The same high ceilings and concrete floors. Same dead-eyed vacant stares on the workers' faces, as vacant as the lodgings in recession-era Disneyland. Same idea too, but instead of assembling and producing, they type and scan. Paper and folders everywhere. Here, instead of keeping you on your feet, they keep you in your chair. The manager gives instructions to the supervisors to keep feeding the workers paper and folders: "Your goal is to keep them from leaving their chairs."
The length of breaks, the lack of vending machines, the bathrooms located in the parking lot... ostensibly designed for "security," but the program functions also to provide just enough nourishment and relief - and receive in return a maximum of complacency. Faux friendliness and sanitized humor mask a much deeper inequality. As well, there's no obvious hierarchy of leadership: the managers and supervisors wear the same uniforms, and who knows what power is commanded by the polo shirted-ones, spying quietly from the perimeter?
Because the stakes are lower - the workers don't absolutely depend on this job for their survival, and the manager knows it - the game is more psychological. The manager appeals to the worker's pride, ingrained sense of duty, and desire to be obedient. Sure, it's sad to see the educated young worker move papers and type faster to please his boss; but it becomes disgusting when one considers he's really typing faster to please himself, to feed his own ego.
Two nights in a row I see an ad on TV for Heavy Metal Ballads that almost brings tears to my eyes. Not the music itself, but the nostalgia. Reminds me of county fairs, the acid-washed jeans and leather jackets that my role models wore, and shoot-till-you-win games at amusement parks. The combination of a bittersweet nostalgia for childhood with an awareness of the futility of the eight-hour-days of adulthood makes it difficult to create new memories, to live in the present.
And on the third day, with the rain pouring down, I miss another bus, and almost another meal. Water on the outside of the rain-jacket, sweat on the inside. But then the sun breaks through, shining with a heavenly radiance on Panda Express. And another bus comes. On it, I read about Fourier's utopian future vision of the domestication of the zebra and beaver, and the seas turning to lemonade, and begin to feel an optimistic contentment that will develop throughout the day. Vaneigem says, "The desire for an other life is that life already." The desire and the struggle trump all. If I miss another bus, the factory will not close down. If I run out of time for lunch, Panda Express will not close down. And if it does, I'll find food somewhere. The point is to use the desire and the struggle to turn the seas to lemonade. Everything else will be just fine and dandy.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Earthen Revelation
Earthen, like the soil, the land we inhabit. But perhaps revelation is too strong of a word; what would be a degree less? Comprehension? Moment of awareness? I don't know... I found myself in a creek between South 7th and the railroad tracks, listening to some damn fine folk music, augmented by running water and bullfrogs. How did I get here?
Tania and I took the short scooter ride to Sunrise Market - my new favorite place to buy beer - for a sixer of Victory Prima Pils and an Almond Joy. At S 7th, we climbed over a guard rail and made our way south on the creek. We were followed by cops: "Come back here!" They wanted to know where we were going, and I explained it to them in the most pacifying way I could: we're going to see some friends play some accoustic music. "Oh, is that why all these candles are lit on the creek?" Yeah, to light the way. I don't know what to say... when my friend Phil gets a jaywalking ticket because he looks homeless, and has to pay a $100 "court fee" (as opposed to a $500 fine), what the hell am I supposed to say? We get to where the music is playing, and it takes a while to settle in, because every second we expect the cops to show up and ruin the festive atmosphere.
When they don't, we begin to have a genuinely wonderful time. Music in a creek, with an assembled group of enjoyers, surrounded by lit candles under moonlit sky... but of course! We can hardly believe the cops stay back, and Tania says, "They were actually really cool about it." I realize what this implies: they were cool, for cops. But compared to real people, they were assholes. They yelled at us to turn around and then intimidated us with the idea that we shouldn't be out here. Why shouldn't we be out here? This is public property - let we the public make use of it! I think of this assessment, spoken in 1842, found in "The Coming Insurrection:"
“The life of the police agent is painful; his position in society is as humiliating and despised as crime itself… Shame and infamy encircle him from all sides, society expels him, isolates him as a pariah, society spits out its disdain for the police agent along with his pay, without remorse, without regrets, without pity… The police badge that he carries in his pocket documents his shame.”
1842 becomes 2009. They now have power, a power consolidated by the State and Capital - Phil got a ticket because the area businesses complained of property vandalism and the like. When power consolidates, and resistance hesitates, there is no check and there is no balance.
And yet, we made it to the music. I'm tempted to out and out say, "Fuck the police," but in a way they play the same game we all play. They make a big deal out of this event because someone complains, we tuck tails between legs and sheepishly nod our heads, and everyone moves on. We pass go, collect $200, and spend it on electricity bills. And still... I'm sitting down in a creek and listening to some damn fine folk music. The Prima Pils has a distinctly American taste, but when I burp, I feel I might as well be drinking pilsener in Eastern Europe. I might as well be sitting in a creek in Karlovy Vary and listening to Uz Jsme Doma unplugged. Here as there, creek water runs and bullfrogs croak. The last song ends and then the rain comes down. Dobrou noc and good luck.
