Dear Ones,
You may have noticed that Better Cats and Gardens has been rather inactive lately. Beyond my apologies, I must offer an explanation, which is: It is harder to blog now, because much of my blogging is done from work, and my work has in recent days become insane.
Should I explain it to you? You probably know it. If not, perhaps the conversation would better be had in private? Either way, my office is no longer a private place anymore, nor anything resembling quiet. Today they were attempting to think of what animals they might be; I informed them that they were obviously a badger and a raccoon. Neither was very much pleased.
I am afraid I don't have many more fantastic things to tell you about. I am suddenly overcome by two desires: I want to watch Voltron, and also, I want to play Battle Masters. I'm not providing any links or images so if you don't know what they are HAHAHA YOU LOSE stupid.
Your Friend,
Steve
Friday, June 27, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Things I Would Like to Talk About
Politics.
This is the only real problem with talking about politics: You don't accomplish anything, but you feel like you have.
Not talking about politics -- even considering it impolite to talk about politics -- is, however comfortable it makes everyone, really kind of sort of insane, when one considers that what we call "politics" is short-hand for "matters that, ultimately, determine our lives and our deaths."
Also: It has come to my attention that there is a closet Republican in the group. I will henceforth direct all my energies toward discovering this person and outing them.
Money.
No one is comfortable talking about money.
Why are we all so uncomfortable talking about things that are so important?
Let me tell you some things about money:
I don't understand it. I don't know how to use it. I don't know what to do with it.
I have next to none of it!
Once again, in banning money from the conversation, we're removing something that, basically, determines our lives and our deaths. We're also, again, as with politics, actively taking part in hiding, denying, and, as always, denying the denial of the systematic violence of everyday life.
The existence of money is an act of violence. Period. The refusal to speak of it is not different from a family refusing to speak about the violence of an abusive parent. It's over, pretend it never happened, pretend you never pretended that.
RD Laing:
Rule A: Don't.
Rule A1: Rule A does not exist.
Rule A2: Do not admit the existence or non-existence of Rules A, A1, or A2.
I just forgot what I was talking about.
This is the only real problem with talking about politics: You don't accomplish anything, but you feel like you have.
Not talking about politics -- even considering it impolite to talk about politics -- is, however comfortable it makes everyone, really kind of sort of insane, when one considers that what we call "politics" is short-hand for "matters that, ultimately, determine our lives and our deaths."
Also: It has come to my attention that there is a closet Republican in the group. I will henceforth direct all my energies toward discovering this person and outing them.
Money.
No one is comfortable talking about money.
Why are we all so uncomfortable talking about things that are so important?
Let me tell you some things about money:
I don't understand it. I don't know how to use it. I don't know what to do with it.
I have next to none of it!
Once again, in banning money from the conversation, we're removing something that, basically, determines our lives and our deaths. We're also, again, as with politics, actively taking part in hiding, denying, and, as always, denying the denial of the systematic violence of everyday life.
The existence of money is an act of violence. Period. The refusal to speak of it is not different from a family refusing to speak about the violence of an abusive parent. It's over, pretend it never happened, pretend you never pretended that.
RD Laing:
Rule A: Don't.
Rule A1: Rule A does not exist.
Rule A2: Do not admit the existence or non-existence of Rules A, A1, or A2.
I just forgot what I was talking about.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The Pleasures Of: Episode 7
T.S. Eliot
I really don't know what to do with this one. Go read the fucking Waste Land.
***
Okay, you're right. I should do more. Fine then, here are some of my favorite quotes from this favorite of poets:
"I love you. I am the milkman of human kindness;
I will leave an extra pint."
"I saw two shooting stars last night.
I wished on them, but they were only satellites.
It's wrong to wish on space hardware --
I wish, I wish, I wish you'd care."
"I paid the union and as times got harder
I looked to the government to help the working man;
And they brought prosperity down at the armory
'We're arming for peace me boys'
Between the wars"
"I've had relations
With girls of many nations.
I've made passes
At women of all classes.
And just because you're gay
I won't turn you away --
If you stick around
I'm sure that we could find some common ground."
***
Yes, he was a great poet, T.S. Eliot HEY WAIT THOSE AREN'T ELIOT QUOTES THAT'S ALL BILLY BRAGG!!!!1!
I really don't know what to do with this one. Go read the fucking Waste Land.
***
Okay, you're right. I should do more. Fine then, here are some of my favorite quotes from this favorite of poets:
"I love you. I am the milkman of human kindness;
I will leave an extra pint."
"I saw two shooting stars last night.
I wished on them, but they were only satellites.
It's wrong to wish on space hardware --
I wish, I wish, I wish you'd care."
"I paid the union and as times got harder
I looked to the government to help the working man;
And they brought prosperity down at the armory
'We're arming for peace me boys'
Between the wars"
"I've had relations
With girls of many nations.
I've made passes
At women of all classes.
And just because you're gay
I won't turn you away --
If you stick around
I'm sure that we could find some common ground."
***
Yes, he was a great poet, T.S. Eliot HEY WAIT THOSE AREN'T ELIOT QUOTES THAT'S ALL BILLY BRAGG!!!!1!
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Dreams Before Waking
6/16:
Today I awoke and poured my coffee as usual. I sat back down on my bed -- okay I sort of laid down a bit -- and drank. I got up, got ready for work, still drinking coffee, until my stomach hurt cause I'd had too much. Then I felt something hot and wet on my stomach. I woke up and realized that I'd spilled my coffee, my first cup, all over my bed, and the whole thing had been a dream.
