Too much too late?

I recently came across an astounding factoid, courtesy of Google CEO Eric Schmidt: "There was 5 exabytes of information created between the dawn of civilization through 2003, but that much information is now created every 2 days, and the pace is increasing...." (Schmidt goes on to hint that Google will work with the government to make sure we're all kept track of through increased surveillance.) I've been feeling a part of this global information overload for years now, but immediately upon hearing this information, I asked myself, what am I doing? Writing, blogging, making videos, reading, watching videos, talking.... The amount of stuff out there is overwhelming and I am actively contributing to the whelming by making that statement. Ayyyeeee! Too much.

But then again, I'm aware of this paradox and still acting in it. Playing a part because I must. A character that fulfills a need. Motivation is the need to create.

I was in Maine when I read the above article. A couple days later while packing up, with the late-morning sun searing through the windows, I'm assailed by flashbacks to Austin. The early days, listening to a Big Boys cassette while walking the motor-dominated South Lamar Boulevard, on a pilgrimage to Half Price Books, in the beating sun. Waking up on Saturdays, having just moved, with a world in front of me, and only simple choices to make. Do I go to Goodwill for small appliances or do I go to a Chinese buffet to satiate myself for the whole day? Days when Phil and Laura would come over for music, talk, rolling dice, and maybe water balloons. There was a feeling of community and a good deal of exploration during those days, when, for instance, Phil might leave his place for a walk and show up on my doorstep with a six-pack, at 11 in the morning. Chase the Cheerios. We walk on together, in deeper exploration.

Then, months later, coming back home from two shifts at the white collar factory, with almost no rest in between, my first exposure to late-afternoon autumn sun in weeks. I had to push on, hit two Oktoberfests, by myself, before being joined by the others. Still later, taking the bus to the University Co-op, reading Vaneigem, drinking coffee, and still time for breakfast at Einstein Bagels. Before I'm off to sell Longhorn sink strainers and dartboards....

What's the point of all this? What's the point in me remembering these times in written form? Simple: a certain orientation of the sun makes me happy by triggering distinct memories associated with other solar orientations. If I took it a step further, I would say that I want to channel these memories in the creation of new solar-charged moments in the present. But having typed that sentence, I think I've already taken it too far in written form. The Google CEO says we create an excessively huge amount of information every day. And here I've added just a little bit more.

Get lost

...in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. That was the idea, anyway. Random turns, to the heart's content, stare into massive ship-wrecking waves in the 18th century Atlantic Ocean, for hours with googly eyes, and move on through a bout of phantasmagoria.... That was the idea. But I had one or two things I wanted to see (like the exhibition of Toulouse-Lautrec's prints, which I was a bit underwhelmed by), so I grabbed a map, and then found more things I wanted to see, and eventually the whole idea of getting lost flew out the window. But perhaps that's the way it was meant to be all along...? C'est la vie.

At times I wonder if I'm simply more attracted to words than images. Times in museums and galleries when I'm drawn to the names and descriptions and biographies and histories... before even looking at the pieces themselves. It even extends to my passion for the cinema: I love to read the descriptions in the Shocking Videos catalog, and in Michael J. Weldon's The Psychotronic Video Guide, some times more than the movies themselves. Take this, Weldon's narrative of Flavia the Heretic (which I still haven't seen, and thus can't make a fair synopsis-to-film comparison):

"Flavia is sent to a 13th-century Portuguese nunnery where torture is common and a crazy tarantula cult appears. She wonders why God is a man and runs away with a Jew named Abraham. She's coached by an older rebel nun, then joins her new Muslim lover, who leads an invading army and punishes rapists. She hallucinates a female Christ, a dead nun rising, and women crawling out of a cow's carcass .... It's pretty strong and amazing stuff with some historical basis and feminist themes. The great music helps too. The director was known for making documentaries. The Brazilian-born star claims to have been JFK's last lover. Think about that while you watch this."

That's art to me. Having said that, in the museum, I really enjoyed Van Gogh's portraits, Monet's Mediterranean landscapes, and lots of other stuff.

Luis Melendez is a saint and a martyr. His Still Life with Bread, Ham, Cheese, and Vegetables is a monument to asceticism. I could never draw something like that. I could never sit there, painting for hours, with all that food in front of me... without devouring it. A saint and a martyr.

There are times, often, when I feel that museum-viewing should be a solitary experience. Look, I understand the importance of brush strokes and palettes and all that, but I don't need to hear bourgy old ladies belabor it through lorgnette-goggled eyes.

And having said that, these gold-tinged panels in the Medieval and Early Renaissance rooms - a medium known as tempera (which I just learned) - are the shit.

Bosch's Ecco Homo (Behind the Man), which I also love, reminds me of certain faces in Metalocalypse - those brainless, tortured faces, with deadened eyes and mouths agape.

John Martin's Seventh Plague of Egypt astounds me with its vision, its attention to detail, and the obvious amount of labor that was put into it....

And having said that, it's been a very fine experience, but after two hours in this goddamn museum, I'm ready to leave.

Water Over the Bridge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I start fires

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

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

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

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

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

Deep East

Spent last weekend in New Orleans. Here is a mish-mash of notebook and journal excerpts:

Baton Rouge. Friday morning I begrudgingly wake up at 9 to watch the U.S.-Slovenia match. Turn on the TV just in time to crank up the Star-Spangled Banner to wake Eric up. (We've had the conversation that the World Cup is the only time every four years that we feel patriotic, albeit a warped patriotism, but still we won't stand for the National Anthem.) Staying at Ben's uncle's house, and I go wake Ben up too. Says he's going back to bed until the second half (he's English), but eventually changes his mind. Switching back and forth between beer and coffee this morning, and we end up with a 2-2 draw, which most certainly should've been a win for the U.S. But okay, onto New Orleans.

