27.9.08
Friggin' freezing in here, y'all. Period.
Sorry to the very few who have lain eyes here, but you'll have to pause for a stretch before you'll have the pleasure of squandering any more time perusing this glommed together ball of blog. Here it goes into hibernation...for the time being.
9.9.08
Vocab. Hyped
It's clear and unanimous; the most overused word of the year has got to be...panacea. This term has been bandied about in practically every media forum around, especially in recent months as most discussions in the public forum eventually lead to futile arguments over energy policy. Here is an offering of alternatives to that frankly played-out, antiquated, and progressively stale term so popularized today:
What's the best remedy for our energy ills?
Judging by the cost of that ear, do you still think corn ethanol is the cure-all for our oil addiction?
Do you know of a good medicament for herpes?
Why not offer up a catholicon to save us from a fatal, collective third-degree burn?
Does "Drill, baby, drill!" sound like the magic bullet for the global warming dilemma?
The GOP naively suggests a nepenthe to soothe the pain of our fossil-fueled woes.
Clean coal technologies and offshore drilling merely represent a nostrum to our energy crisis.
A certain few of these options could be the panacea to the problem of the word panacea's frequency in the media as of late. Although, it would be only slightly less surprising for armageddon to ensue than it would be for the talking heads to consult a thesaurus once in a harvest moon.
What's the best remedy for our energy ills?
Judging by the cost of that ear, do you still think corn ethanol is the cure-all for our oil addiction?
Do you know of a good medicament for herpes?
Why not offer up a catholicon to save us from a fatal, collective third-degree burn?
Does "Drill, baby, drill!" sound like the magic bullet for the global warming dilemma?
The GOP naively suggests a nepenthe to soothe the pain of our fossil-fueled woes.
Clean coal technologies and offshore drilling merely represent a nostrum to our energy crisis.
A certain few of these options could be the panacea to the problem of the word panacea's frequency in the media as of late. Although, it would be only slightly less surprising for armageddon to ensue than it would be for the talking heads to consult a thesaurus once in a harvest moon.
8.9.08
Another Title Rotation...
Still more titles for this blog have come and gone. In case you missed them, they're summarized here for your Latin learning pleasure.
"nolens volens" - this one is the Latin root of the common phrase 'willy nilly', stemming from the Old English phrase 'wil-he, nil-he' meaning 'will he or will he not'. I liked the sound of it and it fit my then state of apathetic indecision.
"talis qualis" - the continuation of the rhyming latin is purely coincindental, however nicely it rings! I like this one for its simplicity; it means only 'as such' or 'just as it is', which for me stands to describe the content I've gathered here. There's no pretense and I'm not speaking as an authority...so this is it.
"respice, adspice, prospice" - no, nothing to do with spices here. It means 'to look back, look to the present, and to the future'. Maybe the reader should read old posts and look forward to new ones. Also, it's a cue for me to be more contemplative and conscious of this life's path. Possibly, I just need to get some Mexican food soon!
More name changes to come...
"nolens volens" - this one is the Latin root of the common phrase 'willy nilly', stemming from the Old English phrase 'wil-he, nil-he' meaning 'will he or will he not'. I liked the sound of it and it fit my then state of apathetic indecision.
"talis qualis" - the continuation of the rhyming latin is purely coincindental, however nicely it rings! I like this one for its simplicity; it means only 'as such' or 'just as it is', which for me stands to describe the content I've gathered here. There's no pretense and I'm not speaking as an authority...so this is it.
"respice, adspice, prospice" - no, nothing to do with spices here. It means 'to look back, look to the present, and to the future'. Maybe the reader should read old posts and look forward to new ones. Also, it's a cue for me to be more contemplative and conscious of this life's path. Possibly, I just need to get some Mexican food soon!
More name changes to come...
Musical Titles...
Again, the need for clarification arises as the name of this blog continues to change. I realize, admittedly, that the constant moniker juggling probably makes it tough for searchers to find the site by name, although the url remains the same. No matter - the changes are meant to keep my approach fresh, even as my gripes may become stale. To begin the next round:
'sol omnia regit' - this is meant to remind me and the curious reader that the sun rules over us all. Life continues even in the face of struggle and suffering. The world breathes even if its lungs sting and wither. Even this blog whimpers and drags itself on...fortunately vel non ;)
Swimming at the Airport...
This Labor Day, I spent some precious moments immersed in the immense reservoir that is Lake Lanier. While submerged, I enjoyed the company of the previously introduced canine, Tallulah, who becomes more at ease in the water with every visit, provided sticks and tennis balls abound. The only drawback during this lovely, if brief, excursion into Lanier's shallow bathwater was, well, the rest of the world.