I wish I could say this was the first time this has happened.
***
Speaking of dreams before waking, a new theory suggests that the universe may have existed before the Big Bang, and that our observable universe may in fact be "a tiny part of a primordial structure now grown so big it exceeds the horizon of the observable universe." The science of all this is impossible for me to explain, so go here and read about it.
Then think about the implications with me. For example, what does this mean for my belief that the galaxies are, in fact, something akin to amoebas?
***
6/17:
It is the next day, I am at work and feeling crotchety.
I woke at 5 this morning, went back to sleep, and woke again every half hour on the half hour until 9, at which point I was, of course, late.
During the last stretch, I dreamed that I was upset because my life wasn't like the normal American life. And I explained to a woman who was with me, who was I think a composite of half a dozen real people, that my understanding of normal American life only comes from advertising.
She informed me that the difference between me and the Americans from advertisements is that they have children, and that's what sucks up all their money.
And I said, as we entered into a classroom to meet with my high school Spanish teacher, "So for me, my drinking problem is like my children?"
Mrs. Spory was not amused.
***
And finally, some good news:
Today I awoke and poured my coffee as usual. I sat back down on my bed -- okay I sort of laid down a bit -- and drank. I got up, got ready for work, still drinking coffee, until my stomach hurt cause I'd had too much. Then I felt something hot and wet on my stomach. I woke up and realized that I'd spilled my coffee, my first cup, all over my bed, and the whole thing had been a dream.
I wish I could say this was the first time this has happened.
***
Speaking of dreams before waking, a new theory suggests that the universe may have existed before the Big Bang, and that our observable universe may in fact be "a tiny part of a primordial structure now grown so big it exceeds the horizon of the observable universe." The science of all this is impossible for me to explain, so go here and read about it.
Then think about the implications with me. For example, what does this mean for my belief that the galaxies are, in fact, something akin to amoebas?
***
6/17:
It is the next day, I am at work and feeling crotchety.
I woke at 5 this morning, went back to sleep, and woke again every half hour on the half hour until 9, at which point I was, of course, late.
During the last stretch, I dreamed that I was upset because my life wasn't like the normal American life. And I explained to a woman who was with me, who was I think a composite of half a dozen real people, that my understanding of normal American life only comes from advertising.
She informed me that the difference between me and the Americans from advertisements is that they have children, and that's what sucks up all their money.
And I said, as we entered into a classroom to meet with my high school Spanish teacher, "So for me, my drinking problem is like my children?"
Mrs. Spory was not amused.
***
And finally, some good news:
Can you smell that, my friends? That's the sweet scent of vindication.Overall, participants who downed a few cups of coffee a day had about the same death rate as those who didn’t drink coffee, despite the fact that coffee drinkers tended to smoke more, drink more alcohol, not take vitamins and exercise less.
Friday, June 13, 2008
The Pleasures of: Episodes Four, Five and Six
Norse Mythology, including the epics Beowulf and The Saga of the Volsungs, as well as Certain Other Things.
I could say, "Because of the fatalism, how they assumed that their gods would die, that evil would triumph and the world would end in fire."
Or I could say, "Because isn't it fascinating, the way the old poems reveal a world so completely unlike our own?"
Or being a bit more honest I could say, "Because I like being able to know where the names of the days of the week come from, Tyr and Votan and Thor and Frigg -- and to hold it over others' heads."
But the real truth is I just think it's cool that they had dragons and trolls and giants and elves and dwarfs and wizards and monsters -- and not only were they not all pasty-skinned sixteen year olds sitting in a basement with a bunch of books and multi-sided dice, it was their freaking religion!
I could say, "Because of the fatalism, how they assumed that their gods would die, that evil would triumph and the world would end in fire."
Or I could say, "Because isn't it fascinating, the way the old poems reveal a world so completely unlike our own?"
Or being a bit more honest I could say, "Because I like being able to know where the names of the days of the week come from, Tyr and Votan and Thor and Frigg -- and to hold it over others' heads."
But the real truth is I just think it's cool that they had dragons and trolls and giants and elves and dwarfs and wizards and monsters -- and not only were they not all pasty-skinned sixteen year olds sitting in a basement with a bunch of books and multi-sided dice, it was their freaking religion!
Schizopedia
It occurs to me that most people in our society are schizophrenic.
And that their schizophrenia originates in their insanity about their insanity.
I am talking about work. Work. The defining feature of our culture.
People are different people at work. They do this on purpose. Their personality, their Self, at Work, which is to say, for one third of their waking life, is completely different from their Self when not at work. They pretend they are a different person. They lead -- and they do this intentionally, and even openly -- two separate lives. They are two separate people.
Schizophrenia. Schism, splitting. Split personalities.
One of the defining features of the Work personality is that it pretends that it is sane. And this is its insanity. Outside of work I may be an emotional wreck; I may be angry, I may cry and I may be drunk. At work I am someone else, someone who does not do these things, or even acknowledge that I am someone who does not do these things: The other self is denied, and then the denial is denied, so that nothing ever happened.
And the most bewildering part of it all is this: If you talk to someone about this, they will look at you like you are stupid and act like being schizophrenic is the most normal and obvious thing in the world.
***
What function does schizophrenia serve?
Allegedly, we could not work if we ourselves were there.
I don't believe that this is true. But, supposing it is, What does this say about our work?
These aren't, of course, original ideas or questions. They are questions everyone has, to the point that they are called childish. And that is very revealing: Because what we are actually saying is that they are the questions that everyone asks when they have an objective (i.e., outsider's) view of our society, and that they only cease to be asked when the cognitive dissonance becomes too much to bear.
