thunder road is a promise of a future, of
a way out of this dark winter to a spring that slithers through
dewy weeds no longer frozen with the dawn.
this ceramic jar of a house has finally been uncapped and
when noon hits, that pinprick of bright blinds me. a rich promise
is this present yielding to tomorrow, but I still can’t reach the rim unless
I am poured out and stale, mixed into mud, and clouded with the
disrupt of dirt into the air.
the only thing is that thunder road is still a road. a path
that has been laid, foundations and plans wrought into reality.
it was made to be followed.
out of this town, out of this time, you leave one season only to
find another. and with only four options, universal mathematics
foretell variables, but after how many repeats? at the end of
this road is another jar, another
dark under and over and through lids that shake like leaves with
the touch of a turning breeze.
it was a road that first brought me to that shore at the edge
of the world. a road that began at the lips and bricked past
the eyes. a road that always turned a blind corner, a road
that consumed soles and tongues. it was the crushed
earth, tarred like a criminal, that showed me I can’t stay here.
the blade at the top of the weather was cold, yet still burns my body;
I am branded. I sweat, yet it falls from my brow as snow,
dusting the roads that I trusted. the seasons lose their reasons
as they mix in
the mortar of my heart, crushed with the pestle of my poison
and I can only see a ship cresting a sea-stone horizon. with
a battered lesson in hope and loss, I now open my chest
and see for myself and know more than just the roads in this city.
there’s an island, so a coast, a bronzed angel lighting my way,
and the ruins of golden towers. this is a broad way
for my feet to be finding, yet I am swept away again like so
much dust, later found beneath the woven floor. thunder road
ended at the west, sunk into the sea with a misting star,
until I turned around, and found it stretching east,
that man-wrought shortcut to the nearest dawn.
it’s impossible going back because it is impossible to move
anything but forward. location is a myth, time is a legend,
and all that anyone really knows is what it feels
like to be carried away. fate matters as little as choice
and answers are never punctuated. the earth dawns as it sets
and spins tight as it is unwound. thunder road is only an echo
of your lifeflash that already happened; counting the seconds,
the steps, to figure how far away you just might be.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
finale
I've been talking about being a victim of fate and not having any control over the circumstances that have seemed to take a hold of my life and put me in my place. I haven't quite convinced myself that this is the actual case, nor am I really that terrified of fate or destiny or the fact that my entire life might already be planned, but I think I'm going to put it to the test.
Tomorrow I am going to make a telephone call that will probably decide the rest of my life. At least it will put a path before me that I will hopefully follow for a considerable amount of time and will open up opportunities that would otherwise be closed. I think I've figured out what this whole mess all means and yes, ultimately, the decision still does lie with me.
April 1st is my deadline. Again, another week of unemployed boredom wrought with social and fatalist drama, but at least this time I'm expecting it. Hell, I get to be the damned catalyst.
Oh, spring. You slither through weeds.
Tomorrow I am going to make a telephone call that will probably decide the rest of my life. At least it will put a path before me that I will hopefully follow for a considerable amount of time and will open up opportunities that would otherwise be closed. I think I've figured out what this whole mess all means and yes, ultimately, the decision still does lie with me.
April 1st is my deadline. Again, another week of unemployed boredom wrought with social and fatalist drama, but at least this time I'm expecting it. Hell, I get to be the damned catalyst.
Oh, spring. You slither through weeds.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
the hazards of love
All I really know anymore is bad news, is hope upon hope just so simply crushed. I can have one little thing in the day that gives me a grin and sure enough, it's taken away just as quickly as it leaves my face. Now, I used to get all higher-power on myself and I was convinced that someone was out to get me. That my spiritual impact was too much to be ignored and I had to be shut down. As much as it made me feel powerless to stop these things from happening, it also challenged me because, if Jeff Allen is anything, it's a fucking God.
I have to say that these past couple of months, ever since I returned from that trip, things have been strange. It's nearly uncanny really, the amount of dramatic events that can happen to a guy who really has absolutely nothing to do all day. That no matter how record-setting boring I can be, human and social drama continues to envelop me.
