These are the kittens

alonetime

I read today that the ipod will go the way of the record player.

I don't like to say dinosaur, as it appears that dinosaurs didn't disappear as the result of some inherent inability to adapt, but because of accidental calamity.

They are going the way of the record player because of something called the Cloud. It's too distracting to capitalize it as such, so we'll call it "the cloud" and you'll have to take my meaning.

The cloud involves the notion that some complete and total archive will, at some point, be accessible for a monthly fee. With some ipod-like device, you'll be able to call forth any song at any point and, probably, 100 suggestions of others songs you might like if that one moves you.

I read this as I continued to rip cds onto my computer, building a substantial library that will, if past history is used as evidence, evaporate in seconds when this laptop fails it's humble driver. Not driver. That's a bad word, since it's used elsewhere in computers. What am I? Typer? Surfer? Wayfinder? Wanderer?

Whatever happens, it's been nice to reacquaint myself with the dustier sections of my cd collection, and to see how they drifted into recognizable patterns. I just got through ripping a few Beatles cds, followed by Springsteen's Nebraska, followed by the Jerry Lee Lewis boxed set.

I can, at best, describe the effect of listening to my cds on random in terms of a good Quentin Tarantino soundtrack. I know he isn't the hippest lad on the block anymore, but he also opened up the pleasures of incongruity as they relate to life experience, so that it all now makes sense, on an unseasonably warm day in October, to watch the kittens attack each other while hearing Pussy Galore, then Entombed, then the coffee cantata by Bach, followed by Laura Nyro, and ending up with a near orgasmic, as if it was all planned, cut from Band on the Run. And the cats, they do play.

*

Jess and I walked to the Main Street Cafe in Townsend where the ever friendly, slightly bumbling, Cambodian proprietor, took our orders and told us why his favorite film was When Harry Met Sally. I would like to think the film popped into his mind because of a certain air of innocent romance about us.

Our talked revolved around, as it often does these days, job seeking. Jess told me that her concern about a law career was the added loans.

A few hours later, Mikey and George came over to train in the attic and we ended on the same subject, with Mikey repeating the same concerns. Mikey came down strong for the position that I'm sort of natural teacher and should pursue high school ed. I listened.

As for the attic, it deserves its own mention.

Our new home is small, and has poetry. The angles are curious. It was built in the 1780's and was famous, in the past decade or so, for the owners spectacular Halloween decorations. We've been warned that people may show up to see this year, although they've made efforts to let everyone know that the display was bought and moved to nearby Groton.

Since it is small, and since we had to negotiate for space, I ended up with the attic. The stairs are broken, so you need a ladder to get up there, but it is a sort of guy's paradise, with wooden walls jutting with rusty nails, a medicine ball, various pulleys and bands, and a ten foot square jiu-jitsu mat. To my eyes, it looks like a primitive Japanese dojo, and its austerity gives me no end of pleasure. I even set up a Zen meditation cushion which I have used once and now seems to be the place where people drop their gym bags. But it's still nice to know I can disappear there if the fancy strikes me.

The attic has the curious feature of retaining heat, so that even on cold nights, it's possible to work out there in comfort. I suppose the summer will be less hospitable. But good for certain types of yoga.

Currently, it is lit only by a worklamp I bought at Home Depot for five dollars.

*

Dufflebag normally goes with his father every other Saturday through Sunday. This week, Jess made the case that Friday night was better and the offer was accepted, so that we actually had a whole day of rare alone time yesterday. We were able to spend the day resting at our will, watching horror movies, and lounging around.

We are so busy with teaching and work and training and kids and family that alone time is rare.

I wouldn't say we squandered it with napping. We were both so tired.

But there is a certain deep sleep that comes on Saturday afternoons, in someone else's soft arms, that trumps a long list of other pleasures.

*

Since writing, I've moved from cds that seemed related to one another to a section that seems random: Motorhead, Jonathan Richmond, Rapeman, Soca music, and the Chieftains, all back to back. The soundtrack!

Jess is upstairs, likely sleeping soundly, and that's where I should be. But I'm on a roll with the ripping, and wanted to share some words before bed.

