Craft and Inspiration

My fingers are splitting open,
oiled and pasted and drugged
and re-taped, my fingers
are seaming apart, bits of lemon
juice traveling into and under
skin that refuses itself.

At the table I read a new novel,
and think about sex. The novel
is not about sex, but sex, or something,
is inescapable these days with all these
pictures everywhere, all the reminders
everyone having these legs and torsos.

I have had sex everyday this year
but haven't written a thing.*
the walls are huge and blank
except the parts with pastel flowers
and warping and splitting,
like my fingers or the back of my neck
that she massages together every night

when two officers of the law, booted
and uniformed walk in and stroll about
the cafe. another one enters and I read
and read and read and don't look at
them or think about anything except
for craft and professionalism and
inspiration. definitely not about

unraveling, unfunctioning, jittering apart
or the fourth and fifth officers, two female,**
three male, all white except one guy
who looks hispanic, scratching their chins
and making crisp talk with the girl at the
counter whose lip rings avoid suspicion
because she is employed. In this moment

I'm glad to be reading, not writing,
because that is still less suspicious
and my hands are really starting to shake
and the novel is pretty good,
so far.

*not complaining. or bragging. 
**when approached by a female police officer, it is an excellent idea to consistently mention her gender when addressing her directly. If she is at all attractive-- and they often are-- be sure to mention that, too. They love that and will probably let you off with a warning. Also, if you've ever seen a movie with a ladycop, bring that up, possibly ask if she starred in it. There is no way that could go wrong, like joking about the handcuffs.

filthy jerry and the inefficacy of communication in light of rent hikes (27/30)

filthy jerry doesn't want to read your deep personal stories. he is too busy washing, trying to get clean from his own. there was a time when every wall he touched was pasted with pages from zines, church bulletins, bar napkins, weekly personals, photos of the sun. it was hardly sanitary, but he got his nickname for other reasons. the walls changed, collections grew and dropped and now there is nothing but paint. children run past him and try to put marbles in his hands. dogs try to lick his face. men without teeth put their hand on his shoulder so he can't walk away politely. filthy jerry is only polite half of the time, sometimes running between park trees, between closing bodegas and opening juice bars. he has heard it all and he has stopped listening, the visions of voices peeled off his walls everyday through his mind and the packed boxes; numbers remain the same but contents diminish. the men at the goodwill await his visit, every six, nine, twenty months. more mementos, the great idea he was trying to capture peeled, pieces of it in different states, or in his house, but far too heavy, soggy now. running from a chatty busdriver, he runs into someone with a cardboard sign. "free hugs." no thanks man, but I'll take the sign when you're done.

Tell us about the Owls, Dana. The Owls.

For the past couple of months, Rachel (heretofore to be referred to as "Not Drugs") and I have been curling up on whatever couch, floor or bed was close at hand and watching David Lynch's perpetually iconic early '90s TV show Twin Peaks. Being Lynch at his (arguably) most accessible, the show tends to serve as an alt-culture touchstone for a lot of people, and one of the most interesting things about re/watching the show was the reactions of those who hadn't watched it yet -- "I know! I know! Someday." I can't really recommend the show; it's already been recommended to you, geeked on by your friends and generally deconstructed. It's worth checking out, and largely unlike most things produced prior or since, but it's also just a TV show for about 80% of the time. The other 20% is the reason it tends to hang on in the minds of critics and fans, be rediscovered. But I think most great TV shows hit that sort of range-- between 70-90% of the time they're average-to-good pieces of entertainment, then that other percent they cross over into Art on the level of the Great Films, Plays or paintings. But half the time you're watching TV for a certain sort of comfort, anyway.

But! This is not a TV review. This is about geekery. The wiki link for TP has changed since last time I looked at it a couple months ago-- that's how dedicated the fanbase is. There's a convention/retreat in North Bend, Wa (where some of the exteriors were filmed) every year that Chris Gusta goes to-- it was ultimately through one of those trips that he decided to move to the northwest. Not Drugs and I are not so dedicated as that. But having a free Sunday, we decided to head out to northeast King County to check out Twede's Cafe, home to the pie, coffee and atmosphere that Dale Cooper was such a fan of.



The original interior got arsoned about ten years ago. These days, it reminds me a bit of the Stanwood Cafe, albeit slightly more dissheveled. The prices are a bit high, but the portions are such that Not Drugs and I split a Fish 'N Chips and were almost too full for pie. Almost.


By the bathroom there is a wall of pictures, newspaper clippings, memorobillia, etc.