From our vantage point on an island (these days more a drought-borne peninsula), Tallulah and I floated, treaded, and dog-paddled for a short while until it seemed we were totally surrounded by humanity, each being executing his or her willful right to relaxation. The irony of the scene was that very relaxation that all sought simultaneously was what was keeping me and countless others from achieving any real serenity. Mindfulness surely would have served me well at that moment but for my inexperience with 'wet zazen', or zazen of any sort.
The people seemed to come from almost all directions by water. First, the mosquito-like buzz-bys of personal watercraft, the Sea-doo jetski, made their aural assaults. The crafts' operators, ranging from middle-aged and pot-bellied to pre-pubescent and thoughtless, were clearly oblivious of others in the lake or on its shores. Even hugging the cracked and dried shoreline, Tallulah and I were whipped by the jetskis' roiling wakes, testing my patience for Southern boaters, rattling the doggy's fragile aqua-confidence.
The auditory barrage continued throughout our swim, at times rising to a multi-octave cacophony of inboard cigarette boat rumblings, pontoon boat whirrs, and partybarges zooming sluggishly on the now turbulent lake. Skiers and wakeboarders sliced through the green water and red clay murk, led by Mastercrafts and rust buckets alike. Any calm, any inclining of peace was engulfed on all sides by an obnoxious echoing of wakes, the fumes of the carbon-burning-maniacs, the day off, drunken hollers of all who dedicated themselves to recreation on that holiday. Bobbing there, keeping on the surface to stay visible, I felt like a duck might, one who'd found its way to a cooling puddle centered in a vast empty concrete field, threatened with every webbed kick by the aluminum giants taking flight all around.
Regardless of class, race, creed, or social standing, those on the lake that day must have at least noticed the extent to which our 'good times' were affecting the environment around us. So, by the end of the weekend, the lake and all its struggling native creatures had the chance to drink in the rainbow oil slicks and litter strewn all about, gifts from its patrons on that very free day in the heart of a very free land. It is fitting though that a man-made, fingery "lake" such as Lanier should be so ecologically tortured by the very same folks who drink it up, feed their lawns, and wash their clothes and bodies with it daily. Even in times of scarcity, it is remote to think that we might cherish the natural elements. Instead, we manipulate the Earth's forms, turn valleys into lakebeds, and proceed to rape the rains of better years with machines made for the pleasure of men who behave more like parasites.
Still, with all the distractions, the dip was a cooling one and I can now say that the time spent was well-spent. Tallulah would agree that the trip was worthwhile, hot as it was that day, although she'd prefer a more placid scenario in which to master her paddling technique.
From our vantage point on an island (these days more a drought-borne peninsula), Tallulah and I floated, treaded, and dog-paddled for a short while until it seemed we were totally surrounded by humanity, each being executing his or her willful right to relaxation. The irony of the scene was that very relaxation that all sought simultaneously was what was keeping me and countless others from achieving any real serenity. Mindfulness surely would have served me well at that moment but for my inexperience with 'wet zazen', or zazen of any sort.
The people seemed to come from almost all directions by water. First, the mosquito-like buzz-bys of personal watercraft, the Sea-doo jetski, made their aural assaults. The crafts' operators, ranging from middle-aged and pot-bellied to pre-pubescent and thoughtless, were clearly oblivious of others in the lake or on its shores. Even hugging the cracked and dried shoreline, Tallulah and I were whipped by the jetskis' roiling wakes, testing my patience for Southern boaters, rattling the doggy's fragile aqua-confidence.
The auditory barrage continued throughout our swim, at times rising to a multi-octave cacophony of inboard cigarette boat rumblings, pontoon boat whirrs, and partybarges zooming sluggishly on the now turbulent lake. Skiers and wakeboarders sliced through the green water and red clay murk, led by Mastercrafts and rust buckets alike. Any calm, any inclining of peace was engulfed on all sides by an obnoxious echoing of wakes, the fumes of the carbon-burning-maniacs, the day off, drunken hollers of all who dedicated themselves to recreation on that holiday. Bobbing there, keeping on the surface to stay visible, I felt like a duck might, one who'd found its way to a cooling puddle centered in a vast empty concrete field, threatened with every webbed kick by the aluminum giants taking flight all around.
Regardless of class, race, creed, or social standing, those on the lake that day must have at least noticed the extent to which our 'good times' were affecting the environment around us. So, by the end of the weekend, the lake and all its struggling native creatures had the chance to drink in the rainbow oil slicks and litter strewn all about, gifts from its patrons on that very free day in the heart of a very free land. It is fitting though that a man-made, fingery "lake" such as Lanier should be so ecologically tortured by the very same folks who drink it up, feed their lawns, and wash their clothes and bodies with it daily. Even in times of scarcity, it is remote to think that we might cherish the natural elements. Instead, we manipulate the Earth's forms, turn valleys into lakebeds, and proceed to rape the rains of better years with machines made for the pleasure of men who behave more like parasites.
