“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)
Thursday, August 20, 2009
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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Til the end part tres
A brief installment of the continuing journey through the East Side:
The New England Revolution are defending their title in the SuperLiga, a sort of champions league for North American soccer teams, but basically the US and Mexico. Games are broadcast on TV on the Spanish-language Telefutura. Last Wednesday, for a rare opportunity to see my team on TV down here, figured I'd venture to the East Side, where half the bars are Mexican-owned, and you some times have to order tacos in Spanish.
Walked from work at 17th and Congress down to 5th and I-35 to meet Phil. Sort of weakened by a combination of hitting the climax of my cold and walking in semi-oppressive heat (though really, I can't (and rarely do) complain - I wanted the opposite of winter in northeast, and I got it), trudged east of the highway, Phil walking his bike. First, to the bar on the left of Hotel Vegas. Walked in to see a family crowded around a Mexican soap opera. They asked how they could help - basically, a friendly way of wondering what the hell we were looking for - and through a translator, we surfed the channels looking for the game. No luck, and awkward enough that we left straight away, though they were nice. Then - and apparently what I thought was one big bar surrounding Vegas is actually two separate ones - to the bar on the right of the Hotel, "Texas Bar." Another dark interior, more Mexican soaps. But the bartender was totally cool, and found the game right away. The clientele was Phil and I, and about five Mexican women, all dressed up on this Wednesday night, their purses all hung on a peg over the sink next to the bar. They'd go to the sink to get money for a water or Coke. Game started, and the bartender talked to us a bit about the U.S.-Spain match from earlier. Didn't even ask us if we wanted drinks - not cause he was uncooperative, but because he wasn't presumptuous. Seriously, we could've watched the whole game without buying anything; he was happy to sit back and watch the game with us. No forcing us to spend money, no fishing for tips, just at our service. But we got beers, of course, out of courtesy and our own thirsty desire.
Walking back on 6th Street, west of 35, much more oppressive than the heat. People decked out in designer clothes, cheesy music emanating from silly-named bars, doormen barking out drink specials... some times it just doesn't resonate. A week before saw a Thursday night crew-cut convention (i.e. probably military base leave or what have you) drunkenly tar the streets with dudes alternatively trying to pick fights and hold each other up. These things linger....
Then again, Phil, Laura, and I came back to 6th the following Thursday for our now weekly Jackalope happy hour, and had a marvelous night. Post-Jackalope, wandered over to Beauty Bar, on Laura's inkling, and stumbled upon a graphic design convention party. I asked about drink specials, and bartender replied, "As far as I know, it's open bar." Say no more, my bartender - round of gin and tonics, whiskey and cokes - because I know you ain't making martinis. It's okay, we'll get by, at the open bar everything is tasty....
Then Friday I came back to 6th to see Leftover Crack at Red 7, a club on Red River Street, which as I walked up and down, I realized is a bastion of great clubs hosting great bands on any given night - punk, rock, doo-wop, mash-up, trance, '80s covers - revel in it, it's all in the perspective: 6th street hits me dead wrong some times (but still better to be hit psychogeographically than hit by a drunken soldier who hasn't left the base in months), and some times it gels. As a wise person once said, if you start off a journey in a good frame of mind, you'll end up in a good place.
And in that spirit, the weekend continued: to the library, to the supermarket, to the house with my companeros, and between 2 and 8am: to two different pools, Stacey and Barton Springs, to swim and watch the sun come up with a bottle of Pinot Noir, while avoiding territorial gun nuts ("You wanna get shot?" No, we're just gonna swiftly walk away, thank you) and playing our part in the initiatory acid trips of others. And Sunday, though the US lost to Brazil in the Confederations Cup, the Revs won another SuperLiga match and move on. And I'll move on - to the East Side, to 6th Street, to the library, to the pools (away from the guns), into others' hallucinations, into bed, and out again. All a matter of perspective, you short-haired knuckleheads... I'm on permanent leave.