Another sip of wine. Welcome back, everyone.

Rainsounds

I've slept well recently, but the damn dog woke me up.

We're trying to keep her out of the bed because, as she's gotten older, she's started pissing in an ever increasing number of places, and the bed is one of them. When we woke up this morning, we found she had left a frothy stain on the comforter that went all the way down to the mattress.

*

I missed both a UFC and a friend's fight tonight. Mostly this was for financial reasons, but it also gave J and me a night to ourselves. Since moving to our new home, we haven't had a single night alone, just to relax. We've both been so busy that we still went to bed early.

In general, I'm moving away from jiu-jitsu. I wanted to make at least a part-time career out of it, but I had some major disappointments this year when I was forced to the practical reality of making a clean dollar in that world. Training so much, at my age, means both constantly being injured in small ways and giving up nights.

Jess was getting tired of being alone night after night -- we're both early risers so that by the time I get home, she was already asleep.

I had invested myself so much in training that other aspects of my life suffered, particularly work, where I've continued to get paid very little at the warehouse. I have yet to solve the riddle of a career for myself.

Reordering that part of me involves reordering a sense of who I am, and it's not easy. No one can deny that the life of a lawyer, or a warehouse worker, or of a teacher, or of a writer, are all of a different order. By freeing up time, I also wanted to lubricate the wheel of fate a little, because it appeared that I was stuck.

*

When I wrote on the farm, I was able to get away with a near total honesty. When I returned to Massachusetts, I couldn't do that anymore. This seemed hard for people to understand when I explained it to them, but I suppose it's because most people don't understand the nature of trying to write openly in that manner. They also might have been goading me into giving them the dirty. Fat chance, suckas.

There remain arenas where I can be open. I haven't told anyone at the bjj school I'm writing again, so I have leeway there. The guys in the warehouse are computer illiterate and probably illiterate in the classic sense as well, at least to some degree. So there's dirt to be found.

I didn't tell J at first about this because I wanted to generate some energy but she saw me reading an email from Howard and caught the line about me blogging again. I don't think she's read it yet, but that's because we were busy today buying shower heads and batteries and other odds and ends.

I managed to increase my own prospects today by buying a reading lamp at Big Lots. Up until now, I had to change places with J if I wanted to get reading done at night, since the lamp was on her side. Fortunately, she is a deep sleeper, and is quietly lying next to me now as I write.

*

It's good that my biggest problem is not having enough time: not enough time to write, to train, to be with J, to read, to drink coffee. I like this hunger, or this feeling that despite whatever has happened, I'm still in a position where I would be happy with a few more hours a day.

Pleasures of the Day

It's cold in Townsend, and beautiful.

I'm just getting used to the neighborhood, having moved here just three weeks ago. I am alone -- J brought her son out to visit his Dad for the weekend. I was going to call the son I, but I figured that would confuse I with I, so I'll call him Dufflebag.




Dufflebag's primary occupations are horror movie trailers and energy drinks. The former advertise films he is not allowed to see and the latter are treats he cannot have. He is a good kid. I had never dated anyone with a child for any period of time, and I didn't know how we'd get along. I figured that if I was a kid, I wouldn't have liked some dude my Mom dated who moved in weeks later. Fortunately for us, Dufflebag has a brighter soul than mine and we get along more than fine.



The other day someone asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up and he said he wanted to be a jiu-jitsu teacher. Run away, Dufflebag! Run away from the mafiosa politics and would-be cultish authority figures! Run away from that odd confusion between character and hobby. Geez. Does any other hobby take so much time and dedication to achieve such meager goals? Consider and beware.



I find the notion of someone finding me a rolemodel strange, since I tend to think of myself as a failure in multiple enterprises. I am, however, good with animals and they like to sit on my belly. I suppose that counts for someone.



*



Pleasures being an odd word, since the day was ostensible bleak and cold. Weatherwise, newswise.



