Thursday, November 5, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Slide.
In my dream the other night,
I tried to write poem to you
or maybe it was about you,
to tell you that I knew how it was all going to end.
It started as I was talking in my sleep, and woke you up.
I knew what I wanted to ask,
but every....word...evaporated.
I fell off,
back into sleep,
trying to figure out the precise words to tell you
in the morning.
I thought I'd write a poem.
I noticed,
in my dream,
when was I was trying so hard
to choose the precise words,
the "T" in turbine kept transforming into a playground Slide.
A picture of a Slide,
a photo of a Slide,
a cardboard cut out of a Slide.
I really don't write poetry, I've discovered.
Being precise doesn't stand much of a chance when a Slide is right there.
I tried to write poem to you
or maybe it was about you,
to tell you that I knew how it was all going to end.
It started as I was talking in my sleep, and woke you up.
I knew what I wanted to ask,
but every....word...evaporated.
I fell off,
back into sleep,
trying to figure out the precise words to tell you
in the morning.
I thought I'd write a poem.
I noticed,
in my dream,
when was I was trying so hard
to choose the precise words,
the "T" in turbine kept transforming into a playground Slide.
A picture of a Slide,
a photo of a Slide,
a cardboard cut out of a Slide.
I really don't write poetry, I've discovered.
Being precise doesn't stand much of a chance when a Slide is right there.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Song for a Crappy Tuesday
What you don't know about Asperger's is a lot. Just the staticky fragments from a Dateline two nights ago, filtered through the parents' caustic whispers. Both caught your vague interest - the whisper-fit and the Dateline - but neither could be heard in full. Instead they blent into audio wallpaper, heard at crunching intervals as you finished your Cap'n Crunch for dinner.
Gary is a boy like any other in this-
"-this is the third parking tick-"
Difficulty reading social cues-
"...instead of letting me find out three-"
...lack of eye contact-
"...three times! And always when I'm stress-"
'There are three Walgreens within three blocks of my Mom's office.'
Election Tuesday, in your third grade class, was diagnosed with Asperger's. There was no big fuss made about it on the part of the teacher (a grey, indifferent woman, unable mask her perturbation at any unexpected change in plan), but Election Tuesday had no reserve in announcing it to all eighteen kids in line at the Bathroom Break.
Election Tuesday is unsettling to talk to - with the constant chatter of encyclopedic facts and his queer gaze at your left temple- so you avoid him whenever possible. (This is made difficult, however, by the alphabetic placement of your last names. Except when some kid is sick, you are the Craft Partner, The Buddy.)
He is also one of those kids. The kind with a laundry list of queezeries that upset and annoy: He ate three of Jodi's glue sticks within the first six days of school, one of his armpits sweats excessively, he has consistent booger hang, he bites his nails and leaves them on the left corner of your desk, he has no compunction pointing out unfavorable cross gender traits in the three more preyed upon kids, he slapped Georgie and took his applesauce.
Once he made his condition known to you, though, much was forgiven. There was a reason - he should be pitied, not reviled. And even if he still sits too close or licks your pencil eraser, it's not like it's on purpose.
You keep telling yourself this as the two of you sit outside the principal's office. A Rube Goldberg machine of events has put you there. Jodi still has her vision, despite her squealing, and, at any rate, this was not your doing. You just happened to be his Craft Partner today (Yesterday Daniel Buckman had the flu and you were placed with another kid. No such luck today. Daniel Buckman is such a faker anyway.) and Election Tuesday made a real mess of your decoupage.
But he couldn't hel-
"-help it." He finishes your thought out loud.
You look up at him. Election Tuesday's reddish gold hair has one or two clots of glue still in it. He stares down at his loose shoelaces.
"I wasn't trying to hurt anybody."
"Right, right, right." You say.
His teeth are tugging at the nail of his left index finger. You know where that's going to wind up.
"I guess I just can't control myself sometimes."
You scratch at your left cheek and a crust of red tissue paper and glue rolls off into your hand.
"Lucky people know I have asp-erger."
You stare at him. He is swaying and bopping from side to side, as if to unheard music. The mutterings of parents in the office behind is getting louder. The door opens and Election Tuesday's parents emerge. They rush to him, kissing and hugging his ruddy face.