Monday, June 15, 2009
J'ai besoin d'aide
As the great Canadian punk band SNFU puts it, "Reality is a ride on the bus." It's true that a bus ride is a glimpse into the rainbow of humanity, and the more rides one takes, the more shades one can see. From an afternoon on the job hunt:
Riding the bus in the afternoon
Where are we all going?
With fast food lunches in tow
Pangs for the group of misifts
Rushing to the other curb
Young and old, all tones of skin
With tank tops or hard hats
Or bags too heavy, too bulky to carry
Some even without limbs -
Where are we all going?
If we work, we're in the shit
Whether for Capital or the State
Only the degrees of compliance vary
Others, the "lucky" ones...
Live off the trans fat of the land
Now that I have a job, I see the same people every morning on the #5 bus - something I never experienced with the subway in Boston. (That's not a diss; they're just different.) So I try to make up back stories for these people: the cute strawberry blonde with hip glasses who always looks straight ahead while listening to her Ipod before getting off at 14th and Lavaca, the older woman who often wears a skirt and sneakers and some times talks to other older regulars before getting off at 4th and Congress, the guy with the mutton chops and baseball cap and cargo shorts who some times smells of body odor and often seems to be studying diagrams of a sort and gets on at 8th and Congress... where he gets off, I don't know. I'm off at 18th and Lavaca.
The ride home is always different. Some times I wait for the 5, some times not. Two days in a row last week, I broke my iron rule of not giving out change (the principle is that if you give it out to everyone, you'll be broke, and it's too complicated to make evaluative decisions on the spot), while waiting at 17th and Guadalupe, because I felt some kind of urge. The first guy, a mid-30s dude with a shaved head and baseball cap, asked for 65 cents. At first, I said I didn't have it, but then I had that strange change of mind. Obviously feeling like he needed to entertain me, he told me about his high school club lacrosse team, who played against other schools, but weren't officially sanctioned, so they could drink and smoke on the sidelines, and host keg parties as fundraisers. Then he told me about going to his senior prom full of 10 beers and codeine (for lacrosse pains), how his date had to drive, and he couldn't remember where he'd made reservations. On Tuesday, the order reversed: a middle aged guy started asking me about this camera he had found, since he wasn't good with electronics. I realized it was, in fact, not a digital camera, and the roll of film had already been shot. We decided he should go develop it and see what was shot. Then talk turned to punk rock, and the old clubs on the strip, shows with the Dead Kennedys and Black Flag, etc. Then he asked me for 56 cents. I only had 55, but he seemed okay with that. Since then, I've either needed to walk further downtown first, or have felt too antisocial to give out change and hear stories, and have been going to other bus stops.
Today I wait at 14th and Guadalupe. Sit down on the grass, let the smell of recently cut green waft into the inviting proboscis. Wait for the #5 to come and end this hell-forsaken work day. Honey, I'm coming home... please have either a fruit and cheese platter or an apple pie waiting for me on the kitchen table. Workeatsleep. Dreams of putting documents in order and endless trips to the copy machine. No time to play. On the contrary, the alarm on my internal clock goes off every day at 6pm - like a foghorn - and the hours between 6 and whenever are quite happy, happy hours. Apple pie is a metaphor, you see. Fruit and cheese platters are not.
Riding the bus in the afternoon
Where are we all going?
With fast food lunches in tow
Pangs for the group of misifts
Rushing to the other curb
Young and old, all tones of skin
With tank tops or hard hats
Or bags too heavy, too bulky to carry
Some even without limbs -
Where are we all going?
If we work, we're in the shit
Whether for Capital or the State
Only the degrees of compliance vary
Others, the "lucky" ones...