And it's merely a convention. The difference between languages, between cultures, is impotent compared to the delivery itself. Not just a language, but how a culture carries itself. So it's no surprise that my night ends, not simply with gumdrops and jellyfish, but with Gummi Lifesavers at 7-11 on South Congress Avenue in Austin, TX. This is where I'm at, where I belong at this moment. And in the parking lot of the all-night diner, three cop cars, perhaps asking for the bravado of a rock thrown deftly through the window.... Everyone belongs somewhere, right now, whether it's crossing an empty street or listening to music in a creek, and why must you tell me where I don't belong?
Tania and I took the short scooter ride to Sunrise Market - my new favorite place to buy beer - for a sixer of Victory Prima Pils and an Almond Joy. At S 7th, we climbed over a guard rail and made our way south on the creek. We were followed by cops: "Come back here!" They wanted to know where we were going, and I explained it to them in the most pacifying way I could: we're going to see some friends play some accoustic music. "Oh, is that why all these candles are lit on the creek?" Yeah, to light the way. I don't know what to say... when my friend Phil gets a jaywalking ticket because he looks homeless, and has to pay a $100 "court fee" (as opposed to a $500 fine), what the hell am I supposed to say? We get to where the music is playing, and it takes a while to settle in, because every second we expect the cops to show up and ruin the festive atmosphere.
When they don't, we begin to have a genuinely wonderful time. Music in a creek, with an assembled group of enjoyers, surrounded by lit candles under moonlit sky... but of course! We can hardly believe the cops stay back, and Tania says, "They were actually really cool about it." I realize what this implies: they were cool, for cops. But compared to real people, they were assholes. They yelled at us to turn around and then intimidated us with the idea that we shouldn't be out here. Why shouldn't we be out here? This is public property - let we the public make use of it! I think of this assessment, spoken in 1842, found in "The Coming Insurrection:"
“The life of the police agent is painful; his position in society is as humiliating and despised as crime itself… Shame and infamy encircle him from all sides, society expels him, isolates him as a pariah, society spits out its disdain for the police agent along with his pay, without remorse, without regrets, without pity… The police badge that he carries in his pocket documents his shame.”
1842 becomes 2009. They now have power, a power consolidated by the State and Capital - Phil got a ticket because the area businesses complained of property vandalism and the like. When power consolidates, and resistance hesitates, there is no check and there is no balance.
And yet, we made it to the music. I'm tempted to out and out say, "Fuck the police," but in a way they play the same game we all play. They make a big deal out of this event because someone complains, we tuck tails between legs and sheepishly nod our heads, and everyone moves on. We pass go, collect $200, and spend it on electricity bills. And still... I'm sitting down in a creek and listening to some damn fine folk music. The Prima Pils has a distinctly American taste, but when I burp, I feel I might as well be drinking pilsener in Eastern Europe. I might as well be sitting in a creek in Karlovy Vary and listening to Uz Jsme Doma unplugged. Here as there, creek water runs and bullfrogs croak. The last song ends and then the rain comes down. Dobrou noc and good luck.
And it's merely a convention. The difference between languages, between cultures, is impotent compared to the delivery itself. Not just a language, but how a culture carries itself. So it's no surprise that my night ends, not simply with gumdrops and jellyfish, but with Gummi Lifesavers at 7-11 on South Congress Avenue in Austin, TX. This is where I'm at, where I belong at this moment. And in the parking lot of the all-night diner, three cop cars, perhaps asking for the bravado of a rock thrown deftly through the window.... Everyone belongs somewhere, right now, whether it's crossing an empty street or listening to music in a creek, and why must you tell me where I don't belong?
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Over and Back
Conclusion: vacation means people and food. Started right in on Friday at 5:10pm when college friends Emily and Dee-Dee intercepted me at 17th and Congress. I was full from a multicultural lunch tasting on the first floor of my place of employment - Swedish meatballs, Hungarian goulash, Chinese dumplings, Indian fried rice, Texas BBQ, German cake, and on and on - so I gave my lunch sandwich to the girls, and off. An abbreviated beer bar tour punctured by a tour of the capitol. Leisurely expedition of downtown, people in the streets in good cheer, words flowing out of our mouths with ease and excitment, and cicadas on pavement signifying a marriage of nature and urbana. Leisure is the key word.
Realized I haven't left Austin in six months, perhaps the longest I've ever been in one municipality without journey. It's been good, but it's time, time to flutter the wings. I quite like being in airports. A young attractive Asian woman with a walking stick, a financial-looking dude likely off for a weekend of golf... wandering these big open corridors, windows look out on pavement planes and planes, we are jet set. At least in appearance. Could be going anywhere, and I love it.
Mom and Aaron pick me up in Manchester, NH a bit after midnight, to drive to Ocean Park, ME. On Sunday, Buddy and Nate take the train up from Boston, and the Kitchels are driving through. To the beach for catching up, all around. Don't check the email, don't look at the phone. To the Clambake for fried scallops and clams, supplemented by fries and one of my favorite cole-slaws. One of the meals I've been waiting for. "Starry Eyes," by the Austin band Two Hoots and a Holler, pops into my head. When things come together, it's a sensory paradise. And these moments are fleeting, here and now. All I can do is embrace the feelings when they occur, and accept the others when they don't. Aaron, Bud, Nate, and I continue the night with a melange of scotches and gins on the indoor porch - like our grand and great grandparents' generations, methinks - and a hop around the bars of Old Orchard Beach. Quiet night, but it doesn't seem to matter. Good company, starry eyes.