***
Why do we need to be schizophrenic? Why can't we acknowledge that we are insane?
***
Most of what most of us do is useless.
All of what all of us do is too much.
I remember reading a document from the beginning of the twentieth century. It was an industry captain talking about how new technologies had allowed more a massive increase in efficiency and productivity. Despite this it was essential that no one got the idea that they could, therefore, work less and produce the same amount. They had to work as much and produce more.
Everything is about more.
And we make ourselves insane for it.
And I don't understand why.
***
I was thinking this as I was thinking how the lines between my "work" and "life" aren't and never have been very well placed. I only look for jobs that I like and feel good about and never make very much money. And that there are people who would criticize me for this. But that I rather prefer it that way.
What is it like for people who are businessmen? Or soldiers? Who are different from us?
I already don't understand them, and I don't know if I can.
And that their schizophrenia originates in their insanity about their insanity.
I am talking about work. Work. The defining feature of our culture.
People are different people at work. They do this on purpose. Their personality, their Self, at Work, which is to say, for one third of their waking life, is completely different from their Self when not at work. They pretend they are a different person. They lead -- and they do this intentionally, and even openly -- two separate lives. They are two separate people.
Schizophrenia. Schism, splitting. Split personalities.
One of the defining features of the Work personality is that it pretends that it is sane. And this is its insanity. Outside of work I may be an emotional wreck; I may be angry, I may cry and I may be drunk. At work I am someone else, someone who does not do these things, or even acknowledge that I am someone who does not do these things: The other self is denied, and then the denial is denied, so that nothing ever happened.
And the most bewildering part of it all is this: If you talk to someone about this, they will look at you like you are stupid and act like being schizophrenic is the most normal and obvious thing in the world.
***
What function does schizophrenia serve?
Allegedly, we could not work if we ourselves were there.
I don't believe that this is true. But, supposing it is, What does this say about our work?
These aren't, of course, original ideas or questions. They are questions everyone has, to the point that they are called childish. And that is very revealing: Because what we are actually saying is that they are the questions that everyone asks when they have an objective (i.e., outsider's) view of our society, and that they only cease to be asked when the cognitive dissonance becomes too much to bear.
***
Why do we need to be schizophrenic? Why can't we acknowledge that we are insane?
***
Most of what most of us do is useless.
All of what all of us do is too much.
I remember reading a document from the beginning of the twentieth century. It was an industry captain talking about how new technologies had allowed more a massive increase in efficiency and productivity. Despite this it was essential that no one got the idea that they could, therefore, work less and produce the same amount. They had to work as much and produce more.
Everything is about more.
And we make ourselves insane for it.
And I don't understand why.
***
I was thinking this as I was thinking how the lines between my "work" and "life" aren't and never have been very well placed. I only look for jobs that I like and feel good about and never make very much money. And that there are people who would criticize me for this. But that I rather prefer it that way.
What is it like for people who are businessmen? Or soldiers? Who are different from us?
I already don't understand them, and I don't know if I can.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
The Pleasures of: Episode 3
The Moon
Can you not?
Sometimes he is a skull, old and blind and dead, an idiot god grinning stupid and cruel down at the earth, wishing for a body.
(I wrote a poem about this years ago. It envisioned the moon growing body and raping the earth. I have long since lost it; nobody much liked it but me.)
And sometimes a woman, pale and lovely and cold and cruel. Observing but indifferent.
What strange minds live within her cold light?
And the skull Man walked upon, that pretended to be a desert?
The moon, pale and lovely and cold and cruel.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas le estan mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.
And here is my own much less worthy (in fact, somewhat embarrassing) contribution.
(If I were to rewrite it today, I would delete most of the beginning and simply write, "It is a thousand years later, and the old man steps out of the shadows." None of this business about Pittsburgh or little girls or first-person narration. The point of the story is the riddle, can you guess it?)
Pale and lovely and cruel and cold. And old, and blind, and dead.
Can you not?
Sometimes he is a skull, old and blind and dead, an idiot god grinning stupid and cruel down at the earth, wishing for a body.
(I wrote a poem about this years ago. It envisioned the moon growing body and raping the earth. I have long since lost it; nobody much liked it but me.)
And sometimes a woman, pale and lovely and cold and cruel. Observing but indifferent.
What strange minds live within her cold light?
And the skull Man walked upon, that pretended to be a desert?
The moon, pale and lovely and cold and cruel.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas le estan mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.
And here is my own much less worthy (in fact, somewhat embarrassing) contribution.
(If I were to rewrite it today, I would delete most of the beginning and simply write, "It is a thousand years later, and the old man steps out of the shadows." None of this business about Pittsburgh or little girls or first-person narration. The point of the story is the riddle, can you guess it?)
Pale and lovely and cruel and cold. And old, and blind, and dead.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
The Pleasures of: Episode 2
Sunshine
When they tell me that "light" is both a particle and a wave and when they tell me that the sun is firey burning gasses and when they tell me that plants drink sunlight to live; when they tell me too that the planet and its minerals are the pieces of the same star that died and regrew as the Sun; when they tell me things like this and I know that I also must be sunlight and therefore both a particle and a wave --
When they tell me these things I am certain we will never die.
When they tell me that "light" is both a particle and a wave and when they tell me that the sun is firey burning gasses and when they tell me that plants drink sunlight to live; when they tell me too that the planet and its minerals are the pieces of the same star that died and regrew as the Sun; when they tell me things like this and I know that I also must be sunlight and therefore both a particle and a wave --
When they tell me these things I am certain we will never die.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Pictures of ----
I have suddenly been slapped by a blast of melancholy and nostalgia, and have therefore decided to look at your pictures. Yes, you. I am stalking you through facebook, myspace, flickr, and picasa, and you probably knew that already.