Live off the trans fat of the land
Now that I have a job, I see the same people every morning on the #5 bus - something I never experienced with the subway in Boston. (That's not a diss; they're just different.) So I try to make up back stories for these people: the cute strawberry blonde with hip glasses who always looks straight ahead while listening to her Ipod before getting off at 14th and Lavaca, the older woman who often wears a skirt and sneakers and some times talks to other older regulars before getting off at 4th and Congress, the guy with the mutton chops and baseball cap and cargo shorts who some times smells of body odor and often seems to be studying diagrams of a sort and gets on at 8th and Congress... where he gets off, I don't know. I'm off at 18th and Lavaca.
The ride home is always different. Some times I wait for the 5, some times not. Two days in a row last week, I broke my iron rule of not giving out change (the principle is that if you give it out to everyone, you'll be broke, and it's too complicated to make evaluative decisions on the spot), while waiting at 17th and Guadalupe, because I felt some kind of urge. The first guy, a mid-30s dude with a shaved head and baseball cap, asked for 65 cents. At first, I said I didn't have it, but then I had that strange change of mind. Obviously feeling like he needed to entertain me, he told me about his high school club lacrosse team, who played against other schools, but weren't officially sanctioned, so they could drink and smoke on the sidelines, and host keg parties as fundraisers. Then he told me about going to his senior prom full of 10 beers and codeine (for lacrosse pains), how his date had to drive, and he couldn't remember where he'd made reservations. On Tuesday, the order reversed: a middle aged guy started asking me about this camera he had found, since he wasn't good with electronics. I realized it was, in fact, not a digital camera, and the roll of film had already been shot. We decided he should go develop it and see what was shot. Then talk turned to punk rock, and the old clubs on the strip, shows with the Dead Kennedys and Black Flag, etc. Then he asked me for 56 cents. I only had 55, but he seemed okay with that. Since then, I've either needed to walk further downtown first, or have felt too antisocial to give out change and hear stories, and have been going to other bus stops.
Today I wait at 14th and Guadalupe. Sit down on the grass, let the smell of recently cut green waft into the inviting proboscis. Wait for the #5 to come and end this hell-forsaken work day. Honey, I'm coming home... please have either a fruit and cheese platter or an apple pie waiting for me on the kitchen table. Workeatsleep. Dreams of putting documents in order and endless trips to the copy machine. No time to play. On the contrary, the alarm on my internal clock goes off every day at 6pm - like a foghorn - and the hours between 6 and whenever are quite happy, happy hours. Apple pie is a metaphor, you see. Fruit and cheese platters are not.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Nation of the State
On the U.S.... The state of the nation is that it is a nation of the State, with the State being an essentially non-governed entity that moves through time of its own accord. The State was initially created with a government, by and for the people, but the government no longer runs the State. Granted, the people still elect representatives to this government, but the power of those representatives has been eclipsed by the momentous and independent forward roll of the State in its own dimension. Witness:
1. When Barack Obama was elected President, there was great excitement and "hope." Within days, he began to fulfill one of his campaign promises - presumably one of the reasons for excitement - to close the Guantanamo Bay detention camp in Cuba. Four months later, the U.S. Senate passes an amendment to block the funding of prisoner transferral out of Guantanamo, while congressional leaders the country over use the NIMBY argument to prevent prisoner transferral to any of the "legit" maximum security prisons in their states. The President alone cannot solve our problems. Especially when he or she gets vetoed by the rest of the elected leaders. A president can make things worse on his or her own, but often needs the rest of the State to help him or her make things better.
2. On May 26, Obama nominated Sonia Sotomayor to the U.S. Supreme Court - because of her qualifications, and presumably, to appeal to his growing Hispanic constituency, as she would be the court's first Hispanic Justice. While it may please many Puerto Ricans, this nomination, a politically-savvy apologia, actually obscures the position of other Puerto Ricans who want complete independence from the U.S. They don't want one of their own in the courts, because they don't want the courts at all. For those Puerto Ricans interested in complete freedom from colonialism, this nomination will not help their cause.