Roll, almost literally, out of bed on Monday morning, for a great breakfast with Mom and the above crew at Josef's. Then we play shuffleboard the only way I really know how: on the ground, with big sticks, perhaps the way Teddy Roosevelt would've done it. Everywhere else it's tables and hands. Bud and Nate back to Boston, and the rest of the day is walking on the beach, intense conversation about purpose in life, and food more food lovely food. Sit out at the beach tables at the Brunswick with homemade Clam chowder under expansive purple sky-come-moonlight, walk the peaceful avenues of Ocean Park with coffee frappe. An interlude to see Taking Woodstock (amusing and decent), and more philosophy with Aaron. Eyelids get very heavy, until cousin Dan arrives (via train) at 1:45am to keep things going. My stomach is worn out and my eyes are sore, but my mind is sharp as a tack.
The days continue like this, food and talk, with people I like. Tuesday is fried scallops and clams for breakfast, corn casserole for lunch (one of my favorites growing up), two lobsters and tons of steamers for dinner - an ambitious and filling meal, and I will carry the memory with me for months, because I must - and a butter crunch frappe for dessert. Jesus buddha, one of the best things I've ever had, and I had forgotten that. Wednesday we meet Susanna in Portsmouth, a "city" of the type that I've been missing - cobble stones and brick buildings and oddly shaped town squares. They weren't as efficient at urban planning when they started this country, and I am thankful for that, y'all. Great meal and brews and good times at the Portsmouth Brewery. Then a nice visit in New London with Marion and Charlie. In Danville, down to Ryan D.'s for beer and wine and tasty garlic-tinged burgers and rice pilaf and chips and catching up out on the patio. So full. I had to burp twice - really, I had to. Aaron and I made a last-minute decision to hit the Packing House around 12:30 for pool and... atmosphere. Thursday breakfast over at the Danville Restaurant - blueberry pancakes and sausage, coffee and water - I will pat myself on the back for getting in so many of my favorite meals this week. Dinner with Dad at Elements - I believe the best I've ever had there - Mongolia-spiced chicken wings, an awesome veggie-cheese strudel, and a delightful bottle of rose. Friday Aaron made baozi, and it was great. People came in and out. Friends and relatives, baozi and coffee. Dad put together a great dinner of shrimp linguini, and later Aaron and I drank some good beers with Andy, Shannon, and Nick, and that was that. Have I said too much? It takes long winds to describe the satiating of great appetites for food and company.
All this time I am living it up and not paying attention to time. Only on Saturday morning, when Mom slicing up onions reminds me of some great turkey sandwiches and subs I've had in past days in New England, only then do I realize that my time has been short, and that I might like to stay a bit longer. But moments come and pass, materialize and succeed one another. Touchdown at the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport brings to mind an evening of six months ago. Convert an almost-wistful historicization into an open-minded, optimistic vigor. I will take the bus back on this overcast night, walk down South 5th to a taco wagon, and wander the streets of South Austin, streets that I miss more than I thought I might. There are streets everywhere, each offering different experiences. The same might be said of food and people.
Realized I haven't left Austin in six months, perhaps the longest I've ever been in one municipality without journey. It's been good, but it's time, time to flutter the wings. I quite like being in airports. A young attractive Asian woman with a walking stick, a financial-looking dude likely off for a weekend of golf... wandering these big open corridors, windows look out on pavement planes and planes, we are jet set. At least in appearance. Could be going anywhere, and I love it.
Mom and Aaron pick me up in Manchester, NH a bit after midnight, to drive to Ocean Park, ME. On Sunday, Buddy and Nate take the train up from Boston, and the Kitchels are driving through. To the beach for catching up, all around. Don't check the email, don't look at the phone. To the Clambake for fried scallops and clams, supplemented by fries and one of my favorite cole-slaws. One of the meals I've been waiting for. "Starry Eyes," by the Austin band Two Hoots and a Holler, pops into my head. When things come together, it's a sensory paradise. And these moments are fleeting, here and now. All I can do is embrace the feelings when they occur, and accept the others when they don't. Aaron, Bud, Nate, and I continue the night with a melange of scotches and gins on the indoor porch - like our grand and great grandparents' generations, methinks - and a hop around the bars of Old Orchard Beach. Quiet night, but it doesn't seem to matter. Good company, starry eyes.
Roll, almost literally, out of bed on Monday morning, for a great breakfast with Mom and the above crew at Josef's. Then we play shuffleboard the only way I really know how: on the ground, with big sticks, perhaps the way Teddy Roosevelt would've done it. Everywhere else it's tables and hands. Bud and Nate back to Boston, and the rest of the day is walking on the beach, intense conversation about purpose in life, and food more food lovely food. Sit out at the beach tables at the Brunswick with homemade Clam chowder under expansive purple sky-come-moonlight, walk the peaceful avenues of Ocean Park with coffee frappe. An interlude to see Taking Woodstock (amusing and decent), and more philosophy with Aaron. Eyelids get very heavy, until cousin Dan arrives (via train) at 1:45am to keep things going. My stomach is worn out and my eyes are sore, but my mind is sharp as a tack.
