I'm lost in a cloud and I can't get out
There's no other way
So don't try
I'm caught in a car and I can't get out
I can't explain
I can't drive
Oscar Wilde and Peter Cook
Are close by
Che' Guevara and Steve McQueen
Are right there
I'm lost in a cloud and I can't get out
Floating away
I can't fly
I'm caught in a car and I can't get out
I can't explain
I can't drive
John Belushi and Lady Day
Are close by
Joe the Lion and Marvin Gaye
Are right there
Davy Crockett and Joan of Arc
Are close by
David Banner and Roger Moore
Are all there
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Daily Images
1. While on the metro, a doting father sang a sotto voice version of "With or Without You" by U2 in a pronounced Jamaican accent to his baby son, seated before him a stroller.
2. The poverty of Anacostia, a working class neighborhood turned extreme urban blight. All white until the 1950s, it has now has one of the highest crime rates in the entire city. They measure progress there by the fact that the district now has merely half the homicides it did in the early 1990's. Condemned buildings, decay, run down churches, a lack of much infrastructure, and almost no places to eat or shop is the reality of the entire area. The one restaurant, a fast food fried fish joint that is as worn out as everything else advertises that it is black owned and black operated.
As you arrive on the Green Line metro, you walk out of the station and are promptly dumped out onto Martin Luther King. It reminds me of that Chris Rock routine. "If you find yourself on 'Martin Luther King Boulevard', run!"
Stepping off the stop and walking out into the neighborhood, I knew I was traveling out into the H-O-O-D. I have, however, learned a few things along the way and enough knew not to make eye contact with any of the passer byes. When I was in college I dated a woman who lived in a rough part of Birmingham. Her grandparents had owned the house when it was a reasonably safe working class neighborhood. Along with white flight outward in all directions from the city center, the area turned into a ghetto. I can't say I ever felt completely safe when I'd visit her, but at least I know how to minimize the likelihood of being the victim of a crime.
My destination was the Frederick Douglass house, about a ten minute walk away. While having a Harlem Experience (i.e. noticing I was the only white person within a six block area) I followed the signs to the house, which was the residence for the last few years of the life of the noted African-American abolitionist and social reformer. Apparently they don't get many Caucasian visitors to the site and to his great credit the tour guide was nice make a point to accommodate me, though it makes me a little nervous when someone points out race in any context to make a point. Cedar Hill is well maintained and stands out in great contrast to the rest of Anacostia. It's the highest point in the area and one can see the Capitol building, the Washington Monument, and the Navy Yard across the Anacostia River in the background.
3. Embassy Row, right off of Dupont Circle. The Irish Ambassador used to throw massive street parties to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. He even went to the trouble to have six Port a John's set up in front of the Embassy for use by visitors. That's hardcore. Unfortunately, he was replaced by a much stodgier representative and the parties are no more. Alas.
4. Sex Stores off Dupont Circle. Most underwhelming, unless you are into leather or like dressing in skimpy negligée. I didn't go into the gay male themed store which was completely BDSM and/or bondage oriented.
2. The poverty of Anacostia, a working class neighborhood turned extreme urban blight. All white until the 1950s, it has now has one of the highest crime rates in the entire city. They measure progress there by the fact that the district now has merely half the homicides it did in the early 1990's. Condemned buildings, decay, run down churches, a lack of much infrastructure, and almost no places to eat or shop is the reality of the entire area. The one restaurant, a fast food fried fish joint that is as worn out as everything else advertises that it is black owned and black operated.
As you arrive on the Green Line metro, you walk out of the station and are promptly dumped out onto Martin Luther King. It reminds me of that Chris Rock routine. "If you find yourself on 'Martin Luther King Boulevard', run!"
Stepping off the stop and walking out into the neighborhood, I knew I was traveling out into the H-O-O-D. I have, however, learned a few things along the way and enough knew not to make eye contact with any of the passer byes. When I was in college I dated a woman who lived in a rough part of Birmingham. Her grandparents had owned the house when it was a reasonably safe working class neighborhood. Along with white flight outward in all directions from the city center, the area turned into a ghetto. I can't say I ever felt completely safe when I'd visit her, but at least I know how to minimize the likelihood of being the victim of a crime.
My destination was the Frederick Douglass house, about a ten minute walk away. While having a Harlem Experience (i.e. noticing I was the only white person within a six block area) I followed the signs to the house, which was the residence for the last few years of the life of the noted African-American abolitionist and social reformer. Apparently they don't get many Caucasian visitors to the site and to his great credit the tour guide was nice make a point to accommodate me, though it makes me a little nervous when someone points out race in any context to make a point. Cedar Hill is well maintained and stands out in great contrast to the rest of Anacostia. It's the highest point in the area and one can see the Capitol building, the Washington Monument, and the Navy Yard across the Anacostia River in the background.
3. Embassy Row, right off of Dupont Circle. The Irish Ambassador used to throw massive street parties to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. He even went to the trouble to have six Port a John's set up in front of the Embassy for use by visitors. That's hardcore. Unfortunately, he was replaced by a much stodgier representative and the parties are no more. Alas.
4. Sex Stores off Dupont Circle. Most underwhelming, unless you are into leather or like dressing in skimpy negligée. I didn't go into the gay male themed store which was completely BDSM and/or bondage oriented.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Early Morning Cold Taxi
While sipping my morning coffee and attempting heavily to wake up completely I am writing this post to you. This morning I was awakened around 7:15 to have blood drawn in order to check my lithium level. Lithium levels cannot be measured except by that method. Lithum has a relatively narrow window of efficacy (that is, a blood concentrate level) which must be within .6 and 1.2. If too low, then the positive effects are practically null. If too high, then one gets toxic, which means nausea and vomiting. My last level was at .8, well within the limits. They normally get the results in pretty quickly, within an hour. By the time I finish writing this, I expect to know the results.
I have to say that being jabbed with needles early in the morning is not particularly one of my favorite things. Still, the little man whose job it is to collect everyone's blood work is efficient in what he does and has never yet required more than one needle stick to do it. Some technicians stick you like they enjoy it. By contrast, he has a command of what he is doing and is quite efficient. The whole process takes less than five minutes. After everything was finished and I had a flexible band wrapped around my left forearm to stop the bleeding, I rolled over and went back to sleep for another half of a an hour.
As I've mentioned before, I intend to go on as many day passes as I can, since I might very well not feel like leaving the hospital when the treatment starts. Today I'm going to be visiting the Woodrow Wilson house, which was the President and his wife, Edith's, residence for the remaining years of his life. The Wilsons moved in shortly after his second term in office had expired. Woodrow Wilson died there in 1924. Edith outlived him by nearly three decades and then turned the house over to the National Trust for Historic Preservation upon her death. I meant to go yesterday, but discovered before I intended to leave the unit that the place is closed on Mondays. I stumbled across it on Sunday because it's on the way to the Quaker meeting I have been attending, right off the Dupont Circle metro stop.
