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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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:

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.

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.