I could get into specifics, but really, that would just cause more of that drama to unfold. Of course, it will eventually, but even at this point where this soap opera bullshit is all I have in my life, I'd really like to deal with it in the most mature way possible.
I'm not saying that I really believe there is a God, much less one that's out to get me, but I can't help but think I'm being tested, maybe. All I know is that it has a lot to do with the small amount of plans I've made for the future and my swollen hope that is unfortunately completely dependent upon other people. And really, even those third parties who are privy to the sitcom roller coaster of my unemployed everyday can't help but admit that even objectively, it sure looks like I've been eating shit sandwiches for a few months now.
And right now, things are happening peripherally that really inhibit me from being as selfish and whiny as one might be. This is more of an observation rather than a complaint; as terrible as things may be, I still know this cannot be forever. I will get out of this, probably sooner than later, but I still don't think I'm at the end of this run either. Whatever is happening is making sure to sap every silly ounce of hope from me, and it's nearly complete. Maybe not a higher power or any personal vendetta, but this is all going to be looked back upon as a large, singular event in my life. And there has been no climax yet, and I'm not sure which way it's going to go.
I would obviously prefer the cinematic, optimistic ending. Where the spirit of humanity in this civilization is almost beat, almost totally removed, except for that one remaining shred of hope. That the soul is tested, tried, battered and torn, yet it still remains only full of spirit. So I am rewarded and happy and smiling and I see this as a dark time that consumed the sun, but I prevailed; crawling from the ashes and into the light. That would be really nice, some sort of happy ending.
On the other hand, we have reality. Where it has been proven to me that these things are not possible. That my dreams, my hypotheses, my plans and plots, are not to be. Nothing I have envisioned in these past months has even come close to being realized. Yet I still have this hope. I'm holding out for one more school, holding out on the letter, holding out on these pathetic jobs that I apply for every fucking day. I still can't learn my lesson. And if life does anything, it's fucking teach painful, terrible lessons. There will be an ending to this. And I don't think it's one any sane person should look forward to.
My friend is writing a book about a world where machines perform our menial labor. That the working class and most everything else is completely operated by loyal machines. Humans exist only to express their creativity, to be artists, musicians, poets. This woman cannot succeed in this. She submits her work over and over and over again, but is constantly rejected. Eventually, the government steps in and removes her soul to put into one of these machines. It's all very Asimov and unique and just so... applicable.
What if she had a choice? Her dreams and her aspirations and all her creativity is just not working. She tries and tries and fails and fails. Ultimately it becomes apparent that she is functionally unable to realize her dream. She is only failure. It has to happen. There have to be people out there who just can't do what their entire life is meant to do. It's right there that I understand those motivations. If I can't be what I want to be, if I can't do what I want to do, if I am 100% positive that my future will not be what I want, what the hell choice is there?
There's irony in all this, of course. With every depressing aspect of reality, there is that underlying irony. Mine is that I keep telling myself over and over and over again, that maybe soon, this will all be behind me. It will all be over.
Hopefully.
I have to say that these past couple of months, ever since I returned from that trip, things have been strange. It's nearly uncanny really, the amount of dramatic events that can happen to a guy who really has absolutely nothing to do all day. That no matter how record-setting boring I can be, human and social drama continues to envelop me.
I could get into specifics, but really, that would just cause more of that drama to unfold. Of course, it will eventually, but even at this point where this soap opera bullshit is all I have in my life, I'd really like to deal with it in the most mature way possible.
I'm not saying that I really believe there is a God, much less one that's out to get me, but I can't help but think I'm being tested, maybe. All I know is that it has a lot to do with the small amount of plans I've made for the future and my swollen hope that is unfortunately completely dependent upon other people. And really, even those third parties who are privy to the sitcom roller coaster of my unemployed everyday can't help but admit that even objectively, it sure looks like I've been eating shit sandwiches for a few months now.