The days continue like this, food and talk, with people I like. Tuesday is fried scallops and clams for breakfast, corn casserole for lunch (one of my favorites growing up), two lobsters and tons of steamers for dinner - an ambitious and filling meal, and I will carry the memory with me for months, because I must - and a butter crunch frappe for dessert. Jesus buddha, one of the best things I've ever had, and I had forgotten that. Wednesday we meet Susanna in Portsmouth, a "city" of the type that I've been missing - cobble stones and brick buildings and oddly shaped town squares. They weren't as efficient at urban planning when they started this country, and I am thankful for that, y'all. Great meal and brews and good times at the Portsmouth Brewery. Then a nice visit in New London with Marion and Charlie. In Danville, down to Ryan D.'s for beer and wine and tasty garlic-tinged burgers and rice pilaf and chips and catching up out on the patio. So full. I had to burp twice - really, I had to. Aaron and I made a last-minute decision to hit the Packing House around 12:30 for pool and... atmosphere. Thursday breakfast over at the Danville Restaurant - blueberry pancakes and sausage, coffee and water - I will pat myself on the back for getting in so many of my favorite meals this week. Dinner with Dad at Elements - I believe the best I've ever had there - Mongolia-spiced chicken wings, an awesome veggie-cheese strudel, and a delightful bottle of rose. Friday Aaron made baozi, and it was great. People came in and out. Friends and relatives, baozi and coffee. Dad put together a great dinner of shrimp linguini, and later Aaron and I drank some good beers with Andy, Shannon, and Nick, and that was that. Have I said too much? It takes long winds to describe the satiating of great appetites for food and company.
All this time I am living it up and not paying attention to time. Only on Saturday morning, when Mom slicing up onions reminds me of some great turkey sandwiches and subs I've had in past days in New England, only then do I realize that my time has been short, and that I might like to stay a bit longer. But moments come and pass, materialize and succeed one another. Touchdown at the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport brings to mind an evening of six months ago. Convert an almost-wistful historicization into an open-minded, optimistic vigor. I will take the bus back on this overcast night, walk down South 5th to a taco wagon, and wander the streets of South Austin, streets that I miss more than I thought I might. There are streets everywhere, each offering different experiences. The same might be said of food and people.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Four Openings in Two Hours
“The first thing we had to say about painters was not very theoretical, because it was, 'There's a cocktail party tomorrow evening at such and such a gallery in such and such a street.' What painters meant to us was first and foremost a chance to drink and a chance to eat: we tried never to miss an important opening. So the painters' primary function was utilitarian." - Jean-Michel Mension, The Tribe: Contributions to the History of the Situationist International
This is the mindset, this is the idea. Realized there were four different art openings at about the same time and only one bus ride apart. Downtown, and off at a trot, to the Wally Workman Gallery on W 6th. Wonderful. The art is cool - innovative, layered and mixed, broad and detailed - and the food is great. Glass of white, and fill my plate: baked salmon, asparagus with a zesty lemon dip, light pasta and veggies in a creamy sauce, and a mini pizza square topped with peppers and onions and some spice. No irony in going to an art opening and describing the food. A bit hungover from a night of homemade martinis, this feels fine, exquisite. A tour of the gallery... more art, more food. Then off to the #22 bus stop. There is sex in my vision of the streets and galleries, but no psychology, no sociology.
I like the idea of living similarly to the radicals and artists in Paris in the first half of the 20th century - finding food, drink, and entertainment wherever one can; taking from and giving to others strictly on the basis of availability of resources - but some times I feel like I'm paying lip service to the lifestyle and not really living. The romanticization of poverty seems to become the poverty of romance.
And on this bus, the streets of Austin become San Francisco become Taipei become Atlantis.
On my way to opening #2, on the East Side, walking through a park, very sharp stickers (do we call these painful things "thorns" in New England?) in my leg may be a sign... I got off at the wrong stop. Nice walk though, and I'm none too late. In fact, the first one here, other than the employees. I keep assuming that places with "salon" in their names, or like this one, Method.Hair, are witty names for literary salons and art galleries, when they are in fact hair salons. A beer? Yes, thank you. Must stick to it. Since there are only about ten paintings here, and I stay long enough to drink my beer and not seem rude, at the end, I have stared at each of the paintings long enough to feel like I've bought and owned them all for years.
Go to the address on Cesar Chavez that I copied down for opening #3, and it appears that the art is the clown paintings on the front of the Play Land party store. On to #4.
A porch, and it looks like someone's house. Lots of people too, hanging out out front. Birdhouse Gallery. Keep this buzz regulated - through art, through booze, through music - later tonight I'll see Fear and Agent Orange, but now it's the Smiths (the exhibit is called "This Charming Man").
Another stab at #3 proves that the gallery is actually around the corner: Okay Mountain. Here I am truly impressed with the vibrancy of Austin's art scene. Here also another impression makes, that of the inadequacy of art in general: these paintings are amazing, creative and innovative... but they are still only images on a wall. Just started reading Metapolitics, and one of Badiou's starting points has philosophy comprised of four conditions acting as truth procedures: science, love, art, and politics. From the Preface: "Philosophy, which requires the deployment of four conditions, cannot specialize in any one of them." Truth cannot specialize in any one of them. Accordingly, what impresses me most this evening - walking along E 2nd, toward I-35 - is the composition of the pink and orange cloud horizons against the blue sky. This is science and it is love and it is art and it is politics.