"Get in here, now!" barks the lone voice of your father, still inside.
Election Tuesday is lead away by his father's hand. He turns back, looks you dead in the eye and grins. "See you at Snack."
He yanks what's left of the hangnail from his finger and stuffs it in his pocket for later.
"Right, right, right," you mutter and turn into the principle's office - ready to be disbelieved.
The accordion has long been labeled as a specialty instrument for Polka Bands and Nerd Rockers. And to be fair, for while it seemed as though those were the only people in pop culture who dabbled around with the accordion.
Want to show a fairly benign but alien culture? Give us a Swedish Polka Band.
Want to show how geeky a kid is? Give him accordion lessons.
My first associations with the accordion fell along these lines until I was introduced to the band They Might Be Giants my freshman year in high school. Even then it was a while before I realized the instrument was, in fact, the accordion. It was "That Famous Polka" really opened my eyes.
Since then I have come to hear just how versatile and evocative the accordion is. Accordions figure into Tango orchestrations from all over, giving sense of urgency with individual notes and longing as the chords are drawn out - Tension and release.
One os my favorite songs recently is by the indie rock band The Bowerbirds. "Beneath Your Tree" uses the accordion in a messy but tireless way - sounding something like a homemade gypsy caravan or funeral procession. Put together with the banging drums, and longing lyrics and the whole song plays out with weary but fierce resolve.
Like it wishes it could stop, but cannot.
Gary is a boy like any other in this-
"-this is the third parking tick-"
Difficulty reading social cues-
"...instead of letting me find out three-"
...lack of eye contact-
"...three times! And always when I'm stress-"
'There are three Walgreens within three blocks of my Mom's office.'
Election Tuesday, in your third grade class, was diagnosed with Asperger's. There was no big fuss made about it on the part of the teacher (a grey, indifferent woman, unable mask her perturbation at any unexpected change in plan), but Election Tuesday had no reserve in announcing it to all eighteen kids in line at the Bathroom Break.
Election Tuesday is unsettling to talk to - with the constant chatter of encyclopedic facts and his queer gaze at your left temple- so you avoid him whenever possible. (This is made difficult, however, by the alphabetic placement of your last names. Except when some kid is sick, you are the Craft Partner, The Buddy.)
He is also one of those kids. The kind with a laundry list of queezeries that upset and annoy: He ate three of Jodi's glue sticks within the first six days of school, one of his armpits sweats excessively, he has consistent booger hang, he bites his nails and leaves them on the left corner of your desk, he has no compunction pointing out unfavorable cross gender traits in the three more preyed upon kids, he slapped Georgie and took his applesauce.
Once he made his condition known to you, though, much was forgiven. There was a reason - he should be pitied, not reviled. And even if he still sits too close or licks your pencil eraser, it's not like it's on purpose.
You keep telling yourself this as the two of you sit outside the principal's office. A Rube Goldberg machine of events has put you there. Jodi still has her vision, despite her squealing, and, at any rate, this was not your doing. You just happened to be his Craft Partner today (Yesterday Daniel Buckman had the flu and you were placed with another kid. No such luck today. Daniel Buckman is such a faker anyway.) and Election Tuesday made a real mess of your decoupage.
But he couldn't hel-
"-help it." He finishes your thought out loud.
You look up at him. Election Tuesday's reddish gold hair has one or two clots of glue still in it. He stares down at his loose shoelaces.
"I wasn't trying to hurt anybody."
"Right, right, right." You say.
His teeth are tugging at the nail of his left index finger. You know where that's going to wind up.
"I guess I just can't control myself sometimes."
You scratch at your left cheek and a crust of red tissue paper and glue rolls off into your hand.
"Lucky people know I have asp-erger."
You stare at him. He is swaying and bopping from side to side, as if to unheard music. The mutterings of parents in the office behind is getting louder. The door opens and Election Tuesday's parents emerge. They rush to him, kissing and hugging his ruddy face.
"Get in here, now!" barks the lone voice of your father, still inside.
Election Tuesday is lead away by his father's hand. He turns back, looks you dead in the eye and grins. "See you at Snack."