And right now, things are happening peripherally that really inhibit me from being as selfish and whiny as one might be. This is more of an observation rather than a complaint; as terrible as things may be, I still know this cannot be forever. I will get out of this, probably sooner than later, but I still don't think I'm at the end of this run either. Whatever is happening is making sure to sap every silly ounce of hope from me, and it's nearly complete. Maybe not a higher power or any personal vendetta, but this is all going to be looked back upon as a large, singular event in my life. And there has been no climax yet, and I'm not sure which way it's going to go.
I would obviously prefer the cinematic, optimistic ending. Where the spirit of humanity in this civilization is almost beat, almost totally removed, except for that one remaining shred of hope. That the soul is tested, tried, battered and torn, yet it still remains only full of spirit. So I am rewarded and happy and smiling and I see this as a dark time that consumed the sun, but I prevailed; crawling from the ashes and into the light. That would be really nice, some sort of happy ending.
On the other hand, we have reality. Where it has been proven to me that these things are not possible. That my dreams, my hypotheses, my plans and plots, are not to be. Nothing I have envisioned in these past months has even come close to being realized. Yet I still have this hope. I'm holding out for one more school, holding out on the letter, holding out on these pathetic jobs that I apply for every fucking day. I still can't learn my lesson. And if life does anything, it's fucking teach painful, terrible lessons. There will be an ending to this. And I don't think it's one any sane person should look forward to.
My friend is writing a book about a world where machines perform our menial labor. That the working class and most everything else is completely operated by loyal machines. Humans exist only to express their creativity, to be artists, musicians, poets. This woman cannot succeed in this. She submits her work over and over and over again, but is constantly rejected. Eventually, the government steps in and removes her soul to put into one of these machines. It's all very Asimov and unique and just so... applicable.
What if she had a choice? Her dreams and her aspirations and all her creativity is just not working. She tries and tries and fails and fails. Ultimately it becomes apparent that she is functionally unable to realize her dream. She is only failure. It has to happen. There have to be people out there who just can't do what their entire life is meant to do. It's right there that I understand those motivations. If I can't be what I want to be, if I can't do what I want to do, if I am 100% positive that my future will not be what I want, what the hell choice is there?
There's irony in all this, of course. With every depressing aspect of reality, there is that underlying irony. Mine is that I keep telling myself over and over and over again, that maybe soon, this will all be behind me. It will all be over.
Hopefully.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
the keeper
the huge ornate lamp swims
in a pool of mirroring mercury, the ringed
wick sitting like a dawning sun cresting
an open sea; a wishful design for the overnight crew
carefully peering towards an assumed shore. a giant
of maritime industry tiptoes over a rising earth masked
with the reflection of night.
another two hours slide away amidst half-dreams of
Mr. Pleasonton ankle-high, learning the feel
of a beach-covered rubber sole against his cheek, sand
and salt styled into the shine of his scalp like the spotted
brush stroke of an amateur impressionist copying greats.
a pained groan crawls through the bones of this
lighthouse as the metal guts reach the extent of their whined.
it’s 62 steps to the crank and every chipped and worn
marble stair threatens each aching, swollen ankle to repeat this
process. by the time this not-that-old keeper reaches the top,
his lungs scream out for anything other than the cold
salt that blows in from the sea and has to piss.
he hoists himself just enough onto the ledge and makes an attempt
to shower the rocks below, but skies are clear and the night is deep.
hopefully the profuse sweat that now pours down the
strangely pink face will suffice for now, as another groan shakes
the balance of his hope. he knows there is a ship inching along
the cold horizon, all eyes unsuspectingly staring right at him and his
broken man as the lamp’s liquid spin begins to falter. he could not
wind the crank 127 times and watch the tanker’s candlestars
drift on a nightman’s guess toward certain calamity, could laugh
slightly at the scream of rusting metal that will break the
gently assuming monotony of water and feel grinning vindication toward
an uneducated politician. he elaborates these all-too-familiar
images again, as he did two hours before and will two hours from now,
and shuffles behind the lamp. he cranks and counts and sweats and
coughs and curses every muscle aged too quickly in this house of the sun.
