Coma Comma Culm

Drinking gin and tonics
Seeing black and red
Your day off was a mess, my dear
And mine was no better....

Because bathrooms must be cleaned
And dishes must be washed
And one must stay in shape
Though I've no idea why

And what are we doing here?

Not in the metaphysical
But in the ugly, physical sense
In this den of finance and corruption
(At least... I feel corrupt)

In a feverish daze
Four left turns to move forward
Our black and red day mutated
By waves of green, turns...

...To a coma of burnt orange and oxford grey

Peacock on the Loose

Month of November, month of reflection. Or, at the least, month without physical writing - the writing that takes place outside of the skull. No blogging, to be sure. Looking at these last few entries, I see an emphasis on the negative, on adversity and the problems in life, especially when contrasted with the bubbling radiance and cheerful serenity of earlier posts. Of course, life consists of both positive and negative elements, and all degrees in between and beyond. And after making these observations, I wonder if it's a sham to even attribute positive and negative qualities to writing. Such are the trappings of this modern era of "blogdom," the form being short, contained bursts of staccato; the death of the novel, short story, literature in general....

So, since literature is simply words on a page or monitor, shall we continue with a discussion of the positive/negative dichotomy in life? In the month of November, I took a new job. At a retail store, selling the doggoned-est mish-mash of random and absurd commodities, all emblazoned with the logo of a particular local organization. Luggage, guitar picks, truck hitch covers, propane tank wraps - you name it! - all decorated with the symbolic creature we know and love in this fine city. (The hitch covers, by the way, sell like hot cakes.) And it's a "not-for-profit" store, meaning all the profit goes back to the organization. Of course, I'm aware of the insanity and paradox in all of this... but I will say, at the moment, I'm relatively content here. Content, mostly because of the people - co-workers, shoppers, and even managers (heresy! blasphemy! disgusting treachery! I know... but I'm a sucker for genuine compassion in a hierarchical world) - and that's a big thing. "Relatively" - and the range of relativity here is far-reaching - because of the aforementioned paradox. Because at this point in my life, it's impossible to be completely content performing an absolutely useless and absurd task - whether it be entering data, serving breakfast to focus groups, or selling shit to people that really don't need it - for eight hours a day, five days a week. But some times, we must compromise....

On a Saturday, after planning some bus routes, and scarfing down leftover Northern Italian polenta (I've started to cook as well, which is a sign of something, though I've yet to figure out what), I headed east. Way east, far east... further than ever before. Almost to the border of Kamchatka. Through cozy neighborhoods, seas of green, ancient waterways, and gingerbread houses... of course, distances and environments tend to get exaggerated when one relies on the bus for transportation. And at some point, I got off, for the second weekend of the East Austin Studio Tour (EAST). With little time for orientation, I headed into the thick of it: the Big Medium studio village. Walking in and out of rooms, eyes perpetually in dart mode, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of beautiful art and ingeniously fused mediums. And that's it: overwhelmed. Too much quantity to get lost in the world of an individual piece, and an ingrained disgust at paying the price listed below any given piece to afford the time to get lost. (Not to mention a lack of resources.)

On to the next. Walk through a vegetally-enhanced village that, only one hour prior, has been traversed by a human-powered viking ship on wheels. (This is not fancy on my part; it actually happened.) To another studio village: Cobra, with the viking ship at the front gate. An inviting open courtyard surrounded by 12 or 15 pre-fab artist studios. And it is a party here, with a DJ posted outside of one studio, disco lights bouncing off the dusk of night, free drinks and not-free food in the courtyard, and the occasional firework display in sky above. Grab a beer and make my rounds, from studio to studio. More beautiful art and clever arrangements, though it seems to have a more commercial feel than Big Medium. This notion, however, could be the influence of the 21st century identical-aluminum-condo settings in which I find myself. In any case, I'm enjoying myself. At some point even, I am lost in the ether. Gone completely. Wonderfully absorbed in vibrant swirls of color... until I see the price tag. Then I notice the frame. Then I notice the snazzily-dressed "art-lovers" on either side of me, drinks in hand, nodding enthusiastically to meaningless descriptions of the artistic process. "This piece has been sold." They all have....

As a coda to this night, I tried to go to another studio - actually to see a documentary, of all things - but couldn't find the street. So I ended up going out to a friend's house for an Ultimate Fighting Championship viewing party. Seeing commercials for UFC, I always thought I would despise it as purely senseless violence. Not the case. Without going fully in the opposite direction, I will say that I appreciated both the technical and artistic aspects of fighting as a sport. From art to sport. Things we watch and things we look at. And things we pay for.

