:: Why The Kimono Is Beautiful ::

:: Tuesday, December 10, 2002 ::

This is an astonishing read.

:: 2:50 PM [+] ::

I remember my brother Matt once asking a simple question that quickly hit a downdraft into the profound. (I regularly experienced this with my sons when they were little. I think the mean number of 'why's before you get to unanswerable is 3.) His question was: "Just what the fuck *is* fire, anyway?" Being the older brother I made a few feints. "Um, it's a combustion reaction." Everything I said sounded stupid, pompous or tautological. [Yeah, I know. No need to point that out.] Finally we just had a good old buddha laugh about unknowability and the wheel of things. Like mice trying to figure out that the way out of a maze was based on picking doors w/ prime numbers on them. But wait! Now, from a list I'm on, I get this cocky but thrilling explanation. Which not only includes many of my wild stabs, dispatched to the dustbin, but does a pretty good job of getting closer to nailing down a useful definition of fire. Though ultimately I'm afraid that definining fire is pretty much the linguistic equivalent of trying to, well, nail it down. I recall thinking about my 'fire' conversation with my brother when I was studying Derrida and Edward Said started talking about 'aporia'. My mnemonic was 'aporia=trying to define fire'.


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The Hold print version is coming out. I haven't been publishing much there lately. But I did manage to get something into the print version. I don't think I'm in violation of anything if I run it here. Though you should buy a copy as well.

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Finding The Moisture

I have long sensed the paradox of charity
And know well the devil carries a briefcase.
But you I found, nonetheless. In an empty beach parking lot,
Sick and cold, on a day of unexpected warmth.

Upon the one clean bench, inside a sun portal,
Seven times fired and pure as silver, you dried
Away a damp spot for me; though one churlish junkie
Demon boy after another had speared your leafy imaginings.

We could see a window washer
Suctioning up the decrepit blue motel, The Vista,
A tarantula's guardian angel,
Struggling with the sashes.

A storm brewed like witches tea
Across the black bedspring sea,
Scaring a girl in a bikini sucking a straw.
And on and on we played with each other

(But even that's not quite right)
Till sudden doordogs piled out of a parked van
And fell flat onto the pavement; giggling streptococci;
As a plumber on the next bench over wove a tale

About a toilet plugged with condoms
In the home of a long vascectomized man.
And we laughed at something.
And I licked your fingers.

And you wiped them off. And we kept each other company
Throughout the afternoon. Found new forms of help, through things,
Though it was all much faster than I wanted.
And I'd left my camera at home. And my eschatologist.

We managed to stay on until eve, vespers, the dry season,
Whose yoke is easy and whose burthen is light,
Before the outside thing could crash and rain its sad snares
And intone in finite: "This shall be the portion of their cup."

:: 9:43 AM [+] ::

Today I woke up for a change and after I had some coffee got my chainsaw out and started chainsawing snow. My rig's a thing of beauty. A Dolmar PS3300TH w/ an oversized Oregon bar. The apocalyptic noise had me adrenalized into mild psychosis. It's a horrible noise. I think I ruined the thing. I took down several azaleas and one juniper. Butchered another one. I was trying to do a snow topiary of my hero Walt Whitman. I don't have any idea what day it is. I brought some hacked up juniper remnants inside and stapled them to various empty spots on the wall. I'll get the lights and egg nog out later.

:: 11:29 AM [+] ::

Since it's Pearl Harbor Day, icy and colder than gehenna out, I thought I'd try and conjure an ip-induced consentual hallucination that it's summer. And the living is easy. Fortunately, last summer we had many spontaneous retreats to N. Falmouth under any pretext we could think of. And owing to the kindness of my dear sister I even have a few digital mementos here to help fire up this morning's illusion. So:

1. Here is my alt(ered) bluegrass band, Skank Baked, getting ready to perform at a party at my sister's house. Skank Baked is comprised of: JM, guitar; Zachariah Hickman, bass; Chris Pandolfi, banjo; Jeremy D-Robin, mandolin.
2. Jeremy prior to e-rush.
3. Jeremy during e-rush.
4. Chris following his e-bliss.