127. hands on knees, the rejuvenated spin caresses his back with a
dancing flame. the next sweep bathes his bloodied eyes with gold.
a third has two fingers dipped in the bath of the lamp, cool and slick
against dry, nailess fingers. it rolls down his rising arm into the sleeve
of his peacoat and crawls through his armpit to his waistband. there’s a
barely illuminated lick as two silvered fingers pop into a chapped mouth
and come out clean. another metallic groan creeps
through the strobing house, but not amongst the wallstones,
but thick in the air like a penitent wind.
it’s here, in this high, that he can never remember if she is the ship
or the lamp, if he is the mercury or the walls, and who exactly leads
the other to shore. either way, he is
poison
poisoned
poisoning,
she is floating mirrored.
and the sea scrapes her belly against the rocks and will
always turn to earth,
eventually.
in a pool of mirroring mercury, the ringed
wick sitting like a dawning sun cresting
an open sea; a wishful design for the overnight crew
carefully peering towards an assumed shore. a giant
of maritime industry tiptoes over a rising earth masked
with the reflection of night.
another two hours slide away amidst half-dreams of
Mr. Pleasonton ankle-high, learning the feel
of a beach-covered rubber sole against his cheek, sand
and salt styled into the shine of his scalp like the spotted
brush stroke of an amateur impressionist copying greats.
a pained groan crawls through the bones of this
lighthouse as the metal guts reach the extent of their whined.
it’s 62 steps to the crank and every chipped and worn
marble stair threatens each aching, swollen ankle to repeat this
process. by the time this not-that-old keeper reaches the top,
his lungs scream out for anything other than the cold
salt that blows in from the sea and has to piss.
he hoists himself just enough onto the ledge and makes an attempt
to shower the rocks below, but skies are clear and the night is deep.
hopefully the profuse sweat that now pours down the
strangely pink face will suffice for now, as another groan shakes
the balance of his hope. he knows there is a ship inching along
the cold horizon, all eyes unsuspectingly staring right at him and his
broken man as the lamp’s liquid spin begins to falter. he could not
wind the crank 127 times and watch the tanker’s candlestars
drift on a nightman’s guess toward certain calamity, could laugh
slightly at the scream of rusting metal that will break the
gently assuming monotony of water and feel grinning vindication toward
an uneducated politician. he elaborates these all-too-familiar
images again, as he did two hours before and will two hours from now,
and shuffles behind the lamp. he cranks and counts and sweats and
coughs and curses every muscle aged too quickly in this house of the sun.
127. hands on knees, the rejuvenated spin caresses his back with a
dancing flame. the next sweep bathes his bloodied eyes with gold.
a third has two fingers dipped in the bath of the lamp, cool and slick
against dry, nailess fingers. it rolls down his rising arm into the sleeve
of his peacoat and crawls through his armpit to his waistband. there’s a
barely illuminated lick as two silvered fingers pop into a chapped mouth
and come out clean. another metallic groan creeps
through the strobing house, but not amongst the wallstones,
but thick in the air like a penitent wind.
it’s here, in this high, that he can never remember if she is the ship
or the lamp, if he is the mercury or the walls, and who exactly leads
the other to shore. either way, he is
poison
poisoned
poisoning,
she is floating mirrored.
and the sea scrapes her belly against the rocks and will
always turn to earth,
eventually.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Funny joke
Guy gets offered a job, tells his potential employer that he can't make a decision just yet because he's waiting to hear back from a more lucrative job elsewhere. Days pass. Guy finally hears back from the job he's waiting for; he didn't get the position. Calls back the other place and it's too late! They offered the job to someone else. Guy remains unemployed and has hopes totally crushed.