In other news, until Obama is sworn in, I'm kind of taking a break from politics. I'd rather not critique or second guess the President-Elect's cabinet posts or economic plan. Much energy and analysis was expended on studying the minutia of the election and now that it is concluded I am taking the time to sort of catch my breath. What I will say, briefly, is that I hold out a tremendous amount of hope that our newest President will be a much better Chief Executive then what we've had for eight long years. Contrary to what some commentators might think, I never enjoyed feeling righteously indignant at everything W did wrong. Left-wing bloggers, liberals, and Democrats alike found common purpose and common indignity in the act of speaking out against the Bush Administration, but I didn't get a sense of satisfaction in doing so. I've found it a frequently exasperating and lonely experience being the Loyal Opposition. Maybe we'll all get a chance to set aside our communal griping and observe what it's like when government is properly and efficiently run.
I have to say that being jabbed with needles early in the morning is not particularly one of my favorite things. Still, the little man whose job it is to collect everyone's blood work is efficient in what he does and has never yet required more than one needle stick to do it. Some technicians stick you like they enjoy it. By contrast, he has a command of what he is doing and is quite efficient. The whole process takes less than five minutes. After everything was finished and I had a flexible band wrapped around my left forearm to stop the bleeding, I rolled over and went back to sleep for another half of a an hour.
As I've mentioned before, I intend to go on as many day passes as I can, since I might very well not feel like leaving the hospital when the treatment starts. Today I'm going to be visiting the Woodrow Wilson house, which was the President and his wife, Edith's, residence for the remaining years of his life. The Wilsons moved in shortly after his second term in office had expired. Woodrow Wilson died there in 1924. Edith outlived him by nearly three decades and then turned the house over to the National Trust for Historic Preservation upon her death. I meant to go yesterday, but discovered before I intended to leave the unit that the place is closed on Mondays. I stumbled across it on Sunday because it's on the way to the Quaker meeting I have been attending, right off the Dupont Circle metro stop.
In other news, until Obama is sworn in, I'm kind of taking a break from politics. I'd rather not critique or second guess the President-Elect's cabinet posts or economic plan. Much energy and analysis was expended on studying the minutia of the election and now that it is concluded I am taking the time to sort of catch my breath. What I will say, briefly, is that I hold out a tremendous amount of hope that our newest President will be a much better Chief Executive then what we've had for eight long years. Contrary to what some commentators might think, I never enjoyed feeling righteously indignant at everything W did wrong. Left-wing bloggers, liberals, and Democrats alike found common purpose and common indignity in the act of speaking out against the Bush Administration, but I didn't get a sense of satisfaction in doing so. I've found it a frequently exasperating and lonely experience being the Loyal Opposition. Maybe we'll all get a chance to set aside our communal griping and observe what it's like when government is properly and efficiently run.
Monday, November 24, 2008
No! Not Teh Gays!
Run! Don't let them take over your community!
* (I can't believe this is real)
__________________________
In case you are bored, you can watch this instead.
Wrong, Wrong, Wrong
Wrong.
And to think some young women scour these sites for "diet tips". News like this infuriates me, especially since I have a sister and a very good friend who have both struggled with eating disorders. This kind of dysfunction needs a treatment, not a enabler masquerading as a support group. Again, I am reminded of how this culture's singular obsession with body image and perfection creates major problems like these.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
A Late Update from Headquarters
After two eventful days which constituted the first part of my weekend, today was a rather sedate affair by contrast. It's good to have a break from constant stimulation and memorable anecdotes, even if they at times border on the prosaic. Tomorrow I'll keep to the unit and not trudge out again until Tuesday. I've had my fun for a few days.
Meeting this morning was very powerful and spiritually grounding. I spoke first on the subject of spiritual perfection, thoughts which had been running through my head for most of half a week and had even found my way onto my political-oriented blog. Nine other people rose to speaking during worship, three of which in particular were very instructive and quite memorable to me. One man's testimony was itself a one part spiritual reflection and two parts Quaker history lesson, and as a recently Convinced Friend I had not heard the precise story before. It was very interesting. As I have mentioned before, I enjoy a vocal service, since silence by itself is so less rich than when fellow Quakers raise and layer their voices upon the testimonies of others--in, of course, the spirit of seeking greater meaning.
I engaged a woman my own age in conversation, mostly on the subject of unremarkable small talk. The conversation was polite and obligatory, but I wouldn't call it spirited in the least. Have you spoken to a stranger and had nothing unpleasant to say about them or about what was said, but also acknowledged at the same time that the crucial spark that separates a good conversation from a perfunctory one was severely lacking? I was a little disappointed, personally. Sometimes it's difficult to draw extremely introverted people out and as I've mentioned before, Quaker meetings are overwhelmingly comprised of introverts. Someone someday will do a study about the introversion spectrum and I'll be the first to read it.
Yesterday I prided myself on finding a Target not far from a metro stop and purchased a wool knit hat (Southerners call it a "toboggan") and gloves. DC winter started early this season. I also shopped three places for a heavy coat, which I am going to need ever more so as winter chill increases daily. A pea coat ranges anywhere from $250 at a department store to nearly $100 at Target. I'm going to look a few more places before I shell out the cash. One of the patients on the unit says she knows a place where I can get a good quality coat for even less than that.
Then I will look exactly like everyone else.
To conclude, the food at the diner at White Flint was fantastic, though I wish I'd known the milk shakes cost five dollars a piece. In complaining about the milkshakes, I felt like John Travolta's character in Pulp Fiction.
Meeting this morning was very powerful and spiritually grounding. I spoke first on the subject of spiritual perfection, thoughts which had been running through my head for most of half a week and had even found my way onto my political-oriented blog. Nine other people rose to speaking during worship, three of which in particular were very instructive and quite memorable to me. One man's testimony was itself a one part spiritual reflection and two parts Quaker history lesson, and as a recently Convinced Friend I had not heard the precise story before. It was very interesting. As I have mentioned before, I enjoy a vocal service, since silence by itself is so less rich than when fellow Quakers raise and layer their voices upon the testimonies of others--in, of course, the spirit of seeking greater meaning.
I engaged a woman my own age in conversation, mostly on the subject of unremarkable small talk. The conversation was polite and obligatory, but I wouldn't call it spirited in the least. Have you spoken to a stranger and had nothing unpleasant to say about them or about what was said, but also acknowledged at the same time that the crucial spark that separates a good conversation from a perfunctory one was severely lacking? I was a little disappointed, personally. Sometimes it's difficult to draw extremely introverted people out and as I've mentioned before, Quaker meetings are overwhelmingly comprised of introverts. Someone someday will do a study about the introversion spectrum and I'll be the first to read it.