Took a wrong turn, and am "forced" to walk along the river. Stop on a dock to see the bats fly out from under Congress Street bridge in front of the pink ovalries in the sky. Momentous and momentum should not be words, because they imply the multiplicity of the moment, when there is really only this moment.
(8/15/09)
This is the mindset, this is the idea. Realized there were four different art openings at about the same time and only one bus ride apart. Downtown, and off at a trot, to the Wally Workman Gallery on W 6th. Wonderful. The art is cool - innovative, layered and mixed, broad and detailed - and the food is great. Glass of white, and fill my plate: baked salmon, asparagus with a zesty lemon dip, light pasta and veggies in a creamy sauce, and a mini pizza square topped with peppers and onions and some spice. No irony in going to an art opening and describing the food. A bit hungover from a night of homemade martinis, this feels fine, exquisite. A tour of the gallery... more art, more food. Then off to the #22 bus stop. There is sex in my vision of the streets and galleries, but no psychology, no sociology.
I like the idea of living similarly to the radicals and artists in Paris in the first half of the 20th century - finding food, drink, and entertainment wherever one can; taking from and giving to others strictly on the basis of availability of resources - but some times I feel like I'm paying lip service to the lifestyle and not really living. The romanticization of poverty seems to become the poverty of romance.
And on this bus, the streets of Austin become San Francisco become Taipei become Atlantis.
On my way to opening #2, on the East Side, walking through a park, very sharp stickers (do we call these painful things "thorns" in New England?) in my leg may be a sign... I got off at the wrong stop. Nice walk though, and I'm none too late. In fact, the first one here, other than the employees. I keep assuming that places with "salon" in their names, or like this one, Method.Hair, are witty names for literary salons and art galleries, when they are in fact hair salons. A beer? Yes, thank you. Must stick to it. Since there are only about ten paintings here, and I stay long enough to drink my beer and not seem rude, at the end, I have stared at each of the paintings long enough to feel like I've bought and owned them all for years.
Go to the address on Cesar Chavez that I copied down for opening #3, and it appears that the art is the clown paintings on the front of the Play Land party store. On to #4.
A porch, and it looks like someone's house. Lots of people too, hanging out out front. Birdhouse Gallery. Keep this buzz regulated - through art, through booze, through music - later tonight I'll see Fear and Agent Orange, but now it's the Smiths (the exhibit is called "This Charming Man").
Another stab at #3 proves that the gallery is actually around the corner: Okay Mountain. Here I am truly impressed with the vibrancy of Austin's art scene. Here also another impression makes, that of the inadequacy of art in general: these paintings are amazing, creative and innovative... but they are still only images on a wall. Just started reading Metapolitics, and one of Badiou's starting points has philosophy comprised of four conditions acting as truth procedures: science, love, art, and politics. From the Preface: "Philosophy, which requires the deployment of four conditions, cannot specialize in any one of them." Truth cannot specialize in any one of them. Accordingly, what impresses me most this evening - walking along E 2nd, toward I-35 - is the composition of the pink and orange cloud horizons against the blue sky. This is science and it is love and it is art and it is politics.
Took a wrong turn, and am "forced" to walk along the river. Stop on a dock to see the bats fly out from under Congress Street bridge in front of the pink ovalries in the sky. Momentous and momentum should not be words, because they imply the multiplicity of the moment, when there is really only this moment.
(8/15/09)
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Piece of Peace of Pisces
Like a ghost. Gliding around in space with all the pleasures of sense, but none of the hang-ups, the stubbing of toes, or the hitting of head on freezer door. Friday after work - and this is a fitting follow-up to my last post - until the wee hours, was in a state of general serenity. Coked up on serenity, one might say, if that were possible. No explanation really, only the tale:
After hitting the ATM (allowance doled out to myself in sparing and controlled spurts), met Tania, and we went to the Texas State History Museum. Hot evening, but in the shade, few worries. The purpose at this point was free Rudy's BBQ first, and live music second. The little BBQ dogs did not disappoint, and I had seconds, plus some of that Sweet Leaf iced tea - original and peach. Tania, not feeling the meat so much, wanted a supplement, so we wandered over to the Dog and Duck Pub - where I had not been since visiting Austin last February - for some great beer (an experience I don't have as much these days, due to budget restrictions, sticking to PBR and High Life, the occasional Tecate) and falafel plate for her. Spicy too. Too spicy, in fact. But with the beer, the background music, some stimulating conversation, and the cushioned seats at a booth in the center of the room, the serenity seeped in further.
And then back to the museum, no food or iced tea left, and still not feeling the music. No prob; primary goal (to remind you, that was the BBQ) had been achieved. With at least an hour of sunlight left, Tania had an idea. Hit the road. Scooter ride was breezy, smooth, well-paced, and quite in alliance with the atmosphere - wind and air. She took me to Mozart's Cafe, on the lake. One of the most charming places on the lake, and anywhere, really. Sit outside, as sun goes down, gazing at yellow-purple reflections dancing in the ripples of water in front of dense green hills - for a half an hour, I was only eyes, nose, and ears. No body, and no mouth, because why talk at times like these? Other people talk - about school, about food and drink, about art and culture - but it seems to exist in another dimension, a TV I can turn on and off with my consciousness. Bugs flying around become part of the landscape; with the right depth of focus, the bugs in the foreground mingle with the birds flying over the hills in the background, and I can't tell the difference. At any rate, I can't feel them... they don't bite, and thus become part of the painting. And that's that. Bliss.
