Tag Archives: 2014

Animated pipe-laying with metallic “clunk” foley

So, only 24 minutes left of journal time. Let’s try for the 6-minute page! But first, a rice-check. Rice OK. So, yesterday, gave out stickers, on a whim, to 9th & 10th hours. And S___ and A___, in 1st hour, after school demanded theirs. It was a bit of a demand.

And what else? Oh, and chiropractic adjustment and B___s were at M’s. I stopped and chatted before chiro and then home … And what else? Watched a Nature special on PeeBS about misfit animals—three-toed sloths and whatnot—and started to watch “How we got to now” with Steve Johnson—how Chicago jacked up the city to make way for sewers but I only watched a few minutes, as it started to do that PeeBS thing where there’s 10 minutes of info in a 50-minute show. The rest is slick graphics (in this case, animated pipe-laying with metallic “clunk” foley for each new segment laid), and the host shows you all these things you don’t really need to see, like a horse and a wheelbarrow of horse sh!t to remind us of what cities looked like pre-sewer.

And so I turned it off, lay on the ground and read 8:15 to 9:10. Coulda gone to bed early but didn’t. Bed at 10. Did a load of towels. Took me three times of rebalancing an unbalanced (thudding) load. And had hot dogs for dinner and carrot cake and watched MASH and kinda wanted to do that.

[From journal of Thurs., 16 Oct. 2014, 5:54 a.m., Journal 200, page 46-7]

Shape itself is no thing


Patterns repeat–what about nonpatterns?

My metaphors are all elephants. From Exquisite Corpse selections. 15 March 2015.

Shape itself is no thing. 12 March 2016.

[From Journal 188]

Not entirely like a novel, of course, because I was comparing

Yesterday, after my morning nap, we went to Rockford—Stockholm Inn (we left about 1:45) and then Target. M got clothes, we got those metal shelves—put those together last evening and organized a good bit of the library—not all of it, by any means, but we cleared maybe half the floor. Then watched Game of Thrones, then part of Silicon Valley, Veep, bed.

Just now I felt cat paws (I’m thinking and hoping) on my left inner thigh.

And after Target, Best Buy—bought a computer for about $400. I don’t even really look at the processor anymore, but it’s got 6 gig RAM and 1 terabyte hard drive—and it’s an HP, but pretty much a commodity computer.

And we got home about 4. I mowed and then pulled dannylions til about 5:30. Copied some of my files to hard drive off the old computer, but it was taking— literally, it said it’d take three hours, and it still never finished, and I went to work on the library room. And my right ear is still feeling full, like there’s stuff in it, and there’s that high-pitched sound I mostly can ignore but not always. Today talking feels a little weird—not terribly bad but like when I have a cold and feel like I’m talking through all the bones of my skull. I have a skull. (Unlike the snowman in Frozen, who explicitly tells us “I have no skull” or “I don’t have a skull.”)

So my writings—some things I read yesterday stayed with me all day, or at least reappeared in my consciousness. That Dad may have cheated on the sheep weight. Why would he cheat? I didn’t know him to be a cheater. If he cheated, it was that nice old English couple. Was it a manic-phase thing? I don’t recall, and I didn’t recall it in memory, though I vaguely remember it once reminded of it. I recall it was the blue-silver Chevy S-10, I think. But it’s almost like reading a novel, seeing these character traits—though not entirely like a novel, of course, because I was comparing what I read to the Dad I had in mind, to his character, which did not include cheating.

[From Mon., 5 May 2014, Journal 195, page 45-6]

You just have to not speak as if you’re talking only to people just like yourself

You don’t have to know what the proper group names are at the moment (proper for the moment)—you just have to not speak as if you’re talking only to people just like yourself.

Had a wonderful summer-type feeling on Sunday—I felt a looseness—that I didn’t think about school work for a while, that it felt OK to just buy stuff and set it up. Diving into cleaning up the library. Anyway, I wonder if this looser, more carefree, summer attitude was related to the warmer temps and the sun. I mean, I’m still tired, but just feeling better.