Yesterday I prided myself on finding a Target not far from a metro stop and purchased a wool knit hat (Southerners call it a "toboggan") and gloves. DC winter started early this season. I also shopped three places for a heavy coat, which I am going to need ever more so as winter chill increases daily. A pea coat ranges anywhere from $250 at a department store to nearly $100 at Target. I'm going to look a few more places before I shell out the cash. One of the patients on the unit says she knows a place where I can get a good quality coat for even less than that.
Then I will look exactly like everyone else.
To conclude, the food at the diner at White Flint was fantastic, though I wish I'd known the milk shakes cost five dollars a piece. In complaining about the milkshakes, I felt like John Travolta's character in Pulp Fiction.
The Blogger Album Project
THE RULES:
1. Post your list of the seven best albums, the seven bloggers you will tag, a copy of these rules, and a link back to this page.
2. Each person tagged will put a URL to their Blogger Album Project post along with a list of the seven best albums in the comment section HERE.
3. Feel free to post the “I Contributed to the Blogger Album Project” Award Graphic on your sidebar, along with a link back to this page.
4. Post a link back to the blogger who tagged you.
__________
THE ANSWERS:
1. Posted below are my seven best albums of all time. I don't tag people on principle, but those who wish to participate may do so over their own accord. Liberality tagged me.
_________
THE ALBUMS:
1. Sly and the Family Stone- There's A Riot Goin' On
In comparison with Sly Stone's earlier, more optimistic work, There's A Riot Goin' On is a muddy, sloppy, pessimistic, occasionally presumptuous masterpiece. Never was the death of the hippie dream and resulting demise of 60's idealism better articulated than this batch of songs. The narcotic grooves and lethargic beat suck you in despite yourself. Sly Stone's drug use and internal tension within the group would eventually lead to its demise and here one sees the beginning stages of that fragmentation.
2. Sloan- One Chord to Another
This Canadian group started out sounding like a poppier version of My Bloody Valentine at the beginning of the 90's, then quickly reverted to the perfect power pop they should have been producing all along. One Chord to Another, ironically enough, was cobbled together in piecemeal fashion, since many of the tracks were written solo by each member without any collaboration at all from the other bandmates. Sloan had been more or less broken up at the time of recording and were beginning to engage in solo projects, but decided to reform to attempt to make a much better group effort. The resulting album was a triumph---successful both critically and commercially in indie circles.
3. Radiohead- OK Computer
Over a decade since its release, Radiohead's third and best album has never been matched by any subsequent group. Released at the end of the Britpop era when alternative music as a whole was waning in popularity, OK Computer is a gloomy, brooding masterpiece. Never bettered, even by Radiohead itself, no single release in all of popular music since then has come close to topping it. Later Radiohead releases eshewed guitar rock in favor of more experimental, electronic sonic textures, but here the results are still conventional enough to reach a huge audience.
4. The Velvet Underground- Loaded
Switching to Atlantic Records, Lou Reed was asked by label brass to write an album "loaded with hits." He complied, writing one radio-friendly song after another. The resulting album was the group's most successful release, though Reed left the band well before Loaded reached its apex of popularity. In comparison with more avante-garde experimental releases which came before it, Loaded was designed for chart success. This is why many Velvet Underground fans find it among their least favorite album, but I happen to believe it otherwise.
5. John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band
Raw, angry, and exposed in a way few album had dared to be before, Plastic Ono Band is one of the best examples of the seventies singer/songwriter genre. At times a painfully harrowing listen, one has to admire the boldness and bravery of its composer, even if one is horrified at the emotional intensity. Lennon made no pretenses at concealing his true feelings on a variety of controversial subjects. While retaining a rather minimalist sound during the sessions, he experimented with a variety of different styles ranging from chug-a-lug rock to protest folk to piano-driven ballads.
A modest commercial success, Plastic Ono Band is nonetheless the best Beatles solo album of all the four. Lennon would never brave being this introspective and shockingly graphic again.
6. The Zombies- Odessey and Oracle
The Zombies started as a successful British Invasion group with two top ten singles, then released a series of disasterous flop 45s. After three frustrating years with minimal chart success and lessening popular appeal, the group decided to call it quits, but not before releasing a final album. With nothing to lose, The Zombies decided to make a album precisely the way they'd always wanted. They were limited slightly during the recording by a modest budget and as a result used a mellotron in place of strings and a live orchestra. One thing can be sure---this album doesn't sound like anything else. Odessey and Oracle was released to almost no notice until Al Kooper, a member of the American group The Electric Flag used his weight and connections to publicize just how good the LP was.
A single "Time of the Season" was pulled from the album and released. It became a monster hit and one of the most popular singles of the 1960's. The Zombies were urged to reform and tour on the strength of the chart success, but they refused. The album still speaks for itself.
7. The Kinks- Arthur (Or The Decline and Fall of the British Empire)
The Kinks had been very popular at the dawning of the British Invasion, but then morphed from a loud, four power chords band ("You Really Got Me", "All Day and All of the Night") sound not so dissimilar to The Who to an album oriented group with unique arrangements and softer elements. The wistful, literate, melancholic rock of The Kinks in late sixties and early seventies fell upon deaf ears in the UK and in America.
Ray Davies wrote an entire album which was meant to be the soundtrack to a British TV drama. When the TV show fell through, Davies released the album anyway. Full of social criticism, scathing commentary, and uniformly strong songwriting, Arthur arguably showcases Davies most cohesive batch of songs. A modest success in the UK, the album didn't make much of an impression on American audiences. The Kinks returned to the good graces of the record buying public by releasing the single "Lola" two years later, which returned the group to the top of the charts yet again.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Last Night
1. Good company was in great supply last night at the dinner party. I enjoyed meeting Norah's mother, who is quite an oversized gregarious personality indeed. I couldn't help noticing how she has much more pronounced a upper midwestern nasal quality to her voice than her daughter. Television, movies, and the internet have muted and restrained everyone's accent, no matter what the area of origin. Each of us eats the same food, shops at the same stores, focuses on the same pop culture tidbits, and grows ever more similar to the generation before us.
Yet again I was the Deep South representative to the gathering. Interestingly enough, the attendees were overwhelmingly comprised of people from Wisconsin and Minnesota. Dinner was fixed and then consumed, drinks were poured and then drank. Conversation began with pleasantries and shifted quickly to politics, religion, and philosophy. I was in an amazing good mood and feeling humorous. When I'm not feeling well, humor is the first thing to go. At the end, I hated to have to leave when I did, just as the conversation was getting good, but I have to be back here on the unit every night by 10, officially, though if you call and say you're going to be late, and get back in a reasonable hour, then that's forgiven.