Must move on, and I hate to say it, but I must get groceries. Get dropped off at the supermarket, and you would think this experience would end the serenity. At times, sure, but there's a certain peaceful awareness in counting tomatoes and choosing Honey Bunches of Oats over H.E.B.'s wholesale muesli concoctions. The walk home, with a full and heavy backpack (including a Steel Reserve twelve-er) and two other bags, all 20 minutes of it, is not serene, per se - I am sweating like a New York Knicks center in the '93 playoffs - but it is part of the night, and somehow, like the ice bag that takes the swelling down, is comforting. In a mind-numbing way. At home, putting groceries away, become embroiled with Tania and Anjela in conversations about lingerie; and the fact that the female sex can multi-task better than their counterparts. But years of interactions with various females leave me at least semi-prepared. Make a turkey-swiss-and-mayo-on-wheat, pop a couple Reserves (at 8.1% ABV, they are fortifying), and sit back. Still... still at peace.
No one else wants to go out, but there's a free punk show at Stubb's that I want to see, so I do. Last #5 leaves my house at 11:30, into the club to see Me Against Everybody - pretty good hardcore, like a cross between Murphy's Law and Black Flag. But getting tired, the serenity seems to be waning. To the street. Up and down 6th street, I transform from a ghost to a fish. Swimming around in a sea of attractive, carefully presented bodies, figurehead cops on bikes, and stumbling frames reaching out for a direction... but in a way, they all become one - part of the sky in my mind that has turned from dreamy ambivalent clouds to bright constellations and raucous shooting stars. Still, it surrounds. Pisces, a fish in the sky. In this state, I decide it best to continue the show.
On a $5 budget, nourishment is difficult. Slices are all $3 or 4$, sausages and dogs up there too. They can charge whatever they want on this street. But finally, my research pays off, spotting a $2 sausage wrap on Red River and 7th. Chow down, lubricated with BBQ sauce, this is my seventh meal (albeit small) of the day. Into the club, and say bartender, do you have anything in the $2 range? A High Life would be great, and here's a dollar for your trouble. Downstairs, the Krum Bums are playing; a great band, by the way, sort of reminds me of the Virus. With the five members on stage seeming to be approaching an ecstatic choir like anthemia, the crowd dancing and singing along, and I - pleasantly full, ears and eyes absorbed, living the High Life - feel still, still, still serene. A different end of the spectrum, to be sure, but the peaceful mind makes no judgments.
Back down 6th, in time to catch the night owl bus, and home. And just like that, it ends. This is how many words it takes to describe an essentially singular feeling, and now I ask, what's the point? Why do I bother? Well... although it can't be recaptured, one must try. And I can't help but to try to express the contents of an existence that, in ceaselessly trying, will not end. Ever.
After hitting the ATM (allowance doled out to myself in sparing and controlled spurts), met Tania, and we went to the Texas State History Museum. Hot evening, but in the shade, few worries. The purpose at this point was free Rudy's BBQ first, and live music second. The little BBQ dogs did not disappoint, and I had seconds, plus some of that Sweet Leaf iced tea - original and peach. Tania, not feeling the meat so much, wanted a supplement, so we wandered over to the Dog and Duck Pub - where I had not been since visiting Austin last February - for some great beer (an experience I don't have as much these days, due to budget restrictions, sticking to PBR and High Life, the occasional Tecate) and falafel plate for her. Spicy too. Too spicy, in fact. But with the beer, the background music, some stimulating conversation, and the cushioned seats at a booth in the center of the room, the serenity seeped in further.
And then back to the museum, no food or iced tea left, and still not feeling the music. No prob; primary goal (to remind you, that was the BBQ) had been achieved. With at least an hour of sunlight left, Tania had an idea. Hit the road. Scooter ride was breezy, smooth, well-paced, and quite in alliance with the atmosphere - wind and air. She took me to Mozart's Cafe, on the lake. One of the most charming places on the lake, and anywhere, really. Sit outside, as sun goes down, gazing at yellow-purple reflections dancing in the ripples of water in front of dense green hills - for a half an hour, I was only eyes, nose, and ears. No body, and no mouth, because why talk at times like these? Other people talk - about school, about food and drink, about art and culture - but it seems to exist in another dimension, a TV I can turn on and off with my consciousness. Bugs flying around become part of the landscape; with the right depth of focus, the bugs in the foreground mingle with the birds flying over the hills in the background, and I can't tell the difference. At any rate, I can't feel them... they don't bite, and thus become part of the painting. And that's that. Bliss.
Must move on, and I hate to say it, but I must get groceries. Get dropped off at the supermarket, and you would think this experience would end the serenity. At times, sure, but there's a certain peaceful awareness in counting tomatoes and choosing Honey Bunches of Oats over H.E.B.'s wholesale muesli concoctions. The walk home, with a full and heavy backpack (including a Steel Reserve twelve-er) and two other bags, all 20 minutes of it, is not serene, per se - I am sweating like a New York Knicks center in the '93 playoffs - but it is part of the night, and somehow, like the ice bag that takes the swelling down, is comforting. In a mind-numbing way. At home, putting groceries away, become embroiled with Tania and Anjela in conversations about lingerie; and the fact that the female sex can multi-task better than their counterparts. But years of interactions with various females leave me at least semi-prepared. Make a turkey-swiss-and-mayo-on-wheat, pop a couple Reserves (at 8.1% ABV, they are fortifying), and sit back. Still... still at peace.