I have been looking mostly, of course, at pictures that I also am in. One year ago in time, one year ago and arriving upon now: Oh, this is my quest, and so let's begin in those heady days of that year of our Lord two thousand and seven, & let us begin at July, at our July third party, this party was the favorite of my life. Here is the exemplar of the evening.
I have here seized hold of Curt, while Jane goes skulking in the background. Note the crazed look in my eye. Note Curt's clear inebriation.
July 3rd, 2007. A Tuesday night, if I recall. I would have taught class that day, taught Faye and Eugene how to do math -- Or rather, I would have sat with them, given them worksheets (which they actually enjoyed for the sake of familiarity, not that I ever so much as succeeded in teaching them to consistently add 1+1), taken them out for a cigarette; Faye or I would have brought goldfish crackers and Arizona green tea. This all only just started feeling like long ago.
The party began, I think, at seven. So early! we played boccie ball in the yard, and more and more people showed up. I remember that I kept asking what time it was, and it kept being So Early! that it was awesome. Then suddenly it was 4am and we went to bed.
Flash forward. It is October, and look!
My hair is too long, but I have continued my program of seizing! Here I have grabbed hold of my old roommate Mark. It is, it must be October 5th, 2007 -- I tell you it must because it was a First Friday. We have arrived at the house on Penn Avenue. I have disappeared inside to drink a considerable amount of alcohol. This is the first First Friday I do not live there anymore; I have moved down the street in with Rachel and Pope and Pope's horrific mangy dog. My job has ended and I am embarking upon a month of unemployment. Or, as some would have it, Funemployment.
After a while it was Thanksgiving. Man Thanksgiving is a good holiday, and Megan had everybody over at her house for turkey and other traditional foodstuffs. Here is a shot of the table I rather like:
Descending down the table are Weird Guy, Robert Smith, Boyfriend, Me, and Megan. Robert Smith's name is Penelope, and when I told her she looks like Robert Smith she was totally charmed/angry. Note that I have cut my hair a bit.
Let's linger here a bit. This is my favorite picture from that night:
An empty dish of pie and a pack of camel lights linger between two bottles of Dead Guy. This picture was taken by accident -- I think it was the Spirit of Thanksgiving foretelling life in Oregon. Later on the couch,
my face seems to have exploded. That's Robyn, Megan, me and Leigh. I miss them because they are nice. Megan is in India now; I'd post a picture she sent me of her at the Taj Mahal but that's really for her to do. At this moment in history I am working at Del's restaurant. I am a waiter and rather good at it. Jay and Jim have moved into their house in Lawrenceville and I rather enjoy being able to stroll over there mid-day and drink Jay's double-caffeinated coffee. I seem to remember them somewhere around this time having their own party at which a turkey was present. I don't remember anything else of that evening. I bet Jonas was there. I bet Boette was too. Maybe it was the night on which this occurred:
This is me fighting Boette and Sarah. I love the look on my face. I am pretty sure Sarah won.
But where are we now, oh now, o Son of the Eastern Sea?
When I arrived in this far cloudy country I looked a lot like this:
There I sit in Portland, photo taken by my brother, drinking (feel free to be shocked) a beer. Nor am I anything like happy. That was February or March, one of those months of nightmarish unending depression.
But look, a new era has dawned. Here is my favorite illustration of its nature:
...I can't remember if we are saying "Look, we cut our hair!" or, "Yep, I'm gay!" It was one of the two though.
Look, Stephen, how far we have come and, you know, What we Look Like now.
What a long,
What a long,
What a year it has been. So many convulsions, confusions -- so many friends and haircuts! But here we sit and eat an apple, we have just called our new Associates to tell them "I give you the job," and I think, and I think everything just might be all right.
I have been looking mostly, of course, at pictures that I also am in. One year ago in time, one year ago and arriving upon now: Oh, this is my quest, and so let's begin in those heady days of that year of our Lord two thousand and seven, & let us begin at July, at our July third party, this party was the favorite of my life. Here is the exemplar of the evening.
I have here seized hold of Curt, while Jane goes skulking in the background. Note the crazed look in my eye. Note Curt's clear inebriation.
July 3rd, 2007. A Tuesday night, if I recall. I would have taught class that day, taught Faye and Eugene how to do math -- Or rather, I would have sat with them, given them worksheets (which they actually enjoyed for the sake of familiarity, not that I ever so much as succeeded in teaching them to consistently add 1+1), taken them out for a cigarette; Faye or I would have brought goldfish crackers and Arizona green tea. This all only just started feeling like long ago.
The party began, I think, at seven. So early! we played boccie ball in the yard, and more and more people showed up. I remember that I kept asking what time it was, and it kept being So Early! that it was awesome. Then suddenly it was 4am and we went to bed.
Flash forward. It is October, and look!
My hair is too long, but I have continued my program of seizing! Here I have grabbed hold of my old roommate Mark. It is, it must be October 5th, 2007 -- I tell you it must because it was a First Friday. We have arrived at the house on Penn Avenue. I have disappeared inside to drink a considerable amount of alcohol. This is the first First Friday I do not live there anymore; I have moved down the street in with Rachel and Pope and Pope's horrific mangy dog. My job has ended and I am embarking upon a month of unemployment. Or, as some would have it, Funemployment.