2. The Red Line metro back here to NIMH is a fifty minute trip all told from Tacoma Park. Normally I try to pass the time by staring into space or end up people watching in spite of myself. About halfway home four soccer jock girls stepped onto the train and sat down in front of me. Ordinarily I would have ignored them, but I was distracted by their horseplay. In a silly kind of way they were taking their shoes off to show each other the callouses and rough skin of their feet. Having been to a lively, humorous dinner party immediately I was in a jovial mood; when I am in a good mood, I don't mind taking a risk and initiating conversation with random strangers on the metro.
Two of them were shy, shooting me smiles and interested looks, though they were too inhibited to utter a word in my direction. One of them stared directly at my crotch for an extended period of time. Each of them had played soccer in college and made a decent living coaching twelve and thirteen year old private school girls. Though they had been rivals in college, they were now very close. What struck me most is that they were reasonably intelligent. In the south, there is no overlap. Everyone is thrust into a caste system where overlap in impossible. Cheerleaders are ditzy, athletes, regardless of sport are stupid, and as such breaking out of these exacting stereotypes is futile. Though clearly athletes, these girls were capable of speaking a coherent sentence by themselves without a tutor and I'm not accustomed to that where I live.
Meanwhile, the most attractive one, a streetwise blonde from NYC with an understandably slender athletic build and an eyebrow piercing, got off at a stop before the other three. Before exiting the car she gave each of her friends a deliberate, theatrical peck against the cheek, then, her hands wrapped around the aluminum pole of the car like a dancer, flirtatiously and quite deliberately swung her body past me on her way off the car. She wished me a safe journey and a good night. The next step was mine.
3. Someone tried to sell me drugs last night. To get to street level on my stop, one must ride or walk up a very large escalator. I was unconsciously gesticulating with my right hand, imploring a man to move aside so that I could walk by. The unwritten rule in the Metro is that those who wish to ride the escalator stay to the right and those wishing to walk it stay to the left. He was blocking the left hand side, wearing a khaki-colored trench coat. A woman was blocking my path on the right, so that my way was totally blocked. In retrospect I realize he was doing this to hand over the drugs to a buyer, who was standing to the right.
He interpreted my gesture to mean, Oh, so you'd like to buy something as well?
And, realizing this, and looking at the joint he was offering me, I nodded my head vigorously sideways, pushing past him as quickly as I could. I made large strides to the top of the escalator, and it wasn't until I had arrived on ground level and was walking quickly back to this building that I understood precisely what had transpired.
Yet again I was the Deep South representative to the gathering. Interestingly enough, the attendees were overwhelmingly comprised of people from Wisconsin and Minnesota. Dinner was fixed and then consumed, drinks were poured and then drank. Conversation began with pleasantries and shifted quickly to politics, religion, and philosophy. I was in an amazing good mood and feeling humorous. When I'm not feeling well, humor is the first thing to go. At the end, I hated to have to leave when I did, just as the conversation was getting good, but I have to be back here on the unit every night by 10, officially, though if you call and say you're going to be late, and get back in a reasonable hour, then that's forgiven.
2. The Red Line metro back here to NIMH is a fifty minute trip all told from Tacoma Park. Normally I try to pass the time by staring into space or end up people watching in spite of myself. About halfway home four soccer jock girls stepped onto the train and sat down in front of me. Ordinarily I would have ignored them, but I was distracted by their horseplay. In a silly kind of way they were taking their shoes off to show each other the callouses and rough skin of their feet. Having been to a lively, humorous dinner party immediately I was in a jovial mood; when I am in a good mood, I don't mind taking a risk and initiating conversation with random strangers on the metro.
Two of them were shy, shooting me smiles and interested looks, though they were too inhibited to utter a word in my direction. One of them stared directly at my crotch for an extended period of time. Each of them had played soccer in college and made a decent living coaching twelve and thirteen year old private school girls. Though they had been rivals in college, they were now very close. What struck me most is that they were reasonably intelligent. In the south, there is no overlap. Everyone is thrust into a caste system where overlap in impossible. Cheerleaders are ditzy, athletes, regardless of sport are stupid, and as such breaking out of these exacting stereotypes is futile. Though clearly athletes, these girls were capable of speaking a coherent sentence by themselves without a tutor and I'm not accustomed to that where I live.
Meanwhile, the most attractive one, a streetwise blonde from NYC with an understandably slender athletic build and an eyebrow piercing, got off at a stop before the other three. Before exiting the car she gave each of her friends a deliberate, theatrical peck against the cheek, then, her hands wrapped around the aluminum pole of the car like a dancer, flirtatiously and quite deliberately swung her body past me on her way off the car. She wished me a safe journey and a good night. The next step was mine.
3. Someone tried to sell me drugs last night. To get to street level on my stop, one must ride or walk up a very large escalator. I was unconsciously gesticulating with my right hand, imploring a man to move aside so that I could walk by. The unwritten rule in the Metro is that those who wish to ride the escalator stay to the right and those wishing to walk it stay to the left. He was blocking the left hand side, wearing a khaki-colored trench coat. A woman was blocking my path on the right, so that my way was totally blocked. In retrospect I realize he was doing this to hand over the drugs to a buyer, who was standing to the right.
He interpreted my gesture to mean, Oh, so you'd like to buy something as well?
And, realizing this, and looking at the joint he was offering me, I nodded my head vigorously sideways, pushing past him as quickly as I could. I made large strides to the top of the escalator, and it wasn't until I had arrived on ground level and was walking quickly back to this building that I understood precisely what had transpired.
Saturday Video
Sly and the Family made their reputation as the creator of high energy, upbeat, optimistic, singalongs. Fusing funk and soul with elements like Broadway and Hollywood soundtracks, their sound was thoroughly commercial but just edgy enough not to be categorized as throwaway AM radio pap. The first racially integrated major group, Sly and the Family Stone also featured several female members; ironically, the rock music scene of the time, while it preached gender equality, was also severely sexist and overwhelmingly comprised of men. This is what made the group ever more remarkable in an era of macho posturing and male domination.
By 1970, however, the band encountered some severe tensions, from leader Sly Stone's descent into drug addiction, over infighting over the direction the group would be headed, and from the bitter death of the starry-eyed idealism that characterized the late 1960's. The resulting album, There's a Riot Goin' On, was as muddied and worn as the times, due to frequent overdubbing and the erasing of key tracks on the original master tapes. The leadoff single pulled from this album, "Family Affair", was Sly and the Family Stone's last number one single. Though Riot was the most critically successful album the band would ever record, it represents also the group's apex. It was all downhill from there.
Friday, November 21, 2008
I've Got My Philosophy
As I survey the world around me, I discover that we're all seeking to make this world perfect, or at least more perfect than it was before we were alive. I recognize that few among us wish to halt progress to a standstill or to reverse its effects altogether. Liberal or conservative, Republican or Democrat, we look to the future as a time of hope and innovation. Though some may disagree with us about the means and methods, nevertheless each of us strives to reverse the problems of humankind and improve conditions for every living soul on earth. This doesn't mean that we don't have substantive difference of opinion as to how to achieve this, but we ought to pause and examine that though our theories may differ our ultimate aim is the same.