No one else wants to go out, but there's a free punk show at Stubb's that I want to see, so I do. Last #5 leaves my house at 11:30, into the club to see Me Against Everybody - pretty good hardcore, like a cross between Murphy's Law and Black Flag. But getting tired, the serenity seems to be waning. To the street. Up and down 6th street, I transform from a ghost to a fish. Swimming around in a sea of attractive, carefully presented bodies, figurehead cops on bikes, and stumbling frames reaching out for a direction... but in a way, they all become one - part of the sky in my mind that has turned from dreamy ambivalent clouds to bright constellations and raucous shooting stars. Still, it surrounds. Pisces, a fish in the sky. In this state, I decide it best to continue the show.
On a $5 budget, nourishment is difficult. Slices are all $3 or 4$, sausages and dogs up there too. They can charge whatever they want on this street. But finally, my research pays off, spotting a $2 sausage wrap on Red River and 7th. Chow down, lubricated with BBQ sauce, this is my seventh meal (albeit small) of the day. Into the club, and say bartender, do you have anything in the $2 range? A High Life would be great, and here's a dollar for your trouble. Downstairs, the Krum Bums are playing; a great band, by the way, sort of reminds me of the Virus. With the five members on stage seeming to be approaching an ecstatic choir like anthemia, the crowd dancing and singing along, and I - pleasantly full, ears and eyes absorbed, living the High Life - feel still, still, still serene. A different end of the spectrum, to be sure, but the peaceful mind makes no judgments.
Back down 6th, in time to catch the night owl bus, and home. And just like that, it ends. This is how many words it takes to describe an essentially singular feeling, and now I ask, what's the point? Why do I bother? Well... although it can't be recaptured, one must try. And I can't help but to try to express the contents of an existence that, in ceaselessly trying, will not end. Ever.
Monday, July 13, 2009
All the times, after all, all the same
Been reading The Miracle of Mindfulness, by Thich Nhat Hanh, a book about meditation, and Buddhism to an extent, but most importantly, about the idea of living every moment of life with mindfulness - creating a harmony between your mind and body and your environment. (I will say right off that all this stuff is difficult to paraphrase, because it's abstract to begin with. Been having trouble understanding concepts myself, and that's no way to begin explaining things in writing, but... to hell with constraints, ya know?) The primary concept, which I believe is the reason Aaron got the book for me, revolves around the importance of living every moment, period. But beyond that, it gets tricky. I fully support the concept, and it's gotten me re-interested in meditation and other things, but I've got my reservations too.
From my personal standpoint, the live every moment dictum (which, when you break it down, is anything but a dictum - reservation #1) falls into two strains: the Buddhist perspective and the anarchist/situationist perspective (e.g. "Who wants a world in which the guarantee that we shall not die of starvation entails the risk of dying of boredom?" - Vaneigem; "You will end up dying of comfort;" etc.). (Incidentally, Henry Miller probably bridges the gap between the two most completely.) One of the main differences here is that Buddhists like Hanh advocate being mindful during all activities - washing the dishes, drinking tea, working for the man - while the anarchists essentially do as much to discredit or avoid the work aspect as possible.
(I keep typing "meditation" as "mediation," and it's funny, because they are almost opposites - meditation is about direct contact with your environment, and mediation is the intervention between the two. Still, there may be some cautioning irony here....)
It seems to me that most post-industrial jobs, in the form they currently inhabit (in other words, market capitalism), are either directly or indirectly harmful to the well-being of humanity. Directly harmful jobs are those that directly support Capital (retail, marketing, so much else) - which essentially keeps us all enslaved to an immaterial entity (money, credit, etc.) - and those that directly support the State, which regulates Capital and the power of the wealthy elite to the detriment of the rest of us. Indirectly harmful jobs, if they don't contribute directly to these institutions, often contribute to the deterioration of the worker him/herself mentally (through monotony, obedience, stifled creativity, etc.) and/or physically. My current job, an archival one, is a great example: I work for a state-sponsored department, but what we're doing does not support the State or Capital directly, and on the positive side, could theoretically be benefical to the natural environment. However: every day the mind-numbing work deadens me a little inside.
(Overdramatic? It may seem so, but take a step back and look at what these lives do to us. Children, the gleam will leave the father's eye. It's only blasphemy when you don't really believe it.)