After a while it was Thanksgiving. Man Thanksgiving is a good holiday, and Megan had everybody over at her house for turkey and other traditional foodstuffs. Here is a shot of the table I rather like:
Descending down the table are Weird Guy, Robert Smith, Boyfriend, Me, and Megan. Robert Smith's name is Penelope, and when I told her she looks like Robert Smith she was totally charmed/angry. Note that I have cut my hair a bit.
Let's linger here a bit. This is my favorite picture from that night:
An empty dish of pie and a pack of camel lights linger between two bottles of Dead Guy. This picture was taken by accident -- I think it was the Spirit of Thanksgiving foretelling life in Oregon. Later on the couch,
my face seems to have exploded. That's Robyn, Megan, me and Leigh. I miss them because they are nice. Megan is in India now; I'd post a picture she sent me of her at the Taj Mahal but that's really for her to do. At this moment in history I am working at Del's restaurant. I am a waiter and rather good at it. Jay and Jim have moved into their house in Lawrenceville and I rather enjoy being able to stroll over there mid-day and drink Jay's double-caffeinated coffee. I seem to remember them somewhere around this time having their own party at which a turkey was present. I don't remember anything else of that evening. I bet Jonas was there. I bet Boette was too. Maybe it was the night on which this occurred:
This is me fighting Boette and Sarah. I love the look on my face. I am pretty sure Sarah won.
But where are we now, oh now, o Son of the Eastern Sea?
When I arrived in this far cloudy country I looked a lot like this:
There I sit in Portland, photo taken by my brother, drinking (feel free to be shocked) a beer. Nor am I anything like happy. That was February or March, one of those months of nightmarish unending depression.
But look, a new era has dawned. Here is my favorite illustration of its nature:
...I can't remember if we are saying "Look, we cut our hair!" or, "Yep, I'm gay!" It was one of the two though.
Look, Stephen, how far we have come and, you know, What we Look Like now.
What a long,
What a long,
What a year it has been. So many convulsions, confusions -- so many friends and haircuts! But here we sit and eat an apple, we have just called our new Associates to tell them "I give you the job," and I think, and I think everything just might be all right.
The Pleasures Of: Episode 1
Cats!
Because in my earliest memory I am sitting with my arms around two cats -- standing, indulgent -- each almost as large as I am, while my father takes a picture.
And later in childhood I assumed that the cats had raised me. I lived in the back yard and shunned human companionship. There were three cats; we called them Stripey, Furry, and Sylvester. I do not know what they called themselves. There was a neighbor named Rudy; he and Sylvester were great friends and you would see them palling around together in gardens and under hedges.
I assumed they were a kingdom, and I knew that Stripe (to use the less diminutive form) was king, and that his empire extended across many nearby lawns and gardens which he oversaw from his perch or throne on the railings of the deck. I remember long hours spent talking only to the cats about the political issues of the day, I being (of course) Lord Stripe's human vizier.
There was the day when the Orange Cat invaded from beyond the fairgrounds, and prompted the terrible War that consumed our lands for an entire summer, from the ambush near the creek until the final victory at the Battle of the Drainpipe -- a campaign in which, I take some pride in saying, I played a critical role. After that peace came again, and time drifted onward so lazy, such a rich magenta hue, until Sylvester drank anti-freeze and died a yowling awful death.
How much later? In our apartment on Centre Avenue in Pittsburgh we had a little white cat. She was beautiful and cunning and vicious, in that way not greatly different from females of our own species I have loved. She would not let you pet her; she hid from you if you got near but when you turned away she would dart out and bite your ankles; one time she attacked a baby but at night she would curl up and sleep with me. I dreamed of her the other night in a dream in which I saw all my cats -- but she and Sylvester had melded into one. I wonder if, 50 years from now, I will still remember that they were separate beings.
In my neighborhood now there are many cats. They skulk about or loll on the sidewalks, and many come to greet me when I go walking down the street. I may start setting out food for them soon. Or I may not. We shall see.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Stuff I Like
My roommate is fond of speaking in lists. I have no idea why. But it occurred to me lately that this act of listing might have some sort of therapeutic value. I have therefore decided to make a list of stuff I like. I mean specific stuff, not actions, things, the thought of which evokes feelings of joy or wonder. Start at one point draw on to the next.
So.
I like
Cats.
Sunshine.
The moon.
Norse mythology.
The Saga of the Volsungs.
Beowulf.
T.S. Eliot.
Dandelions.
Frogs.
Ants.
Spiders.
The story of Orpheus and Eurydice.
The Book of the New Sun, by Gene Wolfe.
The story "The White Ship" by H.P. Lovecraft.
Everything by John Keats.
And Gary Snyder.
Christmas.
Daydreams.
Christmas Daydreams.
Parties.
Rats, but only as an image, not a fact.
Forsythia bushes.
Willow trees.
Crows.
Babylon 5.
The Dying Earth by Jack Vance.
Ethnographies.
Borges.
Gardens.
***
Okay, that's a freaking list. 29 things. Here is an IDEA!!!!! 29 blog posts, each about one of those things. These posts will be a special series, which we shall call, The Pleasures Of. 29 posts, perhaps one a day, several a day, none a day when I'm lazy and, since I must now make haste to away for a meeting, Starting Tomorrow, and, some introspective What Does All This Mean kinda stuff to go along with.
I think it is a fine plan.
So.
I like
Cats.
Sunshine.
The moon.
Norse mythology.
The Saga of the Volsungs.
Beowulf.
T.S. Eliot.
Dandelions.
Frogs.
Ants.
Spiders.