And as I further reflect, a large part of myself harbors deep cynicism. The convention wisdom asserts that humans are imperfect creatures and that, as such, seeking perfection is a recipe for disaster. Why bother to frustrate oneself in the end, knowing that the results will always fall short of the expectations? Why entertain grandiose notions that may never prove to be workable, no matter when they are enacted? Why dream large when smaller goals might be more attainable? Why let our hopes exceed our capacity to achieve?
I think it might do us a large amount of good to think of progress in terms of the process, rather than the conclusion. Perhaps if we were more zen in our thinking we'd delight in the process of creating, discovering, and solving. Too often we base everything upon the final step, rushing through the craft, desperate to find a breakthrough. Sometimes our own pet causes and our own crusades blind us to the joy of living in the moment or at least enjoying the process of discovery.
And as I further reflect, a large part of myself harbors deep cynicism. The convention wisdom asserts that humans are imperfect creatures and that, as such, seeking perfection is a recipe for disaster. Why bother to frustrate oneself in the end, knowing that the results will always fall short of the expectations? Why entertain grandiose notions that may never prove to be workable, no matter when they are enacted? Why dream large when smaller goals might be more attainable? Why let our hopes exceed our capacity to achieve?
I think it might do us a large amount of good to think of progress in terms of the process, rather than the conclusion. Perhaps if we were more zen in our thinking we'd delight in the process of creating, discovering, and solving. Too often we base everything upon the final step, rushing through the craft, desperate to find a breakthrough. Sometimes our own pet causes and our own crusades blind us to the joy of living in the moment or at least enjoying the process of discovery.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Finalizing Dates/ Upon Further Review
Yesterday I was informed as to the exact day I will begin the ketamine infusions---6 January. By the point the protocol begins and the tapering of most of my other medication ends, I'll only be on lithium as a mood stabilizer. I hope that's enough to keep me from becoming too depressed. The option of going home for Christmas is available to me but my concern is that by that point I will be feeling in no condition whatsoever to undertake a forty minute metro ride, twenty minute bus ride, two hour wait in the airport, and two hour flight back to Birmingham. Might as well play it by ear.
In this entry, I meant to talk about the wonderment that was today's visit to the National Portrait Gallery and the Smithsonian Museum of Art. I also meant to talk about how ridiculous it is that any necklace should be upwards of $200 and more and especially how no artist has absolutely any right to charge over $400 for a creation that, despite the practical application, will end up becoming an overpriced paperweight. I was going to conclude with a brief, snarky diatribe that a fifty year old television, set prominently in a gallery, placed on a wooden petard is NOT art. No matter how much bullshit is provided on the placard proclaiming its merits as a genuine, bonafide precious work--it's still a fifty year old television. Period.
Instead, allow me to enlighten those of you about my crush. Doomed it may be, but it does keep me feeling decidedly and daily invigorated. She who shall remain nameless (the blonde) did not immediately strike my fancy, but a man's ego can easily be stimulated by needlessly in depth conversation and flagrant eye contact. Allow me my fantasy, please, and pray do not tell me I am being delusional or reading too much into the situation.
It took me back. Odd where one's memories will take you against your will.
When I was in seventh grade I remember harboring a crush upon a girl in gym class. Since I was far much shy than I was today I was never quite sure that my feelings for her were reciprocal and I would have never been so bold as to ask directly. After six months of ten minute conversations while seated Indian-style on a rubbery floor, one memorable day we met quite unexpectedly in a computer lab. As you might recall, before the advent of internet, labs were places to create presentations or type madly away into a word processing program. I was doing one or the other that day, engrossed very much in what I was doing.
Working on something, typing away, I was lost in space. I noticed how she walked behind me, facing the monitor in the same direction as I was. Quite unconsciously, it seems, her fingers began to vigorously rub my shoulders. Enjoying the tactile sensation, I wasn't sure what this behavior connoted exactly (friendly or romantic) until I turned around to see a guilty look. She stopped suddenly. The look on her face said it all: I can't do this. I have a boyfriend.
And it was true. She did have a boyfriend, a guy two years older was who attended another school---one whom she saw with regularity every weekend. Our friendship returned with a minimum of awkwardness, but I was always left wondering what might have happened had she not been so faithful to this distant boy. I wonder where she is now. Her name was Blair.
In this entry, I meant to talk about the wonderment that was today's visit to the National Portrait Gallery and the Smithsonian Museum of Art. I also meant to talk about how ridiculous it is that any necklace should be upwards of $200 and more and especially how no artist has absolutely any right to charge over $400 for a creation that, despite the practical application, will end up becoming an overpriced paperweight. I was going to conclude with a brief, snarky diatribe that a fifty year old television, set prominently in a gallery, placed on a wooden petard is NOT art. No matter how much bullshit is provided on the placard proclaiming its merits as a genuine, bonafide precious work--it's still a fifty year old television. Period.
Instead, allow me to enlighten those of you about my crush. Doomed it may be, but it does keep me feeling decidedly and daily invigorated. She who shall remain nameless (the blonde) did not immediately strike my fancy, but a man's ego can easily be stimulated by needlessly in depth conversation and flagrant eye contact. Allow me my fantasy, please, and pray do not tell me I am being delusional or reading too much into the situation.
It took me back. Odd where one's memories will take you against your will.
When I was in seventh grade I remember harboring a crush upon a girl in gym class. Since I was far much shy than I was today I was never quite sure that my feelings for her were reciprocal and I would have never been so bold as to ask directly. After six months of ten minute conversations while seated Indian-style on a rubbery floor, one memorable day we met quite unexpectedly in a computer lab. As you might recall, before the advent of internet, labs were places to create presentations or type madly away into a word processing program. I was doing one or the other that day, engrossed very much in what I was doing.
Working on something, typing away, I was lost in space. I noticed how she walked behind me, facing the monitor in the same direction as I was. Quite unconsciously, it seems, her fingers began to vigorously rub my shoulders. Enjoying the tactile sensation, I wasn't sure what this behavior connoted exactly (friendly or romantic) until I turned around to see a guilty look. She stopped suddenly. The look on her face said it all: I can't do this. I have a boyfriend.