Oh, he also had a part-time job on Saturdays that he quit for either of these two positions!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Oh, he also had a part-time job on Saturdays that he quit for either of these two positions!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Circle of Cysquatch
Alright, so I think I was a little harsh with that last post. I really don't hold that much resentment towards Metropolis or the whole NPO art school thing. There is obviously a considerable degree, but last week I was simply fuming. Truth is, I've learned a lot here, met some wonderful people, and really gained a lot of applicable experience that is valuable to potential employers. I've also secured some very good looking references even if every other school in Chicago says, "Metropolis? What's that?" It's very similar to how I feel about Millikin; there were some really wonderful moments, I met the best of my friends, but had some considerable problems and frequent hostile run-ins with the administration and small-minded politics that run private educational organizations. I would say this will continue to be a problem of mine until, of course, those politics favor me. Then that shit is mine.
But really, today is my last day and I am sad. As much as I shit on this place, it's really done a lot more good for me than bad. I won't miss this commute or waking up at 7:30 on Saturdays, but Metropolis has a good heart, if just simply misguided. I'm afraid I can't maintain much hope for their long-term survival, but these people will be able to move on and hopefully find themselves with something that makes them happier. Look at me, I'm a can of spray cheese.
My week has also helped me put a much more positive spin on this. Everything in the world has been happening this first week of March. I was officially offered the dog kennel job, but the day of the offer, I also had a phone interview with an arts school in downtown Chicago. Now this organization is one that Metropolis could take a cue from. They have been around since 1978 and focus on providing no-cost visual arts programming to 6-12 graders within the city of Chicago limits. These cats know their shit. On a staff of twenty, same as Metropolis, they have a development department of four. Metropolis has one woman with only half of her job put towards development. Not any sort of way to run a not-for-profit organization. The man who conducted the interview also told me that he was about to forsake NPO work until he got a job with this organization, Marwen, and it turned his entire disillusionment right around. Some things are too poetic to ignore.
Anyway, so this is wonderful, but now I have to jerk this dog kennel around. They really want me too. The woman was incredibly nice and telling me consistently that the job would soon go to 40 hours a week and I would get a raise and benefits and I feel awful. Also, with Javier getting me the hook-up and then having to do something like this, I just feel like a prick. But there's little I can do. They can't exactly deny that this other job would be a better deal for me. If I am to get hired, I would make more money than I've ever made for less time than I've ever worked. It's a salaried position at less than 30 hours a week with benefits. Kind of unbelievable.
I also have heard from two grad schools within 30 minutes of each other. Neither of them are the ones I really want to go to. The University of Iowa has rejected me whereas the New School in New York has said I am "very high on their list". The guy I spoke to there was very strange and not well-spoken and incredibly excitable. He seemed more nervous to speak with me than I was with him. I got the rejection letter first, but this phone call really perked me right up. I'm not exactly sure why I applied to two schools that I have little interest in attending, especially with little free money, because the last thing I want to do right now is leave this city. I have never been more in love with Chicago than I am right now and I can't even fathom leaving at this point.
I also can't stop playing "For You" and "Thunder Road" on the piano. Michelle scored a Pittsburgh floor ticket for me for Bruce. I'm going to lose my mind. I just want to freaking be him.
Black Arrow got to practice very loudly in one of the most character-filled studios I've ever seen. Ryan, our bass player (that's fucking right, Black Arrow is of FOUR and Robert, Daniel and Jeff have let in another), works at this place and had a lot of free time this week. "I've Had the Time of My Life" from Dirty Dancing was recorded on the board they have in this studio. Seriously awesome.
I am also intensely happy with the work we are doing. Medford was a learning curve, for sure.
This shit is epic. We're nearly comfortable enough with a working setlist to start doing things with it, and I couldn't be more excited. Honestly, with most of the shit I've seen out there that is making what they can out of this industry, we're going to destroy the world like an arrow through the broken breast of Smaug. When the thrush knocks, people, you answer with a secret door.
This isn't even the half of it though. This week just won't quit. I just feel really damned good. Also, my birthday is coming up and this is what I want:
@ the Metro:
3/23 - Ratatat, $20
4/1 - Margot and the Nuclear So & Sos, $15
4/4 - The Faint, $25
4/11 - Mates of State, $20
4/30 - Mastodon, $20
5/7 - Dan Deacon, $10
@ the Empty Bottle:
4/1 - The Mountain Goats, $16
@ the Vic:
10/7 - Ian Anderson, $69
And that's about it for now. It's like spring is coming or something. Roy Orbison singing for the lonely, baby that's me and I want you only.