Linen n things went bankrupt. Circuit City might. The layoffs are finally hitting the HVAC industry and two people came into the warehouse today asking the Boss for hints about where to apply. I saw about five accidents on the road today, an unusually high number. Enough to give the near winter a barren, Mad Maxish atmosphere. Since I drive a big, beat-up truck, I feel safe, if not invulnerable. If something went terribly wrong, I have the feeling that I'd be one to survive. Maybe that's something else I'm good at: generating the necessary optimism.

For the first time, the owners cancelled the annual Christmas Party. We arranged to have our own private party at a local strip club. I'll go to the Chinese restaurant for cocktails before, but I won't go to a strip club, and not for any other reason than that I really would rather spend a cold night in December alone with J and Dufflebag.



There was no sausage incident today. It was payday, and I indulged in a sub called a Northender. In NYC, it would have been good. It did have prosciutto, but also something that seemed like bologna. The lettuce was white, although not wilted. I could tell from the long lines that the place was a local favorite, thus favored and digestible. Favored status on the road comes from any place not run just for merest profit. These days, the profit driven places -- the ones that serve bland but passing food, are generally staffed by Brazilians. This is a stereotype that I came to through over a year of observation, so I'm sticking to it.



The great moment of the day came when I passed a one-day truck sale in Burlington. I bought a few hiking headlamps and a laser leveller for twenty bucks. More than fair.



*



J asked me if I wanted anything while she was out. I told her I wanted pomegranite juice and jalapeno jelly to mix with vodka. She looked at me for a second, wondering if I was joking, but she knows me enough now. "Where the hell am I going to buy jalapeno jelly?!" she asked, throwing up her hands and rolling her eyes.



I haven't had a drink all week. As I mentioned below, I only had seven bucks in my pocket. So a bottle of vodka comes with payday.



I told Billy and we talked at length about how being drunk makes music sound good. We began to drool, showing the sort of greed for bombed tunage like some old codger shivering as a nubile passed him by, smiling.



I'm not drunk yet. Still, the music sounds good.

Like Rabelais . . .

I enjoy lists of things, particularly those involving aesthetic pleasure.

My old computer crashed and all the music tracks disappeared into the othernet.

Because of a knee and back injury, and my desire to spend more time with J and I, I haven't been training as much at night and I have time both to write this and to start ripping cds.

This is what I've done so far, in order:

1. Robert Pollard, "From a Compound Eye. . ."


2. The National, "Alligator"


3. Sonic Youth, "Rather Ripped"


4. Roky Erickson, "The Evil One"


5. Al Jolson, "The Essential Recordings"


6. Ella Fitzgerald, "Songs from the Songbook, Disc. 3"


7. Rev. Gary Davis, "Blues and Ragtime"


8. The Beatles, "Help!"


9. Jamie T, "Panic Prevention"


10. Burzum, "Aske"


11. Metallica, "Ride the Lightning"


12. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, "Qawalli"


13. Radiohead, "Airbag . . ."


14. Tortoise, "Millions Now Living Will Never Die"


15. Jelly Roll Morton, "Volume One"


16. Leonard Cohen, "Songs from a Room"


17. Mahler, "Symphony No. 1"


18. Germs, "GI"


19. Kraftwerk, "The Model: Retrospective"

perhaps no laptop is complete without Kraftwerk, so I'll leave it there for now.

Grip Hypnotizer

I'm just getting used to this again. Give me time. Patience!

I sent off a resume to a law firm in Leominster and got an email back requesting that I call the office to set up an appointment. I set the alarm on my phone so it would go off exactly at nine this morning to remind me to call. A regular early bird. I get up for work at five-thirty, and this gives me considerable advantage over my previous, late riser self.

Right now I'm listening to some cds Anton burned for me two years ago. I've had so little access to the sort of time that lends itself to listening to music. The radio in the worktruck isn't great, so I mostly listen to NPR and audio cds. I think of my older self, the musical self, in the same way I think of the boy who once had to take a cold October bus to school.

During my drives, I manipulate a lump of green silicon that I bought at EMS. It is supposed to develop grip strength, but it has the added benefit of keeping me amused. The silicon material seems to melt when you squeeze softly, allowing me constant variation in the feeling of the thing. I time it out: ten squeezes one hand, ten the other. Back and forth, sometimes letting my mind drift so much that I wonder for how many miles I'd been kneading the lump from lump to snake to ring back to lump.

