass,"
"and the mules was lookin' right scarce, havin' wintered on a diet of scrub and frozen grass."
The others looked at each other silently,
imperceptibly exchanging a knowing glance.
With age comes the wisdom not to point out the inaccuracies of geography or season;
sometimes it's better to just let a tall tale pass.
And so it was, that the old-timer continued.
"We were just coming up to a bend in the road, when I came upon a young lad
gathering wild leeks that were growing along the side of the road, and packing them into a basket made of thin wooden slats, bound by a pair of rusty metal bands."
The lad paused in his efforts, grimily wiping a sweaty brow with his forearm, as he took measure of the approaching outfit. Encounters between strangers was a common enough occurence in rural areas, but marauding bands of armed men were everywhere, and a keen sense of diligence was the most basic of survival instincts. The old-timer heaved in his mules alongside the youngster. "Laddy, might ye be willing to spare some of yer catch, as my team is a bit spindly and would do well, with a bit of feed." The young man looked over the old wooden cart, the old oak plank construction grey with age, and barely held together with random cut nails and strips of frayed soggy leather and anything else readily available. "I reckon if you'd hitch me a ride into town, in exchange, I could spare your mules some of my haul".
As it turned out, the young man had been quite enterprising, and had four more of the rickety baskets stowed away in the bushes, and by the time the two had loaded the cart, and gave the mules a pittance of sustenance, they were on their way under a gathering grey sky.
Up around a bend in the road they came to a railroad crossing, and with the heavy spring rains, the going was rough, in trying to get the cart through the ruts and over the steel rails. Suddenly, the situation became urgent, as the sound of an approaching train, men shouting and gunshots grew near. But the mules could not navigate the wagon out of the ruts, and over the rails. The young man, looked desperately at the teamster, who had let loose with a tirade of cussing at the tired mules. The train came into sight, trailed by horse-mounted men with rifles, exchanging wild gunfire with the men on the train.
At what seemed like the last moment, the teamster surveyed the unscheduled arrival of the oncoming train, and turned to the young man, and yelled, "A rebel has stolen the General, we need to get rid of those baskets!", the young man, puzzled, yelled frantically "what do you want me to do with them?". The old-timer shouted "Throw 'em at the rebel, throw 'em at the rebel!". And when the young lad had emptied his five baskets of wild leeks, the wild-eyed mules suddenly gained purchase, and the cart jarred suddenly free across the tracks just as the locomotive with its band of pursuers passed by.
The lady of the house came out on the dark porch, and freshened up the old-timers' glasses of sweet tea, as the old men contemplated on the adventure they'd just been told. A magpie called off in the distance, as the cicadas imparted an electric buzz to the willow tree they had congregated in.
"And that," concluded Mr. Fudd, as he slowly took a sip of his tea, " is how Mat The Webel got his name."
*notes
Story is fiction borrowing from a real event:
The story of the General:
http://ngeorgia.com/history/raiders.html
Style borrows heavily from O. Henry
matthewebel is a real person, (and talented musician), and I haven't asked permission to butcher his name thusly. This came from reading the name in all lower case, and, well...
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