And it was true. She did have a boyfriend, a guy two years older was who attended another school---one whom she saw with regularity every weekend. Our friendship returned with a minimum of awkwardness, but I was always left wondering what might have happened had she not been so faithful to this distant boy. I wonder where she is now. Her name was Blair.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Team of Responsiveness
The potential appointment of Hillary Clinton to head the State Department, lack of malicious reproach towards wayward nominal Democrat Joe Lieberman, and utilization of notable Washington insiders to fill crucial posts within the Obama Administration does not upset me. As has been noted in many corners of the media, Obama is seeking to emulate Lincoln by putting to together a cabinet comprised of a "Team of Rivals". Having read that particular book recently, I see its influence upon the President-Elect. Lincoln himself drew frequent criticism for every policy decision he made---especially in the editorial boards and pages of the multitude of newspapers existent in his day, which were as hyper-partisan, if not more so, than the voices of the blogsophere today.
It's a tendency of human nature to seek blood justice and harsh punishment for offenders but this is a temptation we must fight. Lincoln learned quickly that if he wished to obtain the support and advice of fellow politicians he ought to favor tact over bloodletting. Restraint is a quality often in short supply in politics and the blogsophere alike. The "gotcha" style politics that have been practiced recently may seem satisfying and cleansing in the short term, but in the long term they create resentment and factionalism which is to no one's benefit in the end. Lincoln knew that forgiveness and a refusal to hold a grudge went farther than public punishment, no matter how justified it might seem at the time. Many people are fickle and uncomprehending of the process, eager to second guess their leaders, wishing the world could be a perpetual heavyweight, bare knuckle prize fight. Desiring retribution whenever possible and believing that consensus to be little more than a naive fantasy, they hold any elected representative to a standard of perfection that is impossible to attain in reality.
Obama also is aware of the problems Jimmy Carter created for himself when he packed his inner circle full of inexperienced Washington outsiders, whose incompetence and insularity created one black eye after another for the Carter Administration. The ravenous critics who will parse, lament, critique, knash teeth, and otherwise resort to indignation would be wise to shelve these knee-jerk reactions. I feel much more confident in the judgment of President Obama than I ever have or ever will about the capabilities of President Bush. No candidate needs a free pass---that would be irresponsible and shirk the responsibility of citizenship, but neither does a candidate need to be lambasted and raked over the coals for ever decision he or she makes, no matter the circumstances. That being said, if we could seek a happy medium within ourselves that is similar to the happy medium President-Elect Obama is searching to find in his own staff, how much more content and happy we would all be.
It's a tendency of human nature to seek blood justice and harsh punishment for offenders but this is a temptation we must fight. Lincoln learned quickly that if he wished to obtain the support and advice of fellow politicians he ought to favor tact over bloodletting. Restraint is a quality often in short supply in politics and the blogsophere alike. The "gotcha" style politics that have been practiced recently may seem satisfying and cleansing in the short term, but in the long term they create resentment and factionalism which is to no one's benefit in the end. Lincoln knew that forgiveness and a refusal to hold a grudge went farther than public punishment, no matter how justified it might seem at the time. Many people are fickle and uncomprehending of the process, eager to second guess their leaders, wishing the world could be a perpetual heavyweight, bare knuckle prize fight. Desiring retribution whenever possible and believing that consensus to be little more than a naive fantasy, they hold any elected representative to a standard of perfection that is impossible to attain in reality.
Obama also is aware of the problems Jimmy Carter created for himself when he packed his inner circle full of inexperienced Washington outsiders, whose incompetence and insularity created one black eye after another for the Carter Administration. The ravenous critics who will parse, lament, critique, knash teeth, and otherwise resort to indignation would be wise to shelve these knee-jerk reactions. I feel much more confident in the judgment of President Obama than I ever have or ever will about the capabilities of President Bush. No candidate needs a free pass---that would be irresponsible and shirk the responsibility of citizenship, but neither does a candidate need to be lambasted and raked over the coals for ever decision he or she makes, no matter the circumstances. That being said, if we could seek a happy medium within ourselves that is similar to the happy medium President-Elect Obama is searching to find in his own staff, how much more content and happy we would all be.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Escapism
Being here on the ward is not an unpleasant experience, but at times it's isolating. Though we all have a shared illness in common, that in and of itself is a rather loose and unsubstantial common thread. Ever since I can remember I've known that I was a very different person from the norm and here I very plainly recognize it again. In this society we have a kind of ambivalent attitude towards the intelligent---on one hand we envy those who have gifts most do not possess, but the other side of it is that our whole system is geared towards the average and pedestrian. We give lip service towards self-improvement and education, while in the same breath espousing anti-intellectual propaganda, much of which is motivated purely from envy and jealousy.
The things I read, the things I view, the things I appreciate are far from typical. Forgive me for saying that I fail to see the pleasure that other people derive from reading bad fiction, watching television, or shopping for trivialities. In my younger years I talked derisively about both these proletariat distractions and the unfortunate people who stuffed themselves full of these banalities. Though less inclined now to seem so haughty and presumptuous--like before I am left with many questions that may never be answered to my satisfaction. If I could ask God any question, I think I'd ask why he created most people with average intelligence and so few people, proportionally speaking, with of above-average intelligence. As somewhat of an idealist, I look at the numerous problems we have in the world and recognize how many of them would either not exist or be easily fixed if everyone was smart.
It's easy to be elitist when one contemplates that intelligence is, as I've said above, a commodity that is simultaneously desired and decried. It's easy to be a snob when you've lived your whole life feeling thoroughly misunderstood and under-appreciated. It's easy to feel a sense of profound angst when you look around yourself and realize how easy it is for those middling folks to find companionship and camaraderie. Every thinking person has a bit of a complex for all these reasons and for the rest of my life I suppose I'll be asking why it has to be that way.
Though we are created equal in theory, we are not created equal in reality. As such, one wonders if hierarchies should be treated as an inevitability rather than a construct in need of reform. How can we be equal if we are not equal in skills, talent, or intellect? This, too, is a matter that no amount of study or consultation can answer to my satisfaction.
The things I read, the things I view, the things I appreciate are far from typical. Forgive me for saying that I fail to see the pleasure that other people derive from reading bad fiction, watching television, or shopping for trivialities. In my younger years I talked derisively about both these proletariat distractions and the unfortunate people who stuffed themselves full of these banalities. Though less inclined now to seem so haughty and presumptuous--like before I am left with many questions that may never be answered to my satisfaction. If I could ask God any question, I think I'd ask why he created most people with average intelligence and so few people, proportionally speaking, with of above-average intelligence. As somewhat of an idealist, I look at the numerous problems we have in the world and recognize how many of them would either not exist or be easily fixed if everyone was smart.
It's easy to be elitist when one contemplates that intelligence is, as I've said above, a commodity that is simultaneously desired and decried. It's easy to be a snob when you've lived your whole life feeling thoroughly misunderstood and under-appreciated. It's easy to feel a sense of profound angst when you look around yourself and realize how easy it is for those middling folks to find companionship and camaraderie. Every thinking person has a bit of a complex for all these reasons and for the rest of my life I suppose I'll be asking why it has to be that way.