The story of Orpheus and Eurydice.
The Book of the New Sun, by Gene Wolfe.
The story "The White Ship" by H.P. Lovecraft.
Everything by John Keats.
And Gary Snyder.
Christmas.
Daydreams.
Christmas Daydreams.
Parties.
Rats, but only as an image, not a fact.
Forsythia bushes.
Willow trees.
Crows.
Babylon 5.
The Dying Earth by Jack Vance.
Ethnographies.
Borges.
Gardens.
***
Okay, that's a freaking list. 29 things. Here is an IDEA!!!!! 29 blog posts, each about one of those things. These posts will be a special series, which we shall call, The Pleasures Of. 29 posts, perhaps one a day, several a day, none a day when I'm lazy and, since I must now make haste to away for a meeting, Starting Tomorrow, and, some introspective What Does All This Mean kinda stuff to go along with.
I think it is a fine plan.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Thinking about Moths
I've always been fascinated by the insect world, because we can watch it with something close to a God's-eye view. And watching, we see things that they themselves cannot. What would a similar observer see, watching us?
There is a species of spider that uses sex pheromones to trick male moths. Let's think about moths. Their sense of smell is so powerful that it might be fair to say that their world is composed of scents in the same way that ours is composed of sights. Believing they smell, or as we would have it, see a lady moth, the male flies toward her hoping for a night of happy moth sex when all of a sudden he is caught in the swinging web of a bolas spider, killed and eaten.
Does God see the same thing happening in our world?
There is a species of spider that uses sex pheromones to trick male moths. Let's think about moths. Their sense of smell is so powerful that it might be fair to say that their world is composed of scents in the same way that ours is composed of sights. Believing they smell, or as we would have it, see a lady moth, the male flies toward her hoping for a night of happy moth sex when all of a sudden he is caught in the swinging web of a bolas spider, killed and eaten.
Does God see the same thing happening in our world?
I Hope You're Feeling Better
Good morning, Oregon.
Waking today, and the iTunes left at C last night, cycle through Cu Da De wake up to the Decemberists start playing, and I am o'ercome by nostalgia.
Sad, and sad, and here we remain...
But sitting here I was thinking this thing. Wouldn't it be funny to now on refer what we have traditionally termed as Back East as the Old World, and this as the New? Then next time we're in Portland we can Discover Portland!
And this would be an awesome excuse for shoplifting from places on Hawethorne Street.
Congratulations, Stephen, this is one of your finer thoughts.
***
Speaking of finer thoughts, you know what was not a fine thought?
Okay so Roommate's friend Bro told me a joke the other day about Scottish people that involves making fun of a man name of McGreggor. I tell this joke in Bar last night and, L, G, you already know this but everyone else, what does our other companion turn out to be last named but, yeah, McGreggor -- Fuck!
I am going to tell Bro next time I see this and he is going to laugh and laugh and laugh.
***
Well my darlings, it is 7:00 and I have not made enough coffee for myself. I shall now however arise from my bed and to the kitchen, for to make a fine and semi-healthsome egg-potato breakfast. Good morning, and good luck.
Waking today, and the iTunes left at C last night, cycle through Cu Da De wake up to the Decemberists start playing, and I am o'ercome by nostalgia.
Sad, and sad, and here we remain...
But sitting here I was thinking this thing. Wouldn't it be funny to now on refer what we have traditionally termed as Back East as the Old World, and this as the New? Then next time we're in Portland we can Discover Portland!
And this would be an awesome excuse for shoplifting from places on Hawethorne Street.
Congratulations, Stephen, this is one of your finer thoughts.
***
Speaking of finer thoughts, you know what was not a fine thought?
Okay so Roommate's friend Bro told me a joke the other day about Scottish people that involves making fun of a man name of McGreggor. I tell this joke in Bar last night and, L, G, you already know this but everyone else, what does our other companion turn out to be last named but, yeah, McGreggor -- Fuck!
I am going to tell Bro next time I see this and he is going to laugh and laugh and laugh.
***
Well my darlings, it is 7:00 and I have not made enough coffee for myself. I shall now however arise from my bed and to the kitchen, for to make a fine and semi-healthsome egg-potato breakfast. Good morning, and good luck.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Let's Talk About Collapse
Dmitry Orlov's book is finally out.
Do you remember how, years ago, he wrote a series of articles on Life After the Oil Crash describing the experience of the collapse of the Soviet Union and drawing lessons for today's America? (Of course you do.) And the book, which is entitled Reinventing Collapse: The Soviet Example and American Prospects expands on this topic.
Among other fun facts, the book points out that the Soviets were actually better-prepared for collapse than we are here: Because whatever else was true, they still had public transportation and government food supplies. Here in the US we have a government that refuses to take care of its people -- Up by your bootstraps, boys!; no public transportation to speak of; and a widespread ideology operant among all classes that insists that this situation is not simply acceptable but the very definition of freedom!
***
A comic example: I recall when I moved here expressing shock that there is no Amtrak in this town, despite there being, you know, train tracks. The person I was talking to said, "Here everyone likes being independent and having their own cars."
And that's America. Independence is defined as dependence on oil companies. And auto-manufacturers. And insurance companies. We are fucked.
***
But back to Orlov. He's posted an excerpt or two on his blog. One of my favorite bits:
That last sentence is one of my favorite things anyone's written about anything in a while.