But really, today is my last day and I am sad. As much as I shit on this place, it's really done a lot more good for me than bad. I won't miss this commute or waking up at 7:30 on Saturdays, but Metropolis has a good heart, if just simply misguided. I'm afraid I can't maintain much hope for their long-term survival, but these people will be able to move on and hopefully find themselves with something that makes them happier. Look at me, I'm a can of spray cheese.
My week has also helped me put a much more positive spin on this. Everything in the world has been happening this first week of March. I was officially offered the dog kennel job, but the day of the offer, I also had a phone interview with an arts school in downtown Chicago. Now this organization is one that Metropolis could take a cue from. They have been around since 1978 and focus on providing no-cost visual arts programming to 6-12 graders within the city of Chicago limits. These cats know their shit. On a staff of twenty, same as Metropolis, they have a development department of four. Metropolis has one woman with only half of her job put towards development. Not any sort of way to run a not-for-profit organization. The man who conducted the interview also told me that he was about to forsake NPO work until he got a job with this organization, Marwen, and it turned his entire disillusionment right around. Some things are too poetic to ignore.
Anyway, so this is wonderful, but now I have to jerk this dog kennel around. They really want me too. The woman was incredibly nice and telling me consistently that the job would soon go to 40 hours a week and I would get a raise and benefits and I feel awful. Also, with Javier getting me the hook-up and then having to do something like this, I just feel like a prick. But there's little I can do. They can't exactly deny that this other job would be a better deal for me. If I am to get hired, I would make more money than I've ever made for less time than I've ever worked. It's a salaried position at less than 30 hours a week with benefits. Kind of unbelievable.
I also have heard from two grad schools within 30 minutes of each other. Neither of them are the ones I really want to go to. The University of Iowa has rejected me whereas the New School in New York has said I am "very high on their list". The guy I spoke to there was very strange and not well-spoken and incredibly excitable. He seemed more nervous to speak with me than I was with him. I got the rejection letter first, but this phone call really perked me right up. I'm not exactly sure why I applied to two schools that I have little interest in attending, especially with little free money, because the last thing I want to do right now is leave this city. I have never been more in love with Chicago than I am right now and I can't even fathom leaving at this point.
I also can't stop playing "For You" and "Thunder Road" on the piano. Michelle scored a Pittsburgh floor ticket for me for Bruce. I'm going to lose my mind. I just want to freaking be him.
Black Arrow got to practice very loudly in one of the most character-filled studios I've ever seen. Ryan, our bass player (that's fucking right, Black Arrow is of FOUR and Robert, Daniel and Jeff have let in another), works at this place and had a lot of free time this week. "I've Had the Time of My Life" from Dirty Dancing was recorded on the board they have in this studio. Seriously awesome.
I am also intensely happy with the work we are doing. Medford was a learning curve, for sure.
This shit is epic. We're nearly comfortable enough with a working setlist to start doing things with it, and I couldn't be more excited. Honestly, with most of the shit I've seen out there that is making what they can out of this industry, we're going to destroy the world like an arrow through the broken breast of Smaug. When the thrush knocks, people, you answer with a secret door.This isn't even the half of it though. This week just won't quit. I just feel really damned good. Also, my birthday is coming up and this is what I want:
@ the Metro:
3/23 - Ratatat, $20
4/1 - Margot and the Nuclear So & Sos, $15
4/4 - The Faint, $25
4/11 - Mates of State, $20
4/30 - Mastodon, $20
5/7 - Dan Deacon, $10
@ the Empty Bottle:
4/1 - The Mountain Goats, $16
@ the Vic:
10/7 - Ian Anderson, $69
And that's about it for now. It's like spring is coming or something. Roy Orbison singing for the lonely, baby that's me and I want you only.
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