It was interesting people-watching and guessing who was a tourist (I guess even today that Peaks tourists account for roughly 5% of the business there and probably more on holiday weekends) and who was a regular. Some small towns have folks sporting the kinds of cowboy shirts you can also get at Red Light Clothing Exchange, but North Bend doesn't seem to be one of them. The place fully embraces the tourist element-- all the servers were wearing shirts advertising Twede's 1) 50 Different Types of Burgers (yup) and 2) Home of Twin Peaks' Pie and "a damn fine cup of coffee."
The place also hosts an open mic on Tuesdays.
This all seems for the best; North Bend wasn't depressing in the way that some Washington towns can be, nor was it generically strip-malled but the downtown didn't appear to have the internal bustle of an Arlington (though that may be good-- less meth) or the diversity of business of Stanwood, or the packed-right-in cute historical downtown of neighboring Snoqualmie. If you were there for a reason (like a TV show conference) you'd probably find a decent bar or restaurant or two, but nothing jumped out at me as "ooh, we should come back for that," even with my er, "unique" fascination with the smaller towns and suburbs in Western Washington.






Also, it should be pointed out that neither North Bend nor Snoqualmie seemed like places where the woods nearby contained portals to Unspeakable Evil. But then, maybe that's part of the point.

Silence, Communication, Rosemary and Thyme

Thursday night I participated in Silence and Communication (check out the link two posts down, I'm feeling lazy.)
You can read The Stranger's review, which describes things pretty well from an audience point of view. It went well, and while I believe that Greg Bem, Matthew Thompson and Jason Conger (who probably also have links I could link to, but, lazy) put together a fantastic reading lineup, the concept was well-executed enough it almost didn't matter who the readers were. It was a whole piece. A concept. Plenty of folks showed up to support their friends, but there wasn't a feeling of a "headliner" or what-have-you. That said, definitely enjoyed a lot of the specific pieces on their own as well.
As for my part, I read a piece called "context(subtext)" that existed prior to getting the invitation, but hasn't made it out much, so I hacked it up. The event consisted of straight up poetry, prose pieces, sound poems, noise music, performance art, etc etc etc. Alllll sorts.


Nico Vassilakis tore up the above paper into a microphone for his piece.


Sole Repair, photoed from the balcony. Once the event got going I didn't have much time or energy to take more pics. Suffice to say there were a lot more people there.

I was pretty damn out of it the whole day/night. This added an additional level of surrealism to the experience for me. Note how it looks like my face is falling off.

I do not remember whose head this is the back of.


We sat in chairs around the room. I was in chair number 9, next to Jarrett, who sometimes wears a hat similar to those which I used to own.

So Far Around the Bend

Late April, I went to New York City. This is what it looks like from one of Greenpoint's industrial beaches. New York City was a lot and nothing like what people say it was. Growing up Northwestern, I've always had this sort of idea that I don't like "big cities"; it's only within the last ten or so years that Seattle has committed itself (or really felt at all like) a Big City with Lots of Stuff.
And I've just started living in it now.
But the lesson is, I actually like Big Cities. Or, I think I do. I'm not sure. I liked Brooklyn, anyway, and parts of Manhattan. There were definitely some rows and rows of tall buildings full of things I don't care about, but all in all it was good.
and people were friendly. yes, they moved quickly, had places to be, clearly spent more time than NWers do on their hair, shirt and skirt, but when I was catching a bus from a predominantly Spanish part of Queens, a girl came up to me and told me that "if you're going to the airport, you actually need to wait over there."

(this was useful.)
when Lailey left her phone in a bar, a couple came out with it, yelling at us not to forget our stuff. I saw loads of people on the subway give up seats for the elderly, disabled or overweight. In a McDonalds in Manhattan I was looking for the bathroom and a girl (looked about twelve) waved at me-- "naw, naw, it's downstairs." Same spot, someone ran out to catch up with someone who'd left their wallet.



Lailey and i went to Coney Island. It was awesome. Some parts of it were super cheesy, some genuinely cool, other parts were really fucked up ("Shoot the Freak" you can pay money to simply shoot a "freak"-- in this case just some really ripped black dude in a do-rag-- with paintball pellets) and you had to wait forever for Hot Dogs. I had hot dogs. They were delicious. The sense of American History there was great too; a far less obscured vision of Old-World connections and how those cultures and individuals have shaped what we think of as "american."



This is a view from the rooftop Highline Park in Manhattan. Its new and kinda posh, but open to everyone and a great view. I wrote something close to a love poem there.

Some people have asked me if I'm "going to move to New York now," in a near-accusing tone, like, hey asshole, don't think you can just live anywhere, you had your time away.
I dunno man. I am too deep in debt and obligations, some short term, some long, to make promises. But I'm gonna go again, that's for sure.

I know this song so well it seeps inside my brain

Finally delivering on long-ago made promises to people on both this and the other side of the atlantic, I've been spending my afternoon burning Jazz Records For Sale by Police Teeth; only I'm not sure my I-tunes is working properly on the burning front. Neither the mixes I sent to Lailey or to Bethany worked for them, so there are many a question mark as to whether this will work.

This has facilitated listening to the album again, which I haven't in a while. It doesn't have the same Bellingham-memory quotient that a lot of stuff does, partially because I actually got the masters copy mailed me here. It's still good and I'm sure that, should I finally wrangle the truth out of my laptop, my friends over here (the ones who like, you know, music) will enjoy it.