***
But let's get back to the subject of Collapse for a minute. We wrote all about it years and years ago. We're at a point now where anymore writing about the If seems futile. One of two things is happening right now in the world:
1. All the predictions are coming true, as indicated by the rising cost of oil-fuel-food, and soon the American way of auto-centric Middle Class life will become impossible to maintain. The financial burden on the so-called Middle Class -- let's define them as people with mortgages and cars -- will soon reveal them for what they are -- deluded serfs, slaves to auto companies, oil companies, banks, big-box shops. At this point predictions become impossible.
2. This is a temporary setback or readjustment, and things will be back to normal, oil back down below $100, or $80 or $50 per barrel and gas back to two bucks a gallon.
***
If number 2 is correct, I will have no idea what to do with myself, since I spent most of the previous 6 or 7 years preparing and expecting and even depending on option 1.
On the other hand, if 1 is correct, I'm kind of worried, because I spent the last year or two assuming it was true but that there was nothing to do but go down in a blaze of hedonism.
It's time to reconnect with my own mind.
***
I am a little paranoid about saying where I live today, but you all know, I think. It is a place with 10% unemployment, with a population of homeless youth equivalent to 1% of the total population, and with new immigrants largely consisting (as I understand it) of wealthy retirees who (therefore) do nothing to contribute to a sustainable economy. There is, once again, no train; public transportation consists of 1 bus that endlessly circles the town and may or may not see its funding cut off at any point. There is a well-developed "libertarian" movement whose central thesis, as far as I can tell, is "Let's not do anything to make anything better for anybody. Except let's cut down the trees. P.s. Global warming is a myth." There is no grocery store in town. Let me repeat that: There is no place in town to which I can walk and buy a piece of fruit or a vegetable. There is no doctor in town. All these necessities are located Out There, on the highway. Where you have to drive to them.
And the price of gas is rising.
***
What will this place, a place like this, a place that is already in a state of economic collapse, do when oil hits $200/barrel? When gas is $5 a gallon? How will these gargantuan pickups survive? The increased price of oil will already increase the price of food -- what happens when one has to choose between putting gas in the tank or buying food?
If I owned a car, I would have to make that choice. I could not afford to keep a car fueled and feed myself.
That's not to start on the price of medicine.
***
Maybe option 2 is correct. Six years from now, halfway into President Obama's second term, everything will feel like 1998. I will feel like an idiot for having said all this, and thankful I at least managed to learn a useful skill.
It's possible.
Do you remember how, years ago, he wrote a series of articles on Life After the Oil Crash describing the experience of the collapse of the Soviet Union and drawing lessons for today's America? (Of course you do.) And the book, which is entitled Reinventing Collapse: The Soviet Example and American Prospects expands on this topic.
Among other fun facts, the book points out that the Soviets were actually better-prepared for collapse than we are here: Because whatever else was true, they still had public transportation and government food supplies. Here in the US we have a government that refuses to take care of its people -- Up by your bootstraps, boys!; no public transportation to speak of; and a widespread ideology operant among all classes that insists that this situation is not simply acceptable but the very definition of freedom!
***
A comic example: I recall when I moved here expressing shock that there is no Amtrak in this town, despite there being, you know, train tracks. The person I was talking to said, "Here everyone likes being independent and having their own cars."
And that's America. Independence is defined as dependence on oil companies. And auto-manufacturers. And insurance companies. We are fucked.
***
But back to Orlov. He's posted an excerpt or two on his blog. One of my favorite bits:
In the United States, most people get their food from a supermarket, which is supplied from far away using refrigerated diesel trucks, making them entirely dependent on the widespread availability of transportation fuels and the continued maintenance of the interstate highway system. In an energy-scarce world, neither of these is a given. Most supermarket chains have just a few days’ worth of food in their inventory, relying on advanced logistical planning and just-in-time delivery to meet demand. Thus, in many places, food supply problems are almost guaranteed to develop. When they do, no local authority is in a position to exercise control over the situation and the problem is handed over to federal emergency management authorities. Based on their performance after Hurricane Katrina, these authorities are not only manifestly incompetent, but also appear to be ruled by the ethos that it is better for the government to deny services than provide them, to avoid creating a population that is dependent on government help.
Many people in the United States don’t even bother to shop and just eat fast food. The drive to maximize profit while minimizing costs has resulted in a product that manipulates the senses into accepting as edible something that is mainly a waste product. Under strict process control procedures, agro-industrial wastes, sugar, fat and salt are combined into an appealing presentation, packaged, and reinforced by vigorous advertising. Once accepted, it beguiles the senses by its reliable consistency, creating a lifelong addiction to bad food. The chemical industry obliges with an array of deodorants to mask the sickly body odor such a diet produces. Immersed for a lifetime in a field of artificial sensory perceptions, dominated by chemical, man-made tastes and smells, people recoil in shock when confronted with something natural, be it a simple piece of boiled chicken liver or the smell of a healthy human body. Perversely, they do not mind car exhaust and actually like the carcinogenic “new car smell” of vinyl upholstery.
That last sentence is one of my favorite things anyone's written about anything in a while.
***
But let's get back to the subject of Collapse for a minute. We wrote all about it years and years ago. We're at a point now where anymore writing about the If seems futile. One of two things is happening right now in the world:
1. All the predictions are coming true, as indicated by the rising cost of oil-fuel-food, and soon the American way of auto-centric Middle Class life will become impossible to maintain. The financial burden on the so-called Middle Class -- let's define them as people with mortgages and cars -- will soon reveal them for what they are -- deluded serfs, slaves to auto companies, oil companies, banks, big-box shops. At this point predictions become impossible.
2. This is a temporary setback or readjustment, and things will be back to normal, oil back down below $100, or $80 or $50 per barrel and gas back to two bucks a gallon.
***
If number 2 is correct, I will have no idea what to do with myself, since I spent most of the previous 6 or 7 years preparing and expecting and even depending on option 1.
On the other hand, if 1 is correct, I'm kind of worried, because I spent the last year or two assuming it was true but that there was nothing to do but go down in a blaze of hedonism.
It's time to reconnect with my own mind.
***
I am a little paranoid about saying where I live today, but you all know, I think. It is a place with 10% unemployment, with a population of homeless youth equivalent to 1% of the total population, and with new immigrants largely consisting (as I understand it) of wealthy retirees who (therefore) do nothing to contribute to a sustainable economy. There is, once again, no train; public transportation consists of 1 bus that endlessly circles the town and may or may not see its funding cut off at any point. There is a well-developed "libertarian" movement whose central thesis, as far as I can tell, is "Let's not do anything to make anything better for anybody. Except let's cut down the trees. P.s. Global warming is a myth." There is no grocery store in town. Let me repeat that: There is no place in town to which I can walk and buy a piece of fruit or a vegetable. There is no doctor in town. All these necessities are located Out There, on the highway. Where you have to drive to them.
And the price of gas is rising.
***
What will this place, a place like this, a place that is already in a state of economic collapse, do when oil hits $200/barrel? When gas is $5 a gallon? How will these gargantuan pickups survive? The increased price of oil will already increase the price of food -- what happens when one has to choose between putting gas in the tank or buying food?
If I owned a car, I would have to make that choice. I could not afford to keep a car fueled and feed myself.
That's not to start on the price of medicine.
***
Maybe option 2 is correct. Six years from now, halfway into President Obama's second term, everything will feel like 1998. I will feel like an idiot for having said all this, and thankful I at least managed to learn a useful skill.
It's possible.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Mooncrawlers
I do not blog much of late.
I do not like this.
Why are you blogging so little, Stephen?
Maybe my mind has run out of thoughts.
No thoughts and no ideas. Yeah, that sounds very close to true.
I am so fucking bored.
(You know what they say about bored people? No, what? They're boring.)
From somewhere an ant colony has learned the way to my bedroom. More particularly, to the box beside my bed I use as a night stand. Often I eat before going to bed and then leave my plate there. The ants have learned this, have learned that there is a solid chance that if they send an expedition to the Box at night they will discover some kind of food. I try to make sure they do not make it home.
What do normal people do with their time? I guess they have TV. I watch TV, thanks to the magic of the internet. The internet. I spend so much fucking wasted time here.
I have all but stopped reading books. I have not been able to sit down and read fiction for months and months and months. Nonfiction is a different story but. Not reading fiction, I forget how to write it; you can't just not read. What the hell is wrong with me.
A glance to the right reveals a shelf full of books and most of them untouched. I began this year recording all the stuff I read over at Goodreads.com; I seem to have stopped because there is nothing more to record.
This gloom is so unending. How is this the first day of June? It is chilly and overcast, as it has been almost always. Sometimes the sun comes, but always only for a day, two, three. Do you remember what seasons were like? ...Me either.
Wake up, go to work, come home, decide: Four hours of Bar or four hours of Battlestar Galactica? Either way feels sort of pointless.
I have no idea what to do with my time.
I don't know what I even enjoy.
Seriously.
What, that does not relate to science fiction or getting drunk, do I even do?
Sit there thinking conceptualizing. "Here are thoughts of stories to write," then never write them. "Here are awesome ways to reorganize society" which is never going to happen.
I just have no idea.
I think I'm getting fat.
I dreamed about cats last night. All of my cats I ever had made an appearance, but that the little white cat and the little black cat were rolled into one. I miss cats.
HLVS.
I do not like this.
Why are you blogging so little, Stephen?
Maybe my mind has run out of thoughts.
No thoughts and no ideas. Yeah, that sounds very close to true.
I am so fucking bored.
(You know what they say about bored people? No, what? They're boring.)
From somewhere an ant colony has learned the way to my bedroom. More particularly, to the box beside my bed I use as a night stand. Often I eat before going to bed and then leave my plate there. The ants have learned this, have learned that there is a solid chance that if they send an expedition to the Box at night they will discover some kind of food. I try to make sure they do not make it home.
What do normal people do with their time? I guess they have TV. I watch TV, thanks to the magic of the internet. The internet. I spend so much fucking wasted time here.
I have all but stopped reading books. I have not been able to sit down and read fiction for months and months and months. Nonfiction is a different story but. Not reading fiction, I forget how to write it; you can't just not read. What the hell is wrong with me.
A glance to the right reveals a shelf full of books and most of them untouched. I began this year recording all the stuff I read over at Goodreads.com; I seem to have stopped because there is nothing more to record.
This gloom is so unending. How is this the first day of June? It is chilly and overcast, as it has been almost always. Sometimes the sun comes, but always only for a day, two, three. Do you remember what seasons were like? ...Me either.
Wake up, go to work, come home, decide: Four hours of Bar or four hours of Battlestar Galactica? Either way feels sort of pointless.
I have no idea what to do with my time.
I don't know what I even enjoy.
Seriously.
What, that does not relate to science fiction or getting drunk, do I even do?
Sit there thinking conceptualizing. "Here are thoughts of stories to write," then never write them. "Here are awesome ways to reorganize society" which is never going to happen.
I just have no idea.
I think I'm getting fat.
I dreamed about cats last night. All of my cats I ever had made an appearance, but that the little white cat and the little black cat were rolled into one. I miss cats.
HLVS.
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