Weds. 7 May 2014 5:49 a.m.

My right middle knuckle got scraped on a cabinet edge as I reached for tea this morning–so I left my mark on the facing page.

And Old Man C__ asked me not to walk Sam through their yard. “‘Cuz why?” I said. Because he pees and poops and leaves his scent. I gestured with the bag I was carrying—I always pick up after Sam, I said. He said he has a dog (and he didn’t say that the dog smells bother his dog, but he seemed to) and I said, OK, will do. M said, when I told her, that she might not have said “‘Cuz why?” So we thought about why he would’ve said this—especially because 3-4 weeks ago or so he chatted with me and said nothing about his yard—and so, sure, it seems silly to me to worry about dogs walking or peeing in one’s yard. And really, he doesn’t get to say that to me without seeming like a grump. I mean, if K__ or somebody I have even a minor relationship with had asked me: sure, no big deal. M said she has never understood the C___s. She wonders if they are snobbish, look down on us.

[From journals of Tooz., 6 Mae 2014 & Weds., 7 May 2014, Journal 195, page 52]

I could go out and look at the hole that was dug across the street

Alright, I’m back at the table to write, now at about 5 p.m. I could go out and look at the hole that was dug across the street—but I also feel OK saying that it doesn’t matter, you know? That I can ignore it, let it go.

How realizing too that I don’t have to follow a link sometimes feels good, though often I do follow and read.

I was arguing to mom that simple formulas (like when school posters tell kids they should have goals) ignore that some of us don’t need, or are stressed by, such advice (and when adults tell you sh!t you don’t need, smart kids learn to ignore it, trust themselves, develop crap detector).

I realized last night that my back problems—one-sided as they are—may be coming from sitting in the recliner chair, which has lost a spring and sags to the right in the seat area. [My chiropractor] agreed it’d be a problem. He also told me not to sit today. I haven’t, much.

Writing—I sorta wrote about this a couple days ago, about what I want to write about. But I’m not sure I said this: that I don’t want to write so much about other writings, other ideas, other artworks—but that instead, I wanted to write about real things—including things people say. These keep me from getting too caught up in world of abstractions, abstractions-on-abstractions. But poems can be more about reality than news stories—not actually true, but directed at reality, or ideas about reality, than other ideas. News stories, op-eds, are often about other ideas. (I’m not sure I like that distinction.)

[From journal of Tues. 10 June 2014, Journal 195, page 231]

He limns that part of the heavenly godhead

Melville as a secular member of the lit canon— but why is Steinbeck there? Maybe he limns that part of the heavenly godhead devoted to melodramatic, dramatic gestures. When you want party scenes, go to Fitz. When you want machismo, Hemway. Perversion—Celine, Cocteau, de Sade, Burroughs, etc. And when you want dramatic gesture, go for Steinbeck: “Of Mice,” and “Grapes” but also “Red Pony,” “Pearl,” other works? Someone—”Cavalier & Clay” author on Colbert last week—said Hemingway’s prose voice seems more modern to us than Fitz’s does–so what? So H. may have been more influential—eh?

But these fictions that nobody reads except in school—what is the value in reading them? Perhaps they limn out/describe-while-creating-a-space-for—like how “Hearts of Darkness” creates a character who embodies evil/madness (or a certain type/subset thereof ), someone we didn’t have a cultural touchstone of before. But our cultural touchstones, if you watch cable news, are suburban killers—Jodi Arias, for example, or Amanda Knox in Italy—but those are stupid. Why do we care about them? I don’t—but the cable networks must think somebody cares. Those people are also icons/emblems/symbols of some larger idea? Some idea that may be banal—the woman who kills her boyfriend—but—(or the one who maybe killed her baby—this from Fla. a couple years ago)—but for some reason, these types resonate—but why do they resonate? Because they somehow embody a deeper (if simple) idea—those who cross the taboo lines and pay the price—the old folktale mentality.

[From Monday, 27 Janvier 2014, Journal 191, page 82-3]