_______
the pub that I work at looks like this:
except that it doesn't lie on it's side.

it only lies on it's side in blog entries when I have
trouble figuring out how to edit newly uploaded pictures on my laptop.

I suggest turning your monitor on it's side for
maximum viewing pleasure.
anyway, yes. That's what it looks like. I'll be
there tonight reading out the questions to the
Pub Quiz and making many reference to the way
that my accent makes understanding me an
impediment and apologizing for my "clumsy
american tongue." Extrapolate the innuendoes if you must.
This is fine, save for the fact that it means I'm missing my supervisor (and previously mentioned/pictured Dave Beer) play in his band "A Kid Called Power," wherein they perform songs about "There Will Be Blood" and cover the Jesus Lizard.






If you've received paper corrospondences from me, chances are at least a portion of them were written from Mozart's, which accurately plays as a speakeasy, coffee shop, local pub and daytime cafe. I went in today for a delicious breakfast sandwich. Breakfast sandwiches are something I have a weakness for.

Tommorrow night Howard Webb is coming to town and crashing at my humble abode. This will facilitate a lot of cleaning on my part. Probably we'll see the insides of both pubs I've posted on here, as that seems to be the way. Close shop at the Rhyd and if one of us wants to Moz, pretty much all of us will.

"Hello. You have been invaded by the staff of a vastly inferior pub."-- Kieran.

Either way, it will be good to see Howard's smiling face.

I got a group e-mail from T. Keller to pretty much everyone who's been writing for Buddyhead as of late (there's not that many of us) talking about a site re-launch and re-organization. Asking basically "who's in?" More than that I probably can't say, but there's a good chance I'll be having musicky things to write about soon. I think this is good. And it not being a local thing would be good too--

too many nights could end up looking like this:

A brief briefing of faces you should know, or at least can now picture when I reference in future blogs

Whereas I just got back from a bit of a stroll/write/stroll, the internet fails to live up to it's mighty promise and I don't quite feel like uploading pics from Easter, here's a few pictures of my life here in Swansea and the people it contains. You know. For reference.



This is myself and Adell Bridges, shooting tequila at three p.m. in the Uplands Tavern. Adell being a girl from my course, originally from the south U.S. but now quite living in the U.K. Moved from Scotch boys to Welsh boys. Writes a mean Terza Rhima.




Jen Johnson (terrible, by my own admission, picture of her) and Dave Jones. Jen (along with Courtney, not pictured here) went to St. Andrews in North Carolina. Dave is Welsh but sounds English.



Myself and Dave Beer at the train station in Cardiff, coming back from the Ida Maria show. DB is too many differing individual quotes to phrase up in one caption, so I won't try.



Jess and John. Often referred to as "punk John" or "the punk." They are quite engaged and, as you may guess, very cute. Jess is on my course as well, John is doing a PHD in a very specialised history I forget at the moment. We're going to see Nick Cave in May. They often host movie nights in their upstairs bedroom, beer, the odd joint and various types of cookies floating around the room.



This is Ioan. One of the funniest human beings I have ever met. Also very Welsh in probably all the best ways. Also tends to be a good listener on the odd occasion when I've had it up. to. fucking. here. with some of my friends (coughcoughcougcourtneycoughcougcough) and just involuntarily explode a little bit. Can usually be found at a pub, drinking really good beer. Also too many quotes for just one.

and finally:


Myself and Roy "the handsome one" Williams. In Cardiff at the Ida Maria show. He's a great bloke, Swansea native, Replacements fan and ladies. . . he's single.

a view from the afternoon

to write something like "this is what all the older pubs look like from the outside" would be a broad, sweeping statement that isn't really entirely accurate. but I feel like I've been inside the Swansea Jack even though I've only passed it.

Usually on the way to here:

this is Swansea beach, which basically
stretches the length of the city, as is wont

to happen in "cities by the sea." I don't know why that's in quotes. I do like having a beach

within about a five minute walk from my room and plan on taking greater advantage of it in the coming year. hopefully in spring going there to study will be not ridiculous, with wind and sand all over notes, books and trousers. I only tried that once.

I often wish I'd spent my high school years a little less nervous about consequences and a little more like the person who instead of just joking about this sort of thing, actually did it:

The walls are blankwashed over now, but won't be for long.

not pictured, but I found equally amusing (mainly for it's grammatical qualities) "Rhodri Morgan eats horse shit whilst molesting turkeys." Also, as with any good library bathroom, you can learn all sorts of things about the sexual proclivities of Welsh girls. There's quite a heady debate regarding whether they prefer the company of English gentlemen or their Welsh counterparts. Both sides produce convincing arguments.

If you get tired of pubs like the one pictured at the top of this post but don't want to go to a chain nightclub, and you live in Swansea, you will probably at least once find yourself here:This is where I witnessed a very tall, curly-locked man in a football jersey standing in the middle of the room playing air guitar and headbanging the entire eight minutes duration of "Master of Puppets."

"word, dude."