And now, "black water breaking into reality."

:: 11:01 AM [+] ::

Andrew and Quentin were watching 'Spiderman'. It was Andrew's first time seeing it. Quentin has seen it maybe, mm, 1,000 times? [He's already a hardbitten comic book congnoscente. No. It's worse. Comic books seem to be part of his synaptic being. There's an archetypal comic book operation in our neighborhood, nerds everywhere, Ed Wood movies playing on the VCR behind the cash register. You know the scene. Well, not only is Quentin a fixture there, but the nerds who run the place even leave him in charge when they dash out to Peet's to get recaffeinated.] Anyway, as I was saying, it was Andrew's first time seeing the movie. At the point where Uncle Ben gets killed, some creepy music starts drumming toward the impending disaster, as the camera follows the murderer. As Andrew tells it, as soon as the music started Quentin began singing softly, unself-consciously, in time [and 1 and-a 2 and 3 and-a 4] 'he-kills-uncle-ben/he-kills-uncle-ben/he-kills-uncle-ben/he-kills-uncle-ben'. Andrew was furious but, in spite of himself, fell on the floor laughing. Since I was near the piano as Andrew was telling me this, I went over and tried to conjure up the tune. I got the rhthym right, but Andrew said the music went 'C major C major C minor C minor', etc., melody on the 3rd. I started playing it. Instantly, Quentin came cartwheeling down the stairs like a genie, intoning: 'he-kills-uncle-ben/he-kills-uncle-ben/he-kills-uncle-ben/he-kills-uncle-ben'. Last night Anne and I went to dinner at Matt Murphy's. The whole night, through a million words of conversation, my private soundtrack was: 'he-kills-uncle-ben/he-kills-uncle-ben/he-kills-uncle-ben/he-kills-uncle-ben'. This morning, breakfast with Dave: 'he-kills-uncle-ben/he-kills-uncle-ben/he-kills-uncle-ben/he-kills-uncle-ben' Try it out. See if you can get it out of your head. If you can, please let me know your secret.

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I just sent Anne an email. It said: "i love you a bushel and a peck/and a hug around the neck". Her response was: "You send me love notes. I send you lists." Instead of buried haikus, every Anne email contains a latent cat power song. imho.

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Steve sent me an old poem of his that he was reminded of reading the lyrics to 'Bad Physics Grade'. It was excellent. Since Steve knows how to do everything, I suggested he set it to music and record it. Chuck everything. Go on the road in a van. Eat in diners.

It does feel like the dawning of the age of aquarius some days. Everyone dropping out. [An aside: I actually used to think that Leary's little credo ("turn on/tune in/drop out") would've made great ad copy for a TV manufacturer.] Elly, ur-webdiarist dropped out. She went to an astrology ashram. But people need to put food on the table and it's hard to farm in San Francisco. So to all the vicarious drop-outs out there: Consider a donation.

:: 11:17 AM [+] ::

Well, we survived Poppies EP release potlatch at the Lizard Lounge. The place is like a living room, w/ nice old persian rugs on the floor; and was filled with friendly people. Due to some heroics by Zack, we showed with a batch of freshly minted 'Nov. 68' EPS. I have a few left. If you'd like one send me an email. 8 songs. 8 bucks. You know what I'm saying? Gorgeous cover art by Bridget. Plus Annie's mysteriously lovely photo of falmouth poppies garden on the CD proper. Anyway, thank you so much Bridget, Zack, Art, Curt. I just love all you mystical communal snowbirds so much.

The only thing I was supposed to do was get together a lyric sheet. I didn't. So here's 'Nov. 68' lyrics so you can sing along.

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The Poppies - Nov. 68

1. Dave's Ant Farm
2. Violet's Coming Over
3. Bad Physics Grade
4. Tempt Me
5. Silver Moonbeam
6. Bored With Me
7. She's Not Around Anymore
8. Target Boy

:: 11:22 AM [+] ::