I am thoroughly enjoying this drive through the bayou. Tall trees spiking out of open water, a village of power plants in the distance, wet warm air.... Shortly thereafter we're in the French Quarter (which we will scarcely leave for the weekend), and the terrain becomes: tight streets, grassy medians, amazing Colonial and Creole houses side by side, street after street, all unique. This city is alive, in spite of, and because of, the seeds of Old Europe and the natural disasters of the New World. I love it already, and feel quite comfortable.

We're out all day and much of the night. Towards the end, Ben and Eric are very tired, and I'm not, so I stay out a bit longer. The street our hostel is on dead ends going southwest, and my walk home puts me on the other side of it. Once I realize this, I ask two pretty ladies if they have any idea where it is. They don't. But they're nice: "Are you trying to go into the projects?" No. "Do you realize you're about to walk into the projects?" I did not. "You might wanna turn around." Okay, thanks, I will. It takes longer, but I backtrack to get home safe. Who knew?

A weekend in the oratory tradition of Henry Miller and George Carlin: a complete disdain for censorship of words and thoughts. This means that absolutely everything that comes to the mind finds its way out through the mouth, or at least it seems that way - bad puns, inanely ironic catchphrases, lurid and ridiculous sex fantasies that can be described in one sentence, and intoxicant-fueled proclamations ("I won't be caught alive without a pen in my pocket", etc.).

Saturday, after a rejuvenating late lunch of red beans and rice and sausage, we're walking the streets of the Quarter. A woman abruptly turns back to her significant other, who's pushing the stroller, and makes a suggestion: "Hurricane?"*** The man nods his head and they cut immediately into a bar, as if this was the obvious and only action to be taken. Later, a girl in panties steps up from a candle-lit dinner on her balcony to blow bubbles over the railing, over our heads, into the marmalade-hued sky. A woman walks down Decatur Street with a full glass of wine (you can drink in public in the Quarter, but you're supposed to use plastic cups). Multi-generational groups, oddballs and goddesses, and even families out for wholesome entertainment, all come together, descending upon the gaudiness of Bourbon Street. And we three, walk the other streets, with no agenda and no pace. Directions, stops, whole journeys are dictated by a gesture of beer-guided hand.



***One of those fairly alcoholic specialty drinks that's served in a big plastic neon receptacle

2009 Marcus James Chardonnay, Mendoza, Argentina

I don't usually do wine reviews, but this one stuck out. I bought it at my corner store, on "very special sale," for $5. It wasn't chilled when I bought it, so I threw it in the fridge for maybe a half hour before I got impatient. I didn't smell it either. It's got like a golden-toxic color, something like Mt. Dew, and it has a nice, sweet, fruity taste, like apple-pear or whatnot, with a pleasantly sweet-sour finish. But it's most striking feature is this: I could scarcely take a sip without feeling like it had gone down the wrong tube. I didn't actually choke on it, but had to lean forward a bit, for at least two out of every three swallows.

I thought that it might be the manner in which I drank it - lying on my bed, eating potato chips and Reese's Pieces Easter eggs, while watching Bringing Up Baby (an excellent screwball comedy starring Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn) - but I had the same experience finishing up the bottle over my next couple of meals. Although I enjoyed the taste, I can't wholly recommend this 2009 Marcus James Chardonnay because of the "texture."

However, since at the moment it's the cheapest wine available at my corner store, I'll probably give it a second chance.

Dinnertime for Radicals

The last post I wrote ("Bad Education," below) had been on my mind for awhile, was one of the more difficult thoughts I've tried to materialize lately, and in the end, did not completely produce the desired result. It reeks a bit of angst-in-a-bubble, like if the character Doug, from The State ("I'm a rebel...."), were to be converted by The Boondock Saints; "me against the world," and so on. But more importantly, concepts like the desire to possess someone else's time are left mostly unelucidated. Even more so, this giant preoccupation we have with the idea of "becoming someone in life"... well, there's a lot more to say about that.

My plan was to let it sit a week, and then revisit it with corrections. But a week later, and then two and a half weeks later, I'm still not sure how to correct it, update it, modify it, or do anything else to it. So I'll let it stew, on a cyberspace burner, and wait to see if it comes up again, perhaps even in real life.... In the meantime, instead of correcting something I wrote, I will "correct" something that someone else wrote:

Every town in the world of any size should have a neighborhood named "Freetown" (as in Freetown Christiania, Copenhagen). A place where people who don't have any employment or guns or TVs or bitterness or allegiance to a flag can go.

People like that are treated like pariahs in other neighborhoods, kept on the move by cops, teachers, and small-business owners. Like jellyfish, they are happy to move, but it's nice to have somewhere to go, some times....

Somewhere they can continue to drift, to and fro, enchanted variously by a cactus, a castle, and the hairnets of other jellyfish, until they come to rest at the local cinema or library.

Where they can chat and play all day. Where they can plant gardens and farm. Where they can drink in the streets. The basic idea is this one: a place where people can be free of the dominance that they inevitably suffer from under a capitalist hierarchy.