Water Over the Bridge

Friday evening, in the rain, walking across an urban bridge, I heard a siren. Sirens often remind me of a tune by Patriot called "Songs for the Youth," because of the way the guitar sounds. "Oi is for the working class and that will never change...." Spontaneously, I started singing it aloud in a high-pitched voice, and I laughed at myself. Then I sang it in the voice of Bob Dylan, and laughed more. These moments of sheer nuttiness, that may last only seconds, where one feels as if he or she is the only one on earth....

Met up with Kevin and friends, and off to Plum Island for the weekend, where Taryn's family owns a beach house. Friday night was eating and drinking and listening to Jonathan Richman. Later, we went to the beach, tested the water, and started walking. Toward dark coastal cottages, back-lit by some mysteriously dull yellow light down the beach, and I felt as if I was in a Warner Bros. Cartoon. I've had this feeling before, and I think most of the time it specifically relates to Daffy Duck's Quackbusters, perhaps even more specifically to its depiction of Transylvania. Funny, because two days later, after breakfast, Rev and Jimbo started reminiscing about Count Duckula, which strikes me as a British counterpart to Quackbusters, both of which reach that spooky supernatural tip in animated form. Anyway, it's a good feeling to be in a Warner Bros. Cartoon. Quite comfortable. But then we ran into a skunk, our eyes bulged like Porky Pig's, and we scampered away, leaving a trail of sand in the air. Marching band music all sped up. That's all folks (for tonight).

Saturday spent at the beach, more food, more drink. When part of the group went to the commuter rail station for a pick-up, those of us left in the house started a game of Sorry! that was meant to merely appear intense and cutthroat to the pick-up contingent when they returned. But the charade became real, and shit got intense. I'm not sorry.... it was the beginning of a great, long night.

Some times I find myself in situations where I have nothing to say or contribute for a prolonged period of time. It might be the time of day (not a morning person), the company, the conversation itself, or any combination of factors. One of these situations occurred on Sunday, I think mostly just because of over-tiredness. At other times, I might force something out of my mouth, or try to latch onto a joke, but on Sunday, it felt right to just let it ride, and let the contributions flow in due time. It took awhile, but it did happen. No pressure, and I think that's the way it should be. It's much simpler to look at conversation not as an art, but as a necessity with luxuries. Like eating spaghetti and homemade meatballs at the grandparents' house on a summer evening.

Spent more time at the beach, played a guessing-outlandish-statements game called Things, drank some gin and water, packed and cleaned, and left, feeling serene. The feeling continued on the ride home, relaxed and mighty fine. Settled in at my temporary home, ate, and watched a great movie called The Puffy Chair. Dramatic, funny in parts, gripping in others, and overall quite exciting. I started to think about the following as a possible dialectics of cinema:

Realism reflects the experience of our lives. Fantasy depicts the possibilities developed in our dreams. The synthesis of realism and fantasy invokes the possibilities of our lives more fulfilled.

This, after watching a movie. Then, at 2 in the morning, I decided to have a third beer, finish off the potato chips, and watch another episode of 30 Rock. A line from a Highway Bar Music song popped into my head: "...Turned into a hedonist, and Momma don't approve." Immediately I caught myself. Is this really hedonism? No, not at all; only a confused attempt that masks the truly qualitative. But it's okay, because I caught myself. I'll go to bed, dream about zip-lines made of Twizzlers, and tomorrow is another day. Full of possibilities. One cup of coffee puts them all within reach.

I start fires

I got in the habit of only posting on here when I thought I had something to say, or something to contribute to the spate of lived experience one reads from the little screen. A bit of a bad habit, I suppose.

I left Austin at the beginning of July, and right around the time I started to think about the trip, I heard that the Cathedral of Junk was closing. (This beautiful 33 foot structure built out of recycled junk - which I've written about a couple times before - is climbable, unique, and lots of fun to explore.) The announcement came after several months' worth of troubles with the city government and zoning code violations, and I remember reading an article that used it as a fitting metaphor for the city as a whole - the conversion from epicenter of weirdness and freedom to sterile urbana sprawling into suburbia. Fitting too, I thought, that I would be leaving at this time, as the Cathedral closed.

But right as I was getting ready to leave, owner Vince Hannemann decided to keep it going. Truly, I realized, this was more fitting: something great about Austin that I will miss, until the next time I'm there (I have no idea when that will be). I will miss a lot about Austin... friends, Tex Mex, Weird Wednesdays and the Alamo Drafthouse, East Side arts and bars, running along the "Town Lake" before dusk under swirling skies of pink and orange, etc., etc.

In Boston now. I told almost nobody when I was coming, and I thought about pulling some surprises when I showed up, but wasn't wily enough. First several days back, I started to reconnect with people, and it felt good. Watched the fireworks, and then went swimming and hiking at Breakheart the next day with Susanna and friends. Took the T straight out to Kevin's - two days without a shower, even after wandering that little mountain in flip-flops, seemed to be fine and appropriate - for a fun get-together in East Cambridge. Next day, from my base in Jamaica Plain, off to Mission Hill to watch the World Cup. Only coffee until 2:30, and then pizza and beer. And then to Dorchester for grilling with Buddy and Tanya. And on and on.... Boston is a city full of neighborhoods and character. Explorations, meetings, moments....

I started to develop a - for lack of a better word - existential attitude in June, in the last few weeks in Austin. It developed out of a general lack of planning, from a practical standpoint (like packing and getting ready to leave my apartment), a professional standpoint, and an aspirational standpoint. Very few goals, very few definite ideas of what to do next (beyond making some films, doing some writing, and trying to find some money). It amounted to a cosmic stream of mental health. When what lays before one seems to be all that exists, that existence seems superb. And I know that in the society in which I live, the purest form of this mental clarity is unsustainable. But there are still a few embers in the fire. And as soon as I can make it to the store, I will douse them in lighter fluid.