3. Last night, unless something catastrophic happened, the Texas Young Professionals hosted a reception at Threadgill's in Austin, at $50 a head, to raise money for the Al Franken Recount Fund. This may seem like satire, but I'm completely serious on all acounts. What the fuck? With all the possible causes that could benefit greatly from fundraising - food banks, natural disaster relief, homelessness, poverty due to war, AIDS research, cancer treatment, MS, equal-opportunity education, recycling, etc., et al - these assholes are wasting their happy hour to send money up north so that other poor suckers can count more ballots? People, this is not reality. This is a cruel masquerade designed to make you sink deeper and further back, into fantasy, months and months after an election, until you find yourself stuck in a sketch on Saturday Night Live in the late 1980s. Here's an idea for a fundraising cause - one that should be supported after the abovementioned causes and many others - but before the Al Franken Recount Fund:
Phil was telling me about a fountain in Spain with a perpetual flow of wine. We were walking around UT the other night at dusk, passing one of the great geyser fountains found on campus, when the setting sun hit just right, and we imagined a magnificent fountain of Pinot grigio, to swim and play in. Please, if nothing else, donate your money to the Bacchanalian Wine Fountain Fund. We'll even set it up in Minnesota, for just one night, and I believe the inhabitants of that state will gain much more in general quality of life than they ever would have by counting pieces of paper one more time.
Ballots or sheep... what's the difference?
1. When Barack Obama was elected President, there was great excitement and "hope." Within days, he began to fulfill one of his campaign promises - presumably one of the reasons for excitement - to close the Guantanamo Bay detention camp in Cuba. Four months later, the U.S. Senate passes an amendment to block the funding of prisoner transferral out of Guantanamo, while congressional leaders the country over use the NIMBY argument to prevent prisoner transferral to any of the "legit" maximum security prisons in their states. The President alone cannot solve our problems. Especially when he or she gets vetoed by the rest of the elected leaders. A president can make things worse on his or her own, but often needs the rest of the State to help him or her make things better.
2. On May 26, Obama nominated Sonia Sotomayor to the U.S. Supreme Court - because of her qualifications, and presumably, to appeal to his growing Hispanic constituency, as she would be the court's first Hispanic Justice. While it may please many Puerto Ricans, this nomination, a politically-savvy apologia, actually obscures the position of other Puerto Ricans who want complete independence from the U.S. They don't want one of their own in the courts, because they don't want the courts at all. For those Puerto Ricans interested in complete freedom from colonialism, this nomination will not help their cause.
3. Last night, unless something catastrophic happened, the Texas Young Professionals hosted a reception at Threadgill's in Austin, at $50 a head, to raise money for the Al Franken Recount Fund. This may seem like satire, but I'm completely serious on all acounts. What the fuck? With all the possible causes that could benefit greatly from fundraising - food banks, natural disaster relief, homelessness, poverty due to war, AIDS research, cancer treatment, MS, equal-opportunity education, recycling, etc., et al - these assholes are wasting their happy hour to send money up north so that other poor suckers can count more ballots? People, this is not reality. This is a cruel masquerade designed to make you sink deeper and further back, into fantasy, months and months after an election, until you find yourself stuck in a sketch on Saturday Night Live in the late 1980s. Here's an idea for a fundraising cause - one that should be supported after the abovementioned causes and many others - but before the Al Franken Recount Fund:
Phil was telling me about a fountain in Spain with a perpetual flow of wine. We were walking around UT the other night at dusk, passing one of the great geyser fountains found on campus, when the setting sun hit just right, and we imagined a magnificent fountain of Pinot grigio, to swim and play in. Please, if nothing else, donate your money to the Bacchanalian Wine Fountain Fund. We'll even set it up in Minnesota, for just one night, and I believe the inhabitants of that state will gain much more in general quality of life than they ever would have by counting pieces of paper one more time.
Ballots or sheep... what's the difference?
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