The compromise for me, then, is, until a more clever sounding phrase comes up, the "supplement of creative absentmindedness." Exactly as it sounds: while working in an uninspired and uninspiring environment, your mind is elsewhere - on creative ideas, blissful memories, psychedelic dreams, etc. It's a way to make every moment your own without succumbing to the indoctrination of Capital or the State. With this particular job, it hit me a couple of weeks ago, after a majestic Sunday evening: Phil, Laura, Tania, and I went to Lake Travis for swimming and grilling. Had no charcoal and no utensils, but we collected wood and Phil started a fire, and we were off. Then, as the sun went down, scanning the horizon from inside the lake, a craggy fossilized landscape under purple sky, ghostly trees set up against it like in a Road Runner cartoon, inspiration hit and insulated itself in the cranium. Didn't even feel bad about going to work the next day. In the morning, I read something - might've even been Vaneigem - to stimulate the cranium a bit, and I was off... in the world, in my own world - as opposed to the world dominated by the dollar - where peacocks crow and everyone walks around with big yellow cell phones that are actually rotary phones ripped from the cord. Do the phones actually work, or are we all crazy? It doesn't really matter....
Thinking of a letter Kerouac wrote to Philip Whalen: "I'd be ashamed to confront you and Gary now I've become so decadent and drunk and dontgiveashit. I'm not a Buddhist anymore" (found on Wikipedia). But really, it's selective: why can't we be Buddhists some times and inspired decadents others?
Been working on this entry for a week now, because it seemed fitting to only write it while at work. But today, with every song piping from the muffled radio in the nearby cubicle sounding like "Hold On" by Wilson Phillips, I am done. Sufficiently, creatively, and passionately absentminded.
From my personal standpoint, the live every moment dictum (which, when you break it down, is anything but a dictum - reservation #1) falls into two strains: the Buddhist perspective and the anarchist/situationist perspective (e.g. "Who wants a world in which the guarantee that we shall not die of starvation entails the risk of dying of boredom?" - Vaneigem; "You will end up dying of comfort;" etc.). (Incidentally, Henry Miller probably bridges the gap between the two most completely.) One of the main differences here is that Buddhists like Hanh advocate being mindful during all activities - washing the dishes, drinking tea, working for the man - while the anarchists essentially do as much to discredit or avoid the work aspect as possible.
(I keep typing "meditation" as "mediation," and it's funny, because they are almost opposites - meditation is about direct contact with your environment, and mediation is the intervention between the two. Still, there may be some cautioning irony here....)
It seems to me that most post-industrial jobs, in the form they currently inhabit (in other words, market capitalism), are either directly or indirectly harmful to the well-being of humanity. Directly harmful jobs are those that directly support Capital (retail, marketing, so much else) - which essentially keeps us all enslaved to an immaterial entity (money, credit, etc.) - and those that directly support the State, which regulates Capital and the power of the wealthy elite to the detriment of the rest of us. Indirectly harmful jobs, if they don't contribute directly to these institutions, often contribute to the deterioration of the worker him/herself mentally (through monotony, obedience, stifled creativity, etc.) and/or physically. My current job, an archival one, is a great example: I work for a state-sponsored department, but what we're doing does not support the State or Capital directly, and on the positive side, could theoretically be benefical to the natural environment. However: every day the mind-numbing work deadens me a little inside.
(Overdramatic? It may seem so, but take a step back and look at what these lives do to us. Children, the gleam will leave the father's eye. It's only blasphemy when you don't really believe it.)
The compromise for me, then, is, until a more clever sounding phrase comes up, the "supplement of creative absentmindedness." Exactly as it sounds: while working in an uninspired and uninspiring environment, your mind is elsewhere - on creative ideas, blissful memories, psychedelic dreams, etc. It's a way to make every moment your own without succumbing to the indoctrination of Capital or the State. With this particular job, it hit me a couple of weeks ago, after a majestic Sunday evening: Phil, Laura, Tania, and I went to Lake Travis for swimming and grilling. Had no charcoal and no utensils, but we collected wood and Phil started a fire, and we were off. Then, as the sun went down, scanning the horizon from inside the lake, a craggy fossilized landscape under purple sky, ghostly trees set up against it like in a Road Runner cartoon, inspiration hit and insulated itself in the cranium. Didn't even feel bad about going to work the next day. In the morning, I read something - might've even been Vaneigem - to stimulate the cranium a bit, and I was off... in the world, in my own world - as opposed to the world dominated by the dollar - where peacocks crow and everyone walks around with big yellow cell phones that are actually rotary phones ripped from the cord. Do the phones actually work, or are we all crazy? It doesn't really matter....
Thinking of a letter Kerouac wrote to Philip Whalen: "I'd be ashamed to confront you and Gary now I've become so decadent and drunk and dontgiveashit. I'm not a Buddhist anymore" (found on Wikipedia). But really, it's selective: why can't we be Buddhists some times and inspired decadents others?
Been working on this entry for a week now, because it seemed fitting to only write it while at work. But today, with every song piping from the muffled radio in the nearby cubicle sounding like "Hold On" by Wilson Phillips, I am done. Sufficiently, creatively, and passionately absentminded.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Like a bowl of Cheerios
Dropped in the bowl, I am a Cheerio;
Milk surrounds and milk is my guts;
Other humans make a meal of cereal;
Dropped in the bowl, we are Cheerios.
Floating around, in existence ethereal;
None in control, we are also nuts.
Dropped in the bowl, I am a Cheerio;
Milk that surrounds me becomes my guts.
Milk surrounds and milk is my guts;
Other humans make a meal of cereal;
Dropped in the bowl, we are Cheerios.
Floating around, in existence ethereal;
None in control, we are also nuts.
Dropped in the bowl, I am a Cheerio;
Milk that surrounds me becomes my guts.
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