He yanks what's left of the hangnail from his finger and stuffs it in his pocket for later.
"Right, right, right," you mutter and turn into the principle's office - ready to be disbelieved.
The accordion has long been labeled as a specialty instrument for Polka Bands and Nerd Rockers. And to be fair, for while it seemed as though those were the only people in pop culture who dabbled around with the accordion.
Want to show a fairly benign but alien culture? Give us a Swedish Polka Band.
Want to show how geeky a kid is? Give him accordion lessons.
My first associations with the accordion fell along these lines until I was introduced to the band They Might Be Giants my freshman year in high school. Even then it was a while before I realized the instrument was, in fact, the accordion. It was "That Famous Polka" really opened my eyes.
Since then I have come to hear just how versatile and evocative the accordion is. Accordions figure into Tango orchestrations from all over, giving sense of urgency with individual notes and longing as the chords are drawn out - Tension and release.
One os my favorite songs recently is by the indie rock band The Bowerbirds. "Beneath Your Tree" uses the accordion in a messy but tireless way - sounding something like a homemade gypsy caravan or funeral procession. Put together with the banging drums, and longing lyrics and the whole song plays out with weary but fierce resolve.
Like it wishes it could stop, but cannot.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Two sentences.
I have been a little on the lazy, busy, don't-feel-like-it kick recently, which I think is pretty normal for anyone. We can all forgive ourselves for that.
However...
What begins as a few days of break time can metastasize into full blown complacency if one is not careful. Best to keep moving a little so the muscles don't atrophy.
I tell my students to keep a journal. They look at me like I'm a freak, the notion of writing everyday makes them nervous. But then I tell them that I really don't care what it is. I'm not looking for the next emergence of Max Frisch (Which is really insufferable of me, I think).
Just set yourself to the task of writing every day. Just two sentences. That's all it takes.
Here are mine for today:
Today I ate three bowls of FrankenBerry. Why do so many cereals rip up the roof of my mouth so bad?
However...
What begins as a few days of break time can metastasize into full blown complacency if one is not careful. Best to keep moving a little so the muscles don't atrophy.
I tell my students to keep a journal. They look at me like I'm a freak, the notion of writing everyday makes them nervous. But then I tell them that I really don't care what it is. I'm not looking for the next emergence of Max Frisch (Which is really insufferable of me, I think).
Just set yourself to the task of writing every day. Just two sentences. That's all it takes.
Here are mine for today:
Today I ate three bowls of FrankenBerry. Why do so many cereals rip up the roof of my mouth so bad?
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Song for a Crappy Tuesday
I’ve been tapping myself on my own shoulder for a while now, whispering with a casual wave at my office door, “You know, whenever you get a minute…if we could talk about a couple of things- nothing big - that would be great.”
This meeting has been put off for weeks now. Probably months. And now I’m mad at Me and am threatening to quit if I don’t get a few minutes, for chrissake, in the conference room.
And you see what happens? I don’t take my urgings for a meeting seriously and the whole thing blows up in my face like a tired office analogy gone awry.
Ungh.
And I don’t think that’s the only analogy I’ll be using today.
I haven’t written in a while and what I’ve come to discover is just what a equalizer of my own sanity it is. I do a lot of talking to myself. A lot. My friend CP once remarked that in my head is where I live for the most part. Getting outside of it is something of a feat, one that writing helps me accomplish. I can see the words on the page or screen…I can convert whatever weirdo thing I think into something concrete, that I can see with my own two eyes.
When I ignore it or take it for granted, my brain spins around on itself and goes on a cubicle shooting spree.
See?
For those of you longtime readers, (and those, too, who know me personally) you might be aware of the fact that this last year has been a season of remarkable change in my circumstances, calling into question pretty much everything I do, and why I do it.
A year. A whole year. I can look back at my calendar and see what I was doing every day…and remember it with staggering clarity. With any big change, I suppose, there is a sense that eventually it will end, that the feelings of renewal or anguish (or renguish) will subside. Transformation complete. Resolution reached. Roll credits. Drop your 3D glasses in the bin on the way out.
The thing is, everyone has filed out of the theater and I’m still sitting here. I hesitate to go out into the real world. The movie was exciting…I don’t want to leave the theatre to discover that I’ve left my car windows rolled down in a rain storm and I got a parking ticket.