Still, with all the distractions, the dip was a cooling one and I can now say that the time spent was well-spent. Tallulah would agree that the trip was worthwhile, hot as it was that day, although she'd prefer a more placid scenario in which to master her paddling technique.
The Energy Ball
Despite its overly clever name, the science behind this renewable energy technology seems remarkably promising. It would be brilliant to see these sprouting from the roofs and chimneys of every dwelling on the block. The following link provides info on this breakthrough wind turbine highlighting its electrical productivity even in low wind areas. http://www.home-energy.com/engels/ebv100.htm
28.8.08
Gray Pride...
Although I've yet to achieve a full head of silver, I am beginning to realize that my notions on aging have begun to change. This seems to be happening in conjunction with the graying behind my temples and the gradually more frequent discovery of rogue, white strands hiding in my beard.
Somehow, it has become a part of my perception of aging that going gray is something to dread. That perspective may be rooted in childhood memories of my parents faces and the locks of family friends, having watched these people I literally looked up to begin to dimly glow from their heads even after dusk. Now, I'd say if one's mop transforms itself into a shimmer-in-the-dark type of bird's nest, then so it goes. That's how you'll know you've lived through struggle or simply walked through a less-than carefree life.
Unfortunately, I've lost most of my hair already, and the little I have left is starting to tell the tale of my past without any utterance on my part. Soon the salt will begin to win its battle with the pepper and that will be it! Maybe I don't fear this transition because of my early fondness for the comedy of Steve Martin or my juvenile attraction to a friend's buxom mother who began consistently frosting her hair at the first notice of a gray.
At its heart, I think the general "dismay at gray" for most comes not from the change in our superficial identity but the indication that the rest of the physiology stands on the edge of some wicked kind of tumble, an unstoppable, end-over-end plunge into a geriatric abyss with no hope of escape except by means of death.
It might be best to look to those who we regard to have aged gracefully - Paul Newman, for me, is one. He and Helen Mirren would make a lovely elderly couple, playing shuffleboard in slow motion, feathery, flickering locks waving in the breeze. For now, I'll choose to relish the debut of each new player in the drama between darkness and light that unfolds, daily and irreversibly, on my head.
Somehow, it has become a part of my perception of aging that going gray is something to dread. That perspective may be rooted in childhood memories of my parents faces and the locks of family friends, having watched these people I literally looked up to begin to dimly glow from their heads even after dusk. Now, I'd say if one's mop transforms itself into a shimmer-in-the-dark type of bird's nest, then so it goes. That's how you'll know you've lived through struggle or simply walked through a less-than carefree life.
Unfortunately, I've lost most of my hair already, and the little I have left is starting to tell the tale of my past without any utterance on my part. Soon the salt will begin to win its battle with the pepper and that will be it! Maybe I don't fear this transition because of my early fondness for the comedy of Steve Martin or my juvenile attraction to a friend's buxom mother who began consistently frosting her hair at the first notice of a gray.
At its heart, I think the general "dismay at gray" for most comes not from the change in our superficial identity but the indication that the rest of the physiology stands on the edge of some wicked kind of tumble, an unstoppable, end-over-end plunge into a geriatric abyss with no hope of escape except by means of death.
It might be best to look to those who we regard to have aged gracefully - Paul Newman, for me, is one. He and Helen Mirren would make a lovely elderly couple, playing shuffleboard in slow motion, feathery, flickering locks waving in the breeze. For now, I'll choose to relish the debut of each new player in the drama between darkness and light that unfolds, daily and irreversibly, on my head.
26.8.08
The Devil's Rain
Long ago, I read somewhere that when it rains in full sunshine, it's called the 'Devil's Rain'. Somehow the elements of the name seem contradictory: the sun being positive and hopeful and the rain, a typically dreary part of life. Personally, I seem to see rain as a life-giving element for our garden and the all of Earth's gardens. Too much rain, of course, leads to disaster, failed crops, disease, and misery. Not enough yields just the same.
As for today's so called 'Devil's Rain', I'd say it was exemplary. The droplets were rotund divebombers, smashing the pavement outside the building with all the force that terminal velocity could provide. The backsplashing of each crashing drop gave off its own crown-shaped ringlet of resonance, dimpling the puddles and sending tiny waves in all directions. The sun shined throughout, giving the whole shower an eerie, vibrant quality. Just as quickly as it whipped up, pushed here by the residual energy of a lingering tropical storm, it was over.
As for today's so called 'Devil's Rain', I'd say it was exemplary. The droplets were rotund divebombers, smashing the pavement outside the building with all the force that terminal velocity could provide. The backsplashing of each crashing drop gave off its own crown-shaped ringlet of resonance, dimpling the puddles and sending tiny waves in all directions. The sun shined throughout, giving the whole shower an eerie, vibrant quality. Just as quickly as it whipped up, pushed here by the residual energy of a lingering tropical storm, it was over.
