Ends Meeting Ends

Sunday I was at a memorial for someone I thought