Though we are created equal in theory, we are not created equal in reality. As such, one wonders if hierarchies should be treated as an inevitability rather than a construct in need of reform. How can we be equal if we are not equal in skills, talent, or intellect? This, too, is a matter that no amount of study or consultation can answer to my satisfaction.
Monday, November 17, 2008
The More Things Change...
The Huntsville (Alabama) Times ponders why Alabama overwhelmingly voted for John McCain in this past Presidential election. The conclusions drawn in this article are that race was a factor in voting patterns and that although racial dynamics came into play, racism played a much smaller part of the whole scheme of things. I point this out because I get very tired of self-righteous people stating with self-satisfied smugness that the South has a monopoly over racism. In my travels north, I've found racism in greater quantity in some places in the North.
Much of the south has remained insular and removed from the more cosmopolitan elements of Northern cities, meaning that in the case of Birmingham, where I live, everything becomes a black versus white issue. Black politicians have kept their power base by inflaming racial tensions to get themselves elected and white politicians have done the very same to their bloc of voters. Sadly, a state of mutual paranoia exists where we would be better served by forgetting the historical stalemate and substantial violence of the past by simply moving past it. Unlike many observers, I don't take sides in this Pyrrhic battle---I think everyone involved, regardless of skin color has proved themselves equally ridiculous in the proceedings.
I've had conversations with small town Alabama residents and recognized quite quickly in the discussion that their viewpoints have never been challenged. They hold fast to a few well-worn talking points and leitmotifs, but at no point has anyone given them reason doubt their time-honored positions. By contrast, since I've been up here in DC, which is a solidly Democratic, solidly liberal area with a tremendous amount of wealth, opportunity, and education I recognize all that the intersection of wealth, opportunity, and education in a concentrated area can produce. While the benefits are thrilling, I think at times people who have so very much forget, in their desire to point fingers and condemn those who do not think as they do, how much they have in comparison to so many others.
Even in times of economic recession, they have more than many other regions of the country (and certainly many nations of the world) combined. If each of us had the same opportunities afforded to us, then what a different world this would be. When Jesus said, "the poor will always be with you", I don't think he meant that somehow this was the way things were supposed to be, always. Indeed, if all people lived a virtuous life, there would be no poverty in the world whatsoever. This goes well beyond advocacy work on behalf of the poor. That in and of itself is good, but is insufficient. What is called for is a total change in mindset and mentality. Those around us are poor in many ways beyond having no money: poor in spirit, poor in morality, poor in ignorance, poor in judgment. I maintain, and I maintain strongly, if we saw to these problems as we should, how much better everyone's lifestyle would be in the process.
Much of the south has remained insular and removed from the more cosmopolitan elements of Northern cities, meaning that in the case of Birmingham, where I live, everything becomes a black versus white issue. Black politicians have kept their power base by inflaming racial tensions to get themselves elected and white politicians have done the very same to their bloc of voters. Sadly, a state of mutual paranoia exists where we would be better served by forgetting the historical stalemate and substantial violence of the past by simply moving past it. Unlike many observers, I don't take sides in this Pyrrhic battle---I think everyone involved, regardless of skin color has proved themselves equally ridiculous in the proceedings.
I've had conversations with small town Alabama residents and recognized quite quickly in the discussion that their viewpoints have never been challenged. They hold fast to a few well-worn talking points and leitmotifs, but at no point has anyone given them reason doubt their time-honored positions. By contrast, since I've been up here in DC, which is a solidly Democratic, solidly liberal area with a tremendous amount of wealth, opportunity, and education I recognize all that the intersection of wealth, opportunity, and education in a concentrated area can produce. While the benefits are thrilling, I think at times people who have so very much forget, in their desire to point fingers and condemn those who do not think as they do, how much they have in comparison to so many others.
Even in times of economic recession, they have more than many other regions of the country (and certainly many nations of the world) combined. If each of us had the same opportunities afforded to us, then what a different world this would be. When Jesus said, "the poor will always be with you", I don't think he meant that somehow this was the way things were supposed to be, always. Indeed, if all people lived a virtuous life, there would be no poverty in the world whatsoever. This goes well beyond advocacy work on behalf of the poor. That in and of itself is good, but is insufficient. What is called for is a total change in mindset and mentality. Those around us are poor in many ways beyond having no money: poor in spirit, poor in morality, poor in ignorance, poor in judgment. I maintain, and I maintain strongly, if we saw to these problems as we should, how much better everyone's lifestyle would be in the process.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Amusement
One of my shirts (not pictured) has shrunk considerably in the wash.
What was an overshirt has now become closer to a halter top. This would be great if I had a flat stomach and wanted to go to the gay bar and pick up men, but I'm not really inclined in that direction.
Observances While at Meeting
After having breakfast on the unit, my pass out into the outside was signed and away I went. I arrived at Friends Meeting of Washington, D.C, about forty-five minutes early. Quaker meetings I have found over the years to be disproportionally comprised of introverts and people as socially awkward as I, if not more so. This creates problems, since one socially awkward person in isolation is bad enough, but fifty in the same room trying desperately to make small talk is something else altogether. So it was that until First Hour worship I had several conversations that would likely be hilarious to observe from an outsider's perspective---especially if I had brought along a camera to provide visual evidence of said fact.
Worship began after ten minutes or so of silence with a woman expressing grief that a close family relative had passed away. I contemplated this for five minutes or so according to protocol. Quaker etiquette holds that it's rude to immediately rise to speak after someone else has finished talking. The point is to contemplate and find inner meaning with what has just been said. I make a habit of frequently speaking in meeting, but since it's such an effort to psych myself up enough to gather my courage, I often get impatient with waiting when I know my ability to talk in front of people quickly leaves me when I have time to obsess about my outward appearance to the rest of the world. My nerves have often betrayed me. Fortunately, today was not one of those instances.
I gave an eloquent, passionate talk. Though inside I was on the border between so nervous that my voice quavered and determined to speak my heart in spite of it, I gave the best message I had managed in my life. Anyone with a fear of public speaking knows what a chore it is to fight with one's own neuroses and stay afloat in the process. Yet, I kept these forces at bay and finished my talk. The satisfaction of a job well done flooded through me as I took my seat and tried my best to embrace serenity and inner calm.
A tired-looking blonde-haired girl with circles under her eyes and bad bangs spoke next. Earlier, as the service was beginning, she entered from my right and sat a bench behind me. My eyes fell upon her threadbare stockings, which were full of holes. She looked unbathed, exhausted, depressed, and demoralized. Her voice was fearful and resigned.
Sometimes it is so easy to see the Light within other people (referring to me), but there are times when I can't even see it within myself.