24.8.08
The True Originals at Improv Everywhere...
If you've never heard of Improv Everywhere, you'll be pleasantly surprised and amused after a visit to their extensive site full of links to ingenious & creative social projects
(some would came them 'pranks'). These folks incorporate modern technology, social networking, and group dynamics to engineer some very unique and entertaining 'events' mostly in urban areas around the U.S. All of the content is better to see than to read about, clearly, so it's a must to check out their site at http://improveverywhere.com/ . Enjoy the evidence that in the masses, there is plenty of room for fun and infinite power for change.
Some of my favorite participatory works are:
Slo-Mo Home Depot
Sychronized Swimming in Washington Square Park
Cellphone Symphony
No Pants 2K6
Check these out; you'll surely smile!
(some would came them 'pranks'). These folks incorporate modern technology, social networking, and group dynamics to engineer some very unique and entertaining 'events' mostly in urban areas around the U.S. All of the content is better to see than to read about, clearly, so it's a must to check out their site at http://improveverywhere.com/ . Enjoy the evidence that in the masses, there is plenty of room for fun and infinite power for change.
Some of my favorite participatory works are:
Slo-Mo Home Depot
Sychronized Swimming in Washington Square Park
Cellphone Symphony
No Pants 2K6
Check these out; you'll surely smile!
18.8.08
James 'Super Chikan' Johnson
Every so often, over the past ten years or so, I'll throw in the one recording I own by Super Chikan. Before today, I thought this was the name of a band (and a good name it is for a group). Now, I've discovered my erroneous thinking and I'm glad I did. It turns out the name 'Super Chikan' actually refers to one James Johnson of Clarksdale, MS. Besides his funky brand of Delta blues, the man has a great story behind the interesting title. According to the Mississippi (yep, still using the old tune to spell that one!) Folklife & Folk Artist Directory at
http://www.arts.state.ms.us/folklife/artist.php?dirname=johnson_james, due to Mr. Johnson's fascination with the chicken in his yard as a boy, he garnered his first nickname, 'Chicken Boy'. Later, as a rather expeditious taxidriver, he gained the 'Super' part of his name and he's gone by that combined title ever since.
I first enjoyed his singing style on a tune all about how he had spent plenty of money on his lady and her hair care products (24 cans of hairspray) only to arrive home after work to find her snazzy hairdo all "messed up", presumptively by some unwlecomed suitor. This is some pretty serious business that Super Chikan approaches with plenty of levity, making the song a lot of fun. The rest of what I heard so long ago was just plain old good blues music with a funky flair.
Aside from the good quality music, Mr. Johnson is also well-known for his handmade, scrap metal 'Chicantars' as he calls them. The pictures reveal a wide variety of instruments made form oil and gas cans among other sheet metals. I'm not sure that the recordings I've heard were made on these incredibly original instruments, but if they were, then all the more impressive is his sound, in my opinion. Some 'Chicantars' for your own feasting eyes:
Listen to Super Chikan 'cause he knows what he's talkin' about!
Where I'm From...
As universal as the phrase may sound, to me, the lead in "where I'm from" will always evoke the lyrics of Brooklyn-based hip-hop group Digable Planets. Their song by the same title is an ode to their native NYC borough with many a reference to Flatbush Ave, flamboyant street vendors, Jamaican hairdressers, idle kids finding innocent trouble, and the inevitable heat of summer in the city.For me, where I'm from conjures up an entirely different brand of memory. My native land is one of subtle beauty, nothing as grand as the peaks of the Colorado Rockies, the temperate rainforests of the Olympic peninsula, or the vibrant coral reefs of Kauai, but somehow equally remarkable. No, where I'm from is filled with gentle hills, shady valleys, old beech-maple groves, and most of all, miles of crystalline, fresh water coast.
This is not to say that my place of origin beats anyone else's ~ far from it. We all have different roots and these are shaped, in part, by the landscape of our individual childhood and adolescent experiences, the places where we first howl with laughter, kiss, pray, cry, love and tumble down the knoll. In my life, I've loved the glimpses I've gained of the homelands of others, places that seem warm and welcoming in a way that is familiar but not native, not ingrained in my cells like the fair view of whitecaps carrying pollen and algae from another peninsula.
No matter what locale I may inhabit at present, it is my past that continues to define my identity. Someday soon I hope I will be able to relate to a new land in the way that I relate to the verdant place of my birth. Each place I go seems to hold its own unique features, the features that make it dear to those who've grown there. Down here in the South, it seems to be the lazily flowing rivers, deep green forests snarled with Kudzu and ivy, and the iron rich clay hard under every step. More so, here, I get the feeling that what defines this place are the muggy nights swinging on the porch with a glass of cool tea, the strolling through the neighborhood under a canopy of live oaks and mistletoe, all the while delighting in the cicadas' cacophonous serenade.
