Sun.Mar.22.2009
// 2:47.AM Time flies by like a bird in the sky. These words, the laments of my 14-year-old self, speak to me, every now and again. Tonight is one of those "nows"--or maybe it's an "again." Regardless, the words are with me at this very moment, as I type. Tomorrow has passed me away. I can try to justify my absence, my neglect. I can tell you marvelous lies, the things you want to hear. I can but I won't. We humans spend a disgusting amount of time doing nothing. This truth is incontrovertible, and it sickens me. I tweak settings on Facebook. I read Yahoo! headlines. I take naps and watch movies. I stare at the walls and rub my eyes. When all else fails, I curse the silence that surrounds me. Then I go to bed. Days pass in this way. Far too many to count. Don't get me wrong, I do other things with my life, with the seemingly but not really endless hours at my disposal. By this I mean that I work; I commute; I study. But in many ways, these activities mean nothing to me and, by extension, to you. The fact is, we build our lives, our entire existence, around working, studying, and commuting, activities that will never even come close to--let alone touch--what it means to be alive. Life is a mischievous smile on a child's face; it's a mild summer afternoon and a field of crisp, cool grass. It's a harvest moon and a crackling bonfire, a friend's laughter and a lover's kiss. It's the relentless boom of an unchecked subwoofer or the awesome calm of a disciplined mind. Yes, there are, indeed, so very many ways to describe the good life. What did you say? You want me to give you one more example? OK, but only because you asked for it: life is starting a blog entry, writing for enjoyment, and having the good sense to stop when the exercise ceases to be fun. Seeing as I'd rather be cleaning cat piss out of the carpet than writing at the present moment, I think I'll, uh, stop here. Hey, and talk about good timing--the cat just pissed on my living room throw rug. Woolite, here I come. Life is cleaning piss out of a living room throw rug at 3 a.m. on a Saturday night. It shouldn't be but, stinking urine as my witness, it is+ Given our economy's present state of compression, everyone is feeling the squeeze. This, of course, very much includes the bookselling industry. An unlikely candidate for a government bailout, we're on our own on this one, and like a ship lost at sea, we are moving closer each and every day to our inevitable sinking. Many independent book publishers have already closed their doors. Others have opted to pause or otherwise suspend their operations indefinitely. These are dark days, my friends--dark days, indeed. Still, I am hopeful. I believe in this industry, believe in myself, and in the awesome power of the written word. Moreover, I believe in you--the reader. Your love of literature--both high and base, popular and obscure--has kept this industry alive and, God-willing, will continue to do so in the future. That being said, everyone needs a little encouragement every now and then. Therefore,
without further ado,
Before I say anything else, let's get one thing straight: I love technology. I do; I really, truly do. I love my MacBook, love my iPod, but most of all, I love the many delightful little gadgets that make life a whole hell of a lot easier. My cell phone. My GPS. That weird thing in my car that talks to me and responds to voice commands (I call it "Stephanie"). I love these contraptions for many reasons, not the least of which being utility. More than anything else, these buggers have purpose, function. What I mean by this is that they do things, perform actions or calculations. They play songs. They give directions. They tell you when you're right, when you're wrong, and when you're just plain incomprehensible ("I'm sorry," Stephanie deadpans. "I didn't understand you"). If I choose to purchase one of these gadgets, I do so under the belief that it will somehow better my life; you know, enhance my driving, music listening, whatever. That being said, if the item in question seems even remotely frivolous, needless, or impertinent, it stays on the shelf (the store shelf, mind you, not that of my living room). Now I know what you're thinking: well an iPod isn't exactly essential. And you know what, you're right; it's not. But an iPod is useful; it is ultra-portable, and it is only $149. And this is where things get awkward. As an author, writer, booklover, etc, I'm supposed to be ahead of the game; that is, I'm expected to be embracing new trends, championing new technologies, and looking toward the future saying, "Yes! Bring it on." In many ways, I am that person, that advocate. In one very specific way, I'm not. I don't like the Sony eReader or Amazon Kindle. Well, that's not entirely fair. I don't get the eReader or Kindle. Although I very much understand the technology behind the product, I'm totally clueless as to the thing's application, its appeal. Hear me out on this. According to Sony's website, the latest model of the eReader is $399. As for Amazon's Kindle, it retails for $359. And for that price you get... well, a book, really. A digitalized, sluggish to respond, needs recharged after so many pageturns book. Sure, it's compact (half an inch thick), sure, its nearly weightless (10 ounces), and sure, the text size is adjustable, but really, when you get down to it, it's just another book--a flashy, "look what I've got" book. What strikes me as odd is the popularity of this new technology when, really, it does so very little to improve upon the existing designs (namely, hardcover and softcover books). As most of us know, page-based books archive very well. If properly stored, they can last decades, centuries even. Moreover, they are easy to carry, lightweight (especially in mass market size), and remarkably easy to "start up." There is no loading screen to watch or RAM to boot. Traditional books can be easily annotated (that's what the margins are for), left just about anywhere (excluding textbooks, book theft is rare), and dropped from any/all heights (I'd like to see how that eReader holds up after crashing down a flight of stairs). Best of all, they are affordable ($7 to $25) and easily replaceable. Now granted, there is a limit to the number of old-school books that one may carry at any given time but, in all seriousness, just how many books does one need at his/her immediate disposal? I remember that I took three books with me the last time that I flew to Asia. I think I read one, two at most. See my point? To close, I write this post not to bash eBooks and readers but to pose a very simple but, admittedly, loaded question: why? Like
all considerate communicators, I know when to talk and when to keep
quiet. I've stated my opinion and outlined my argument.
Now it's your turn. I'm listening+ Okay,
so the truth of the matter is that I never intended on revisiting
the whole Bristol Palin baby thing. I thought that I would
comment on the one story, have a few laughs, make some wry observations,
and be done with it. Then Yahoo! went ahead and published
the above (it too was a "Featured" article) and well,
to be frank, I just couldn't resist. Then again, I must admit I've learned quite a lot from this whole Bristol gives birth controversy. I've learned that the news-media gives equal weight to both soft and hard news, without discrimination. I've learned that Bristol's pregnancy is just as important as the air raids in Gaza and the economic downturns here at home, but more than that, I've learned something that no Yahoo! headline would ever dare say: It's time to change my homepage. I
leave you, my friends and devoted readers, with the wise words of
the enchantress otherwise known as Sarah Palin. God, I've been waiting on pins and needles for this news to break! When I found out that good ole Bristol was pregnant, I found myself wondering, "What will she give birth to?!" I mean, there were so many possibilities. She could have had a boy or a girl or a turtle or a, well... who knows! Ugh, the suspense was killing me. Thank God People Magazine paid the Palins some several million dollars to reveal the shocking truth. I don't know about you, but I nearly fainted when I read this. Yes, fainted. I mean, golly gee, I would have never expected a baby, much less a boy! Too bad it is only early Tuesday; the weekly rags won't get to slather their covers with this late-breaking "story" until Thursday (and that's at the earliest)! Shucks. Well
anyway, let the battle for first interviews and access to baby pictures
begin! I'm hungry for some posed portraits and gentle, maternal
grins. Oh, didn't you know? New mothers aren't allowed
to smile. Just grin. Oh, and their eyes must be on their
newborns. Keep them on the newborns; always on the newborns.
Well, I take that back; if you're a young mom or still marginally
sexy, then you're allowed a quick, coy glance at the camera.
You know, just a flash of your eyes to keep the focus on you and
away from the spittle-soaked kid. Please see Figure 12.3 below
for more information. There
are people in my ceiling Sat.Nov.08.2008
// 11:53.AM Sun.Oct.12.2008
// 2:01.AM some
say we arrive and depart; i say we close our eyes, we reopen them+ That Friday afternoon, however, everything changed. A tube in the sky, a one-hour ride, and my life began again. What were once dulled senses were now wondrously acute. I could smell the jasmine in the air, hear the horns in the harbor, and--perhaps best of all--feel the loving pavement underfoot. To be sure, I was in a different time, a different place. I was in Chicago and, if nothing else, I was alive+ Because
I've chosen to hide nothing and reveal all, here are just a few
of my fondest memories...
Sun.Sept.21.2008 // 11:41.PM It'd be easy enough to find out. I mean, a quick internet search would do the trick. And yet, this will never happen. Not today, not tomorrow, not even next autumn when my curiosity may or may not resurge. Why not? Well, apathy mostly. That and the inherent dullness of such an inquiry. Think about it; I would log onto my computer, open a browser window, wait for it to load, watch banner ads flash and fizzle, jump to the nearest search engine, and try dozens of query strings, all for what? To know something that will, in all likelihood, remain of little or no significance to me until (and during) the day I die? Besides, I've got better things to do. The mail's piling up. Bills need to be paid. Those DVD box sets from last Christmas aren't going to watch themselves. Then there's exercise, late night snacking, and that overrated thing called sleep. I've got to keep my life in perspective. The urgent before the trivial; the concrete over the abstract. It's a breezy night. The blinds rarely rustle this much. The air is not so much cold as it is crisp. It feels like fall. In four weeks it'll be winter. But tonight… tonight the sheets are wet, matted leaves upon my skin, skin that is rusty and withered. Tonight the crickets will sing, the blinds will clap, and I'll return to my kitchen, sit in ugly lamplight, and pay the bills. There are some things that I'll never understand+
She's looking at me right now. No, not looking. Staring. From over there, across the room. I can feel something, an intensity, radiating out from her eyes. She's not nearby. I know this much for sure. If she were nearby, I'd hear her. Seething. That's the best way to describe it. She seethes when she's near. I can't really describe the sound. I've tried before and I've gotten nowhere. No one believes me. "It's all in your mind," they say. "Whatever would make her do that?" they say. Fools, the whole lot. She's somewhere else now. Closer? Maybe. Hard to tell. Definitely not within striking distance. No, I'd hear that. The approach. A stealthy gait is one thing; a silent step, however, is damn near impossible. Then again, I wouldn't put it past her. She's done stranger things, crazier things. I gotta look. I've no choice in the matter really. This tension could turn terminal. I won't make it obvious. Oh no. That's the worst thing I could do. I'll use discretion. Yes, must be discreet. Just a slow, steady, subtle turn of the head. No more than thirty degrees, forty most. Just a simple "I thought I heard something over there" glance. No haste; no struggle. I'll appear curious yet careless. Okay. This is it. I'll turn, search my peripheral, look bored, and turn back. Good strategy. Okay. I'll start after this next exhalation. For two seconds I'll be vulnerable then safe once more. Nothing to worry about. Okay. I'll go on my next inhale. Air is in the mouth. Air is down the lungs. I'm turning... ...I'm back. I don't think she noticed. If she did, she must've cleverly hidden her awareness. She frequently hides things. I wouldn't put awareness past her. Just one more thing, one more toy, to add to the collection. I was surprised by her location. I thought she'd be sitting at one of the chairs by the table. I was wrong. She's over by the orange wall, that ugly mango orange wall, in a high-backed chair. I'm not exactly sure what she was doing there. Besides seething, of course. That's a given. I think her head was down but I can't be sure. The whole damn scene was nothing more than a corner-of-the-eye haze. Oh hell. Regardless of whether or not her head was down before, it's surely up now. She's staring again. Unblinking. I don't think I've ever seen her blink. Surely she moistens her eyes like the rest of us. She has to. But why not more often? And why not when I'm around? Maybe I just don't see it, don't register it. Maybe I don't want to see it. Maybe the blinking makes her real. If she doesn't blink, she's not really awake. Without the blinking, she's not altogether alive. She's there but she isn't. Like a ghost or bad breath. Just ephemeral and fleeting. And really, I shouldn't worry like I do. I mean, she'll be gone before too long. How's it go? Multiply by six or seven? Maybe it's eight. Who knows. She's probably around sixty, give or take a few years. She can't last much longer. She doesn't eat well. Never has. I don't think she's exercised since... well since we bought all of that equipment for her. Joan said it'd keep her active, that it'd motivate her. I knew better. Oh shit. Holy fuck. Oh, Goddamn, holy fuck. She's on the move. She's fucking on the move. What's that word Joan uses to describe her means of travel? She doesn't "walk", "gambol", or "saunter"... Christ, what is it?! Oh hell, who cares? She's closing the gap; she's fucking closing the gap! Well this is it; it's all over. Fuck, I told Joan to kill her off when she had a chance. "No," she said. "It's murder," she said. Murder. I'll show you murder. * * * Gerald, Wishing you well, One last thing--be sure to tell Suzie's doctors that the word was "skulking". That's what Suzie was mumbling to herself when I found her. I forgot to mention this at the time of the incident. I guess it slipped my mind+
Tues.July.29.2008 // 3:04.AM My
psychiatrist keeps a Lonely Planet travel guide on a bookshelf in
her office. I noticed it today. A blue spine, arial
font. "Paris". I wonder if she knows that
her patients, while waiting for her to be right with them, study
their surroundings and see this book. |