I know what she meant. Sometimes God seems far away, leaving you wondering where he is and why he departed for other destinations. The reality, of course, is that God is always there but for mysterious reasons direct revelation can seem at times both elusive and fickle. Sometimes he is revealed in the person of a stranger sitting next to you. Sometimes it appears as though his hand is present in the life of everyone you encounter with, the notable exception of you yourself. My own personal belief is that this perception involves freedom of choice. I firmly believe that since we are granted Free Will and can choose between good and evil, God works subliminally rather than overtly. The times in which he seems to have deserted us, he may simply be wishing to not interfere with our freedom to choose light or darkness, good or evil. If everyone was blessed with constant revelation, all of us would easily and eagerly choose good.
I treasure these times, where I feel the Light reflecting from within me out to everyone else in meeting when I speak. Today was one of those fortunate mornings where even my introversion, performance anxiety, and fear of public speaking fall away. The credit, of course, goes to God. I know there's no way I could do it by myself.
Worship began after ten minutes or so of silence with a woman expressing grief that a close family relative had passed away. I contemplated this for five minutes or so according to protocol. Quaker etiquette holds that it's rude to immediately rise to speak after someone else has finished talking. The point is to contemplate and find inner meaning with what has just been said. I make a habit of frequently speaking in meeting, but since it's such an effort to psych myself up enough to gather my courage, I often get impatient with waiting when I know my ability to talk in front of people quickly leaves me when I have time to obsess about my outward appearance to the rest of the world. My nerves have often betrayed me. Fortunately, today was not one of those instances.
I gave an eloquent, passionate talk. Though inside I was on the border between so nervous that my voice quavered and determined to speak my heart in spite of it, I gave the best message I had managed in my life. Anyone with a fear of public speaking knows what a chore it is to fight with one's own neuroses and stay afloat in the process. Yet, I kept these forces at bay and finished my talk. The satisfaction of a job well done flooded through me as I took my seat and tried my best to embrace serenity and inner calm.
A tired-looking blonde-haired girl with circles under her eyes and bad bangs spoke next. Earlier, as the service was beginning, she entered from my right and sat a bench behind me. My eyes fell upon her threadbare stockings, which were full of holes. She looked unbathed, exhausted, depressed, and demoralized. Her voice was fearful and resigned.
Sometimes it is so easy to see the Light within other people (referring to me), but there are times when I can't even see it within myself.
I know what she meant. Sometimes God seems far away, leaving you wondering where he is and why he departed for other destinations. The reality, of course, is that God is always there but for mysterious reasons direct revelation can seem at times both elusive and fickle. Sometimes he is revealed in the person of a stranger sitting next to you. Sometimes it appears as though his hand is present in the life of everyone you encounter with, the notable exception of you yourself. My own personal belief is that this perception involves freedom of choice. I firmly believe that since we are granted Free Will and can choose between good and evil, God works subliminally rather than overtly. The times in which he seems to have deserted us, he may simply be wishing to not interfere with our freedom to choose light or darkness, good or evil. If everyone was blessed with constant revelation, all of us would easily and eagerly choose good.
I treasure these times, where I feel the Light reflecting from within me out to everyone else in meeting when I speak. Today was one of those fortunate mornings where even my introversion, performance anxiety, and fear of public speaking fall away. The credit, of course, goes to God. I know there's no way I could do it by myself.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Minor Annoyances
I headed to the Corcoran Gallery of Art today during the late morning and early afternoon. The trip underscored two key elements of my taste in art. They are as follows:
a) I'm tired of people using 11 September 2001 as a springboard for found art. It was a big deal at the time, it's over, and I could easily go another lifetime before having to see this dedication or that dedication to it. It seems like these days any momentous event, no matter what it is gets over-analyzed, parsed, deconstructed, and picked apart to death, rendering us all by the end exhausted with the very idea of it.
Here's the skinny of the exhibit---A female artist had lived next door to the World Trade Center and when towers collapsed, the resulting force blew out her windows, in the process thrusting a collection of discarded papers from offices into her living room. She glued each of them to a large strand of linen which reached from one end of the exhibition room to the other. That was it. I found myself somewhat interested, but much more fascinated by portraits and paintings.
b) I think minimalism is great, until, of course, it isn't. In literature, being deliberately sparse is much more palatable, but as I approach the beginning of the modern era, I find my attention and enthusiasm lessening. With landscapes, in particular, I much prefer the 17th and 18th century varieties to the modern ones, which look so faceless and wholly unremarkable that one wonders why they're not being sold for display to grace the walls of homes instead of housed in a gallery.
a) I'm tired of people using 11 September 2001 as a springboard for found art. It was a big deal at the time, it's over, and I could easily go another lifetime before having to see this dedication or that dedication to it. It seems like these days any momentous event, no matter what it is gets over-analyzed, parsed, deconstructed, and picked apart to death, rendering us all by the end exhausted with the very idea of it.
Here's the skinny of the exhibit---A female artist had lived next door to the World Trade Center and when towers collapsed, the resulting force blew out her windows, in the process thrusting a collection of discarded papers from offices into her living room. She glued each of them to a large strand of linen which reached from one end of the exhibition room to the other. That was it. I found myself somewhat interested, but much more fascinated by portraits and paintings.
b) I think minimalism is great, until, of course, it isn't. In literature, being deliberately sparse is much more palatable, but as I approach the beginning of the modern era, I find my attention and enthusiasm lessening. With landscapes, in particular, I much prefer the 17th and 18th century varieties to the modern ones, which look so faceless and wholly unremarkable that one wonders why they're not being sold for display to grace the walls of homes instead of housed in a gallery.
Question to the Peanut Gallery
At which point does completely out of fashion become retro and thus making a statement?
Or does it depend on who's wearing it and how and when and where?
Or does it depend on who's wearing it and how and when and where?
Saturday Video
Alice in Chains secured widespread popularity as part of the famed Seattle grunge scene of the early nineties. Unlike many Seattle groups of the time, their music incorporated elements of both heavy metal and acoustic rock. Compared with the electric guitar heavy, punk-influenced bands of the time, Alice in Chains pulled in influences from bombastic arena rock to mellower styles of music. Part of the compendium of Seattle groups which rode on Nirvana's coattails into massive public attention--each seeming to catch fire simultaneously---Alice in Chains still hold the record for the largest selling EP of all time,1993's Dirt, on which this song is located.
"Rooster" is dedicated to guitarist Jerry Cantrell's father, who served in Vietnam. A powerful anti-war track, revealing the horror and fear of combat, the song reached number seven in the mainstream rock tracks. "Rooster" was a fan favorite and made its way into frequent MTV rotation.
"Rooster" is dedicated to guitarist Jerry Cantrell's father, who served in Vietnam. A powerful anti-war track, revealing the horror and fear of combat, the song reached number seven in the mainstream rock tracks. "Rooster" was a fan favorite and made its way into frequent MTV rotation.
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