14.8.08
The Photography of Greg Seman...
Among photographers, those who practice traditional film and printing techniques are fewer all the time. Of this dwindling breed, I consider Greg Seman to be one of the medium's finest visual representatives. His work is straightforward, eloquent, and tremendously beautiful without offering up any pretense. He seems to approach his natural subject matter with very few preconceptions and for the viewer, the result is an intricate and accurate representation of his vision.
It's true that there are plenty of other talented photographers currently producing work in this vein. However, Seman is one who seems to effortlessly convey the subtle beauty of his varied subjects. His formal compositions are balanced and clear, which helps to surround the viewer with emotional impact, easing one into the presentation of these uniquely beautiful places.
13.8.08
Gunnar Norrman Drypoint Prints
Now, I'm fully getting in the mood to make prints. I came upon this gentleman's fine work via another blog around here. His style seems very compact and precise, although he seems to keep things simple and fairly austere. It could be the monochromatic approach or the common, natural subject matter. Whatever it is, it appeals to my own personal aesthetic and I hope to get a chance to see some of his work in person one day.
12.8.08
Ukiyo-e and Viscosity Printing...
It's been many years since I've actually sat down and tried to draw something, let alone make a print of it. Lately, I've been studying up on viscosity printing (a method of simultaneously including many hues on a print in one pass through the press) while lingering over some of the old ukiyo-e prints that inspired me during college. My old printmaking instructor at Northern Michigan University had such a laidback, supportive style and he used to encourage us to find influences and expand our own styles. I had some success with intaglio printing but really only began to get into the process by the time my coursework was complete.
These are some beautiful examples of the kind of prints that can be made through various processes including woodcut, lithography, intaglio, among others. This first is a portion of a traditional Japanese woodcut.
Peter Milton is one of the premier intaglio printers working today...the level of detail is matchless.
Of course, there's Durer, the master.
Last up is an old intaglio print of my own...a rough one, at that!
11.8.08
Introducing...Tallulah !
Please enjoy a tiny glimpse of one of the sweetest little canines I ever did know...it's Tallulah y'all! Check her out in all her puppy glory racing up and down the trails of Georgia's Black Rock Mountain State Park.
6.8.08
Over the line!
It seems that parking at work is always a mess. Today, however, I managed to find the humor in the daily struggle to wedge my little Civic into an overly skinny spot, thus risking driver-side dings and the consequent ulcerative angst. As I cozied into a narrow space, I realized that the excessively beefy truck beside me was parked completely crooked and was fully over the line defining its proper allotment.
The phrase in my head triggered a cinematic memory from none other than the 90's cult classic The Big Lebowski. As they compete (in league play, mind you) at their home bowling alley, Walter played by John Goodman bellows at a graying, ponytailed hippie named Smokey, "Over the line! I'm sorry, but you were over the line, Smokey." Lebowski tells Walter to calm down but that's not in Walter's realm of capabilities. He takes his bowling seriously (especially during league play) and so too should we with parking.
Be you soccer mom, Southern beauhunk, or just plain ol' Joe Public:
Stay between the bloody lines!
The phrase in my head triggered a cinematic memory from none other than the 90's cult classic The Big Lebowski. As they compete (in league play, mind you) at their home bowling alley, Walter played by John Goodman bellows at a graying, ponytailed hippie named Smokey, "Over the line! I'm sorry, but you were over the line, Smokey." Lebowski tells Walter to calm down but that's not in Walter's realm of capabilities. He takes his bowling seriously (especially during league play) and so too should we with parking.
Be you soccer mom, Southern beauhunk, or just plain ol' Joe Public:
Stay between the bloody lines!
5.8.08
Social living is the best...
The title of this post comes from a song of the same name by the reggae artist Burning Spear (a.k.a. Winston Rodney). Somehow, I'd listened to the song for years without ever realizing what it actually meant. Maybe I never had any way to relate to the message of the track. Now, it seems, I'm becoming familiar with the essence of the lyric.
These past years have been a concentrated time for me and my partner of five years. They've been good years but ones with the requisite struggles. One such struggle has been the challenge to branch out into the thriving social scene where we live, an art/pop/rock/university scene with more than its share of hipsters and critics. Even so, it has been a decent place to live and truly one of the only urban places in which we could ever live in this state.