A muse on the positive/negative dichotomy in life has become a polemic against capitalism, especially in the form of commodities created specifically for sale - whether it be merchandise sold to fund an organization or art sold to fund more art. I find this happening often. And just as often, I find myself sounding bitter and cynical, when on the inside, I am not. Some times, I am as cheery and propelled as the peacocks when they escape the yard of the fancy restaurant down my street. But it can be difficult to convey this cheer to others. So, this time, some words from Andy Merrifield's book on Guy Debord:

"...his legacy is surely that he taught us how to follow Hegel's wonderful proclamation: 'to look the negative in the face and live with it'. Living with the negative, Hegel said, is 'the magical power' that gives people Being, that brings meaning and definition to their lives, underwrites life as a voyage, as a quest. It is a weirdly positive force, entering through the back door, or flowing as an undertow. Debord spent a lifetime living with the negative, knowing its magical power. The power he leaves us today is the power to say No: to look the negative in the face and live with it forever. Of course, it may mean living with this negative in vain, never actually winning, never overcoming, never finding positive transcendence. Still, that doesn't prejudice the value of the work, which may indeed be very good. Nor does it preclude that in striving, in battling against the negative, we can discover for ourselves a truly authentic life.”

White Collar Factory Part 2

It's Thursday afternoon, and I've just had a pretty stellar job interview. If not wholly successful, then at least enough to remind me that I can occasionally rise to the occasion. Bought a large sauteed veggie sub, and feeling good. On the bus, before I start reading, I see an attractive young woman wearing a tight green tank top, and am struck with the sorts of thoughts that inspired the advent of the confession in the Catholic Church (these things don't change). Have to savor this vitality, before my night job sucks it out of me. Uhrrrga-blech. Even thinking about it drains a few drops out of me.

Later, at the bus stop by the Walnut Creek Library, I'm eating trail mix and drinking Coke. Sitting near a few raspy-voiced and lively guys, who don't seem to be waiting for any buses, and thinking that if I had rum or whiskey in this here Coke, I could hang out with them all day. I take out a notepad to write down these very thoughts, and one of them asks me what I'm writing. Just some thoughts I had on the bus. He asks me if I'm a writer. I like to write....

He sits down next to me, says that he's a writer, and asks me if I'd like to hear a poem. He explains a bit of his ethnic background, though I can't quite make out what he's saying, and begins to recite a "black poem." It's brutal and touching, affecting me at a level I never expected to reach this afternoon. One of my favorite lines is, "How many more gold medals must we win for this country?" Fist bump. What's more, he augments the recital with gestures, like a noose around the neck, or a pistol fired in the air during "...my 40 acres and a mule." When he's done, I compliment him very sincerely, especially for the "performance aspect." "It's not a performance," says he, "it just comes out naturally." His name is Billy, and he waited tables for 20 years before deciding to become a poet. Waiting tables gave him bad hips and knees. Now he's got less money, but more freedom. Fist bump. He asks me if I want to hear another poem (yes), this one a "gay poem." "Don't worry, that doesn't mean I want to have sex with you." This one is more tender and reflective, but just as affecting. At this point my bus comes. Another fist bump, and Billy has given me even more fortitude with which to enter the factory.

At the factory, like everywhere else, the malady comes as a result of the prioritization of quantity over quality. Through and through, it's the way the system runs. It's the water we drink, and it doesn't matter where it comes from or how it tastes, as long as it keeps on flowing. We could be eating the delicious donuts that Grammy used to make, but they wouldn't be able to sell as many, and that's the bottom line. That's why the donuts are dry when they reach our mouths.

Several days into the job, I make up my mind to increase my output just enough to get the boss off my back. Just enough so that I don't have to hear about making my "numbers," so that I can blend in to my keyboard, become inanimate, at one with the machine. But of course it doesn't work that way.

By day six, I've gotten pretty quick. It's enough not to get hassled about my numbers, but now I'm told how I rank with other workers' numbers. The fostering of competition is the next stage of management, and it's lethal, because it works. The boss puts the top three numbers up on the dry-erase board, and we all get sucked in. Numbers, numbers, numbers, they chant. In my mind, I really don't care about this competition, but somehow, I work like I do. The result, thus, is the reality of the situation - that I do care about the competition. Competition, especially when encouraged towards a devious end, has a devastating psychological impact.

You know what might even be worse? For security and productivity reasons, we can't have cell phones in the factory, nor are pens and paper easily accessible. I'm writing this in quick and furious scratches on a piece of cardboard I tore off one of the boxes, whenever I think they're not looking. Just steps away from Sade, forced to write in his own blood when they took his parchment away in prison. Billy may spend his afternoon at the bus stop, but at least he's got freedom.

Ah, but this is only eight hours of my daily life. I have sixteen more to... sleep... and commute... and look for a better job. Jello Biafra may have posed the most pertinent question when he asked, "When will you crack?"

White Collar Factory

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.

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?

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.

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)