The change itself is a kind of escape, a Get Out of Jail Free card for getting behind on work or not keeping up with friends. Now that the year is over, I find myself in a weird state of trying to play like everything is fine. All better now. Please, the movie wasn’t that scary.
No. I’m not all better now. However, it is important to note that I am not quite so spectacularly out of my wits as I was. It’s just The Year After The Year of the Big Change.
I’m still having weird reactions to things, crazy bouts of sadness and uncertainty, difficulty contacting friends and family, realizing too late that, when budgeting, Food should also be an item on the list.
BUT…
Considering the trip to Abyss National Park I took last year, I’m doing okay.
I just have to get over the thought that somehow, I’m going to reach a denouement that turns me into that Beautiful Butterfly of Self-Actualization. Jeez. How insufferable.
********
On Sunday, Notnits got a text from a friend offering up Wilco tickets for the following night. Both of us thought it would be a great idea, so we accepted.
I’m not a huge Wilco fan. I realize, of course, that Jeff Tweedy and company speak to a wide generation of hipsters, indie nerds, and alt-country junkies. And with good reason. The songs are fun, occasionally lovey dovey, and authentic. This is a rarity these days when, in a Twittery second, any indie band can go from underground darlings to Alt-rRock Gods to Sell Out Hacks in a matter of a few hours. Wilco has its root deep in Alt-folk-country-rockabilly and has been around for years.
Some of the lyrics are fun and sweet. Others howl about addiction and depression. At one point I think I posted one Song for a Crappy Tuesday from “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart.” Jeff Tweedy is no stranger to self destructive behavior and he is able to translate that into sincere lyrics that reach an audience drenched in cologne d'Irony.
The concert itself was fine. Tortoise opened up for them and (forgive me fusion jazz lovers) I was praying for them to get off the stage. Perhaps in a smaller venue, where the drums and bass would not overwhelm any melodic nuance, I’d appreciate them more. But here it was just a bunch of banging by musicians who didn’t appear too interested in engaging the audience. I found it interesting that their most melodic piece was met with the greatest response.
At last, Wilco took the stage and in a frenzy of Bay City Rollers haircuts and country twang Tweedy and the band ended the North American leg of their tour.
A headache set in and, after standing for nearly three hours, Notnits and I left. I felt a little guilty for leaving before the concert was over, but my headache stopped me from enjoying the 12 minute long dissonant experiment Wilc chose to end with.
I have a weird tug in may heart about Wilco. I don’t want to like them. Back in the day, I was a bigger fan of the band Uncle Tupelo, formed by Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy. Part of me had always been more partial to Farrar’s voice and lyric style. (I also have a big problem with flighty “genius” types.) His band Son Volt never made it to the upper echelons of fame, but I still give him a casual listen.
Uncle Tupelo’s last album Anodyne, is a monument to the eroding relationship Tweedy and Farrar shared. Neither really play on each other’s songs and they each wrote blistering indictments of one another into their lyrics. Fifteen Keys is just such a song. It's hard to tell it on this track (this is a live version and Farrar sounds tired) but the melody contains a lovley twang in the guitar. Farrar's lyrics holler out about the end at hand with grim resignation. It's one of my favorites.
This meeting has been put off for weeks now. Probably months. And now I’m mad at Me and am threatening to quit if I don’t get a few minutes, for chrissake, in the conference room.
And you see what happens? I don’t take my urgings for a meeting seriously and the whole thing blows up in my face like a tired office analogy gone awry.
Ungh.
And I don’t think that’s the only analogy I’ll be using today.
I haven’t written in a while and what I’ve come to discover is just what a equalizer of my own sanity it is. I do a lot of talking to myself. A lot. My friend CP once remarked that in my head is where I live for the most part. Getting outside of it is something of a feat, one that writing helps me accomplish. I can see the words on the page or screen…I can convert whatever weirdo thing I think into something concrete, that I can see with my own two eyes.
When I ignore it or take it for granted, my brain spins around on itself and goes on a cubicle shooting spree.
See?
For those of you longtime readers, (and those, too, who know me personally) you might be aware of the fact that this last year has been a season of remarkable change in my circumstances, calling into question pretty much everything I do, and why I do it.
A year. A whole year. I can look back at my calendar and see what I was doing every day…and remember it with staggering clarity. With any big change, I suppose, there is a sense that eventually it will end, that the feelings of renewal or anguish (or renguish) will subside. Transformation complete. Resolution reached. Roll credits. Drop your 3D glasses in the bin on the way out.
The thing is, everyone has filed out of the theater and I’m still sitting here. I hesitate to go out into the real world. The movie was exciting…I don’t want to leave the theatre to discover that I’ve left my car windows rolled down in a rain storm and I got a parking ticket.
The change itself is a kind of escape, a Get Out of Jail Free card for getting behind on work or not keeping up with friends. Now that the year is over, I find myself in a weird state of trying to play like everything is fine. All better now. Please, the movie wasn’t that scary.
No. I’m not all better now. However, it is important to note that I am not quite so spectacularly out of my wits as I was. It’s just The Year After The Year of the Big Change.
I’m still having weird reactions to things, crazy bouts of sadness and uncertainty, difficulty contacting friends and family, realizing too late that, when budgeting, Food should also be an item on the list.
BUT…
Considering the trip to Abyss National Park I took last year, I’m doing okay.
I just have to get over the thought that somehow, I’m going to reach a denouement that turns me into that Beautiful Butterfly of Self-Actualization. Jeez. How insufferable.
********
On Sunday, Notnits got a text from a friend offering up Wilco tickets for the following night. Both of us thought it would be a great idea, so we accepted.
I’m not a huge Wilco fan. I realize, of course, that Jeff Tweedy and company speak to a wide generation of hipsters, indie nerds, and alt-country junkies. And with good reason. The songs are fun, occasionally lovey dovey, and authentic. This is a rarity these days when, in a Twittery second, any indie band can go from underground darlings to Alt-rRock Gods to Sell Out Hacks in a matter of a few hours. Wilco has its root deep in Alt-folk-country-rockabilly and has been around for years.
Some of the lyrics are fun and sweet. Others howl about addiction and depression. At one point I think I posted one Song for a Crappy Tuesday from “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart.” Jeff Tweedy is no stranger to self destructive behavior and he is able to translate that into sincere lyrics that reach an audience drenched in cologne d'Irony.
The concert itself was fine. Tortoise opened up for them and (forgive me fusion jazz lovers) I was praying for them to get off the stage. Perhaps in a smaller venue, where the drums and bass would not overwhelm any melodic nuance, I’d appreciate them more. But here it was just a bunch of banging by musicians who didn’t appear too interested in engaging the audience. I found it interesting that their most melodic piece was met with the greatest response.
At last, Wilco took the stage and in a frenzy of Bay City Rollers haircuts and country twang Tweedy and the band ended the North American leg of their tour.
A headache set in and, after standing for nearly three hours, Notnits and I left. I felt a little guilty for leaving before the concert was over, but my headache stopped me from enjoying the 12 minute long dissonant experiment Wilc chose to end with.
I have a weird tug in may heart about Wilco. I don’t want to like them. Back in the day, I was a bigger fan of the band Uncle Tupelo, formed by Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy. Part of me had always been more partial to Farrar’s voice and lyric style. (I also have a big problem with flighty “genius” types.) His band Son Volt never made it to the upper echelons of fame, but I still give him a casual listen.
Uncle Tupelo’s last album Anodyne, is a monument to the eroding relationship Tweedy and Farrar shared. Neither really play on each other’s songs and they each wrote blistering indictments of one another into their lyrics. Fifteen Keys is just such a song. It's hard to tell it on this track (this is a live version and Farrar sounds tired) but the melody contains a lovley twang in the guitar. Farrar's lyrics holler out about the end at hand with grim resignation. It's one of my favorites.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Until such a time as I am able...
Posting here may be of the more "off and on" type until next week. I am wading through mid-terms and have very little elective thinking space in my brain.
So until I do, here is a(n?) haiku:
WTF.
ROFLMAO.
OMG. Winter.
So until I do, here is a(n?) haiku:
WTF.
ROFLMAO.
OMG. Winter.
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