Remarkably, after many months of malaise and near petrifying self-consciousness, we're venturing out into it again. It feels good to meet people, find some commonalities, and realize that you can't 'click' with everyone, that not everyone has a judging eye. I may be the one with the critical bent, frequently sizing up and then internally cutting-down passersby and acquaintances. It happens much, much less with the latter as I discover the individual talents and interesting quirks that almost all of these folks possess to some degree.
As Winston Rodney sings, "Social living is the best". His way is the way of our nature; to talk, look, relate, laugh, listen, think and smile...together. So, in the context of a real society is where I'll endeavor to live, facing insecurity daily and surmounting fear just as much.
These past years have been a concentrated time for me and my partner of five years. They've been good years but ones with the requisite struggles. One such struggle has been the challenge to branch out into the thriving social scene where we live, an art/pop/rock/university scene with more than its share of hipsters and critics. Even so, it has been a decent place to live and truly one of the only urban places in which we could ever live in this state.
Remarkably, after many months of malaise and near petrifying self-consciousness, we're venturing out into it again. It feels good to meet people, find some commonalities, and realize that you can't 'click' with everyone, that not everyone has a judging eye. I may be the one with the critical bent, frequently sizing up and then internally cutting-down passersby and acquaintances. It happens much, much less with the latter as I discover the individual talents and interesting quirks that almost all of these folks possess to some degree.
As Winston Rodney sings, "Social living is the best". His way is the way of our nature; to talk, look, relate, laugh, listen, think and smile...together. So, in the context of a real society is where I'll endeavor to live, facing insecurity daily and surmounting fear just as much.
4.8.08
The rotating name 'round here...
If one were to only occasionally visit this spot, it would become clear that the name of the site keeps changing. The name change is not a daily occurrence, but so far I've gone through a few. The reason is to reflect a particular mood or message and to also expand my limited Latin vocabulary.
To begin, it was - bioelectrics in statu nascendi - a very literal reflection of this blog at its start which I took to mean - brainwaves in the state of being born.
Then came - panem et circenses - a phrase that I thought particularly appropriate for times in which we live. Its translation into English is - bread and circus - an ancient Roman trick used to divert the attention of the populous away from more pertinent political scandals.
Now we have - a posse ad esse - one with a distinctly Portuguese ring to it. This one means - from being able to being - which I take to me that when once I was able to envision a blog of my own, now I have one in actuality.
So, there you have it - the name game explained!
A strange way to spot a friend...
I had a pleasant discovery today as I sit listening to Pandora. After hearing some guitar work by one of my favorites, Michael Hedges, I began to think of an old friend who also has the chops to play in that modern, talent-intensive style. His name is Chris Stefanciw and, last I heard, he was living in Liverpool, a noteworthy musical environment itself.
As it turns out, he has shown up on at least one recording by a fairly high-profile young artist in the UK. Her name is Sarah Dickson and you can hear her tunes at the link below. Chris is playing guitar, but I'm not sure on which tracks in particular.
I did find another instance of his name in the credits of a recording project by a group called Sanagi. I have no way to confirm that this is indeed more musical evidence of Chris's prowess on the guitar, but I'll bet that it was him on this last, as well.
It was very cool to discover and then listen to this friend's recent work, all at once. Life in the Internet age can indeed be instantly gratifying, this time in a good way.
31.7.08
Glen Small and his 70's era Green Machine...
It may be somewhat tricky to discern, but the Green Machine by architect Glen Small, co-founder of SCI-Arc in Los Angeles, was truly a significant residential concept in its day, even if it was never physically realized. All that existed were the scale models and architectural renderings, as far as I can tell.
The idea was simple and carries weight today as a viable set-up for apartment-like residential dwellings. To me, the best part of his design was that each sleeping unit, essentially made up of Airstream-type trailers, was the only private space provided in the complex. The other spaces constituted public areas put in place to force the inhabitants of the Green Machine to socialize and form a community. There was also mention of communal kitchen spaces as well as areas for entertaining and plain old lounging, the latter of which I think they did quite a bit of in the 70's.
It is a bit sad that this brilliant, ecologically progressive innovation was never actually built, in this time of suburban sprawl. No one could ever dismiss Small for not having enough talent or drive, only for failing to climb in bed with the movers and shakers of the day. In a documentary film, My Father The Genius, produced and directed by his daughter, Lucia Small, he admits that it was never his ambition to kiss *ss in order to get things done. His work was what he put forth and any merit he did garner came from it alone and not his business savvy. Regardless, he deserves respect for his contributions to architectural design under the influence of pure sensuality.
29.7.08
Play Merrills...
My brothers, younger sister and I all used to play this ancient game, sometimes attributed to the Egyptians, when we were young and bored. It is well-documented that rudimentary gameboards have been found carved into stones dating back to the last ice age.
So, there must be something special about the game itself. It's a deceptively simple game of strategy, easier to learn than chess, and appropriate for almost all age of players. Even as kids, we had a great time competing at Merrills, also known by its English name Nine Men's Morris, even if the lengthy tournaments sometimes ended in tearful dejection (mostly the fault of my poor sportsmanship). Seek out the rules and you'll see how straightforward the game can be.
All it takes is a board and eighteen uniform pieces of two different shades (dark and light colored pebbles work well). Check out the stone below for the layout of the game board. Challenge!
28.7.08
The Visitor...
There's been much commentary in this format about The Visitor and still the majority of folks out there think it must be a film about interplanetary travel and alien landings. Nonetheless, I felt the need to post it here; I loved this movie that much. It's such an important examination of the big, important things in life: family, love, passsion for something outside of work, and a feeling of home and belonging. Read more about it at the link below - this guy out of Providence, Rhode Island, did a great job discussing the work. On a note that may need some research, my mother said the lead in this film, Richard Jenkins, is a long lost cousin. Hmmm....really?
Pegged...
In reading some Michael Pollan, I quickly realized that I could be easily placed into a descriptive category of characters, as we all could if we were to appear in print, engendering a very certain gamut of qualities. The introductory heading I always wished I embodied would have to be the "slim and severe" also known as the "ruggedly handsome and strong" brand of John. However, and this is where Pollan helped me to see myself, I probably tend to somehow fall into line with the gads of the "softer and rounder" types. In a way, this is how I've always been yet my internal dialogue has never seemed to agree with my outward appearance. Now, as the decades multiply by a growing factor, the gap feels to have widened even further from where I saw myself to where I've landed, with a thump.
The landing is not to say that another flight isn't already on a slow taxi though.
The landing is not to say that another flight isn't already on a slow taxi though.
25.7.08
It should be bare...
Letting those early posts marinate these past couple of days, I've realized that this process really is meant to be a soul-baring one. I heard someone say that the best writing is the kind that exposes the reader to the raw emotion of the author, be that to the reader's benefit or abhorrence. Oh well, this may be the nature of things for this blog. I'm hesitant to strip away all my social protective gear, but in the coming weeks I'll attempt to be less self-conscious, at least in this realm.
24.7.08
Selling bootcamp and beyond...
At work today, I had a unique, fly-on-the-wall experience related to our nation's armed forces and the recruiting practices of one branch in particular - oorah! After finishing with a student, we were standing together on the threshold scheduling our next meeting when a pair of young guys strolled by followed closely by another pair, the second set in neatly pressed uniforms, belt buckles shining even under the institutional, fluorescent glow of the hallway.
The conversation, or rather interrogation, that ensued started off inquisitively enough, with a fair degree of politeness. The dapper, uniformed recruiter, no more than a few years older than the young men he was addressing, commenced with the typical line of questioning: "So, what's your major? Oh, you're not sure. What kind of stuff are you interested in? Leaving your options open...okay." All pretty much routine. Then things began to change and the tone became more aggressive and actually fairly insulting, from my perspective. The message to one of the young men in the serviceman's sights was that he would never make it in the Marines and that he shouldn't pursue enlistment. "Yeah, you're definitely not cut out for it. You don't know what you want to do in life? You couldn't handle it. Don't even try."
This tactless effort at intimidation through reverse psychology seemed at best hacky and at worst seriously pushy. Listening to the silence of the guys listening, I could tell the approach had backfired. One of the young men seemed to lose interest, rightly sensing that this was the type of crap, the type of condescension that he'd have to look forward to in his fledgling military career. The other of the two targets was less fortunate and maybe had given some signs of interest, although most likely he was just feigning early enthusiasm out of courtesy.
The persistent recruiter understood he was waging a losing battle and it was only a matter of time before his window of opportunity fell shut with finger-crushing force. So, his last salvo was to try to arrange another time when they could meet to "exchange information". This last attempt at closing was what led me to make my comments. The well-groomed, well-spoken young Marine was acting like any two-bit salesman pitching a faulty product to the wrong potential buyer. His obviously worn and tested schtick had come to a fruitless end. I was strangely proud of the kid who didn't know what he wanted to do with his life. Maybe he'd figure it out along the way, but even from my sidewards vantage point, one can quite safely assume that won't be happening after any species of masochistic, state-sponsored indoctrination.
The conversation, or rather interrogation, that ensued started off inquisitively enough, with a fair degree of politeness. The dapper, uniformed recruiter, no more than a few years older than the young men he was addressing, commenced with the typical line of questioning: "So, what's your major? Oh, you're not sure. What kind of stuff are you interested in? Leaving your options open...okay." All pretty much routine. Then things began to change and the tone became more aggressive and actually fairly insulting, from my perspective. The message to one of the young men in the serviceman's sights was that he would never make it in the Marines and that he shouldn't pursue enlistment. "Yeah, you're definitely not cut out for it. You don't know what you want to do in life? You couldn't handle it. Don't even try."
This tactless effort at intimidation through reverse psychology seemed at best hacky and at worst seriously pushy. Listening to the silence of the guys listening, I could tell the approach had backfired. One of the young men seemed to lose interest, rightly sensing that this was the type of crap, the type of condescension that he'd have to look forward to in his fledgling military career. The other of the two targets was less fortunate and maybe had given some signs of interest, although most likely he was just feigning early enthusiasm out of courtesy.
The persistent recruiter understood he was waging a losing battle and it was only a matter of time before his window of opportunity fell shut with finger-crushing force. So, his last salvo was to try to arrange another time when they could meet to "exchange information". This last attempt at closing was what led me to make my comments. The well-groomed, well-spoken young Marine was acting like any two-bit salesman pitching a faulty product to the wrong potential buyer. His obviously worn and tested schtick had come to a fruitless end. I was strangely proud of the kid who didn't know what he wanted to do with his life. Maybe he'd figure it out along the way, but even from my sidewards vantage point, one can quite safely assume that won't be happening after any species of masochistic, state-sponsored indoctrination.
Haruki Murakami...
Thanks in full again to DKT for yet another flawless suggestion. Haruki Murakami, heralded Japanese novelist, seems to hold a position of profound respect in the world of contemporary literature. Although I've yet to get into any of his many novels, I've made an effort to read up on his work, which has served only to oxygenate the flame of my interest. His short stories, as far as I've explored, seem to be tiny masterpieces of subtle character interaction set in evocative, sometimes very natural, environs. Take me there, please...
A fairly slick little site about Murakami even with some pages still under construction ~
http://www.murakami.ch/main_7.html
A lovely Murakami short story from an Emerson College source ~
http://www.pshares.org/issues/article.cfm?prmarticleID=7520
A fairly slick little site about Murakami even with some pages still under construction ~
http://www.murakami.ch/main_7.html
A lovely Murakami short story from an Emerson College source ~
http://www.pshares.org/issues/article.cfm?prmarticleID=7520
23.7.08
Credit to Steppin' In It
To be honest, I should amend my previous post about the reasons I've been getting back into music lately. The newest album by local Michigan favorites Steppin' In It was a gift from my folks and I've been loving it for months now. It's only the latest addition to a growing body of recordings from this yet to go national group of traditional musicians. It remains a mystery to me that they have not been "discovered" by some larger label with wider distribution. Although, maybe that's just the way these Michigan boys like it. Cheers to their newly-penned, old timey tunes and heartfelt ballads, all set amidst the subtle Michigamee landscape. Hear why I'm hooked on Sharon Jones & the D.K's
Have a listen to one of the premier tunes by Sharon Jones and The Dap Kings. Maybe after hearing that horn line, you'll understand why I'm so smitten. Enjoy.
Short stories...
Thanks to Dennis, a.k.a. DKT , for his excellent recommendation, and subsequent lending of this phenomenally strange and entertaining compilation of short stories by T. Coraghessan Boyle. His most well-known mainstream work is The Road to Wellville, made popular by its film adaptation starring a youthful Matthew Broderick, Sir Anthony Hopkins, among other famous persons. The writing is a far better abdominal workout than any film could hope to be, although several of his other works currently being adapted for the screen. It took me a decent number of lunch hours to get through this volume, but that was mostly due to all the crumb brushing and re-reading of great turns-of-phrase in which I was engaged. Give it a try sometime if you're into the surreal, the demented, or simply in search of a more sublime trip than most of our work-a-day lives seem to afford.
Find out more at the author's site ~ http://www.tcboyle.com/index.html
Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings
After a recent trip to Michigan, I've fallen in love again. Prior to the trip, I had remarkably and inexplicably fallen out of love with most of my recorded music. Maybe we had just grown tired of one another, as can happen with long time sweetie tune! Yet, all it took was a good tip from a friend at Capitol Records (thanks, Lance!) and a gentle push from a friend and new daddy, the knowledge-wealthy music guru who got me back into the swing. Back in the groove would be more appropriate for what Sharon Jones and her undeniably tight backing band, the Dap Kings, have done for me and my tired ears. Seek out this diva and her fellas to have your muscial spirit renewed by the nouveau masters of the decades old soul trade. It was all spurred on down in Georgia by the Hardest Workin' Man in Show Business (r.i.p.J.B.) and the Dap Kings help the lovely Ms. Jones to carry on the funky tradition.
...so it begins...
Well, I've long resisted the urge to join the rest of my generation in the 'blogosphere'. Part of my hesitancy probably stems from terms like that. Does there yet exist a term like 'blogerati'? If not, maybe I should first coin it and then aspire to be a part of it. Stay in tune and tuned in for more.
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