*

I called a man about a job posted on craigslist for a radio dj. He sounded old and told me that he had been getting such calls all day and that his name was George. He told me that he thought the radio station had shut down some time ago. It sounded as though he wanted someone to talk to, so I indulged him, and he talked to me about Quincy, the town in which he lived.

*

My pitch would have been for a comedy show with Big Bill. I work with Big Bill and some of you remember and, by now, some of you have met him. His is gruff and strong and bald. He used to have red hair. He works twelve hour days and is always broke, a classic working stiff who can never get ahead despite his life's obvious humble state.

I told Bill about it and it seemed to ignite his imagination. He said we should send a guy out in the street to play a variation on a warehouse game called "pockets." In pockets, you bank on having more money than your opponent, because whoever has more cash in his pockets gets the other's, assuming they decided to play along. No one ever does, but we threaten to. I doubt anyone would have as much cash as Billy. Because of bad credit and money management skills, he doesn't have a bank account and cashes all checks immediately. Thus, he often ends the week with a roll of hundreds in his pocket.

After making a car and insurance payment last week and buying beer and wings for the fight, I was left with seven dollars to last me the entire week. By tonight, I still had six left, which went into the gas tank because it was getting low. I spent a dollar on coffee yesterday.

To survive on nothing, or next to it, I made rice and tuna every night for the next day's lunch. Each morning I woke up early so I could fry some eggs for a sandwich. I bought a sixteen ounce roll of spicy Jimmy Dean sausage, too.

This morning I was so rushed that the sandwich tumbled out of my hands as I was trying to open the door. This meant I wouldn't have breakfast. J saw this and told me later she almost cried for me, because she knew what it meant.

*

Instead of eating, I thought about food, and remember an ambling internal conversation as I drove. Since I spend much of my day driving, it allows me to indulge in amounts of self-absorption that most would consider excessive. But it's better than loading pipe off a steel pallet.

I thought about what constitutes sausage. When I was younger, I figured it was the shape, but the shape is only caused by the casing. Jimmy Dean sausage is formed into burger-shaped rounds. But steak stuffed into a sausage casing would be some type of beef sausage, no? Perhaps it's better not to think of such things when the sun has yet to rise and you're looking at a long, hungry morning.

And here we are, spinning

I stopped blogging long ago and for various reasons. It is time to begin again.

Here's the brief overview: I spent years in graduate school only to see my entire academic career collapse over the course of a few weeks because of a mix of factors: poverty, a collapse of will, indifference among those who could have helped and, most importantly, a virus that left me incapacitated for over a month. I thought I was going to die and made plans to commit suicide so that my family wouldn't have to pay for hospital expenses.

Since then, I've worked odd jobs: a gig at a mental institution that drove me to a panic attack, a college writing instruction position that didn't pay enough, and, most importantly, a job at a warehouse where I divide my time between restocking shelves and making small deliveries.

I also teach martial arts at night. It doesn't pay well. I guess you could call it a passion of mine, and it is, but right now I'm at the point where my passion is dimmed by increasing debt and financial problems.

I live with my girlfriend, whom I love, and her eleven year old son, along with a neurotic chihuahua and two kittens.

My dream used to be to be a writer. It is yet another failed venture among many.

Enjoying the lists? Let's see. Well, academia, obviously. Writer. That's been said. Martial arts teacher. For reasons I may or may not get into. What else? I was a musician for years before finally giving up on that, too. It is not an exercise in self-pity to say that I'm a case study in failure. I would even say bad luck, although that doesn't cut it, since I manage to have a good time and have managed to surround myself with good friends. If anything, I consider myself lucky despite the trajectory of failure and decline.

Another list. I write for various reasons. One is to help myself understand. I also enjoy writing as a form of revenge. I like to air grievances. I like to talk about what I'm not supposed to. At this point, I've been silent for a long time, and there's a lot to say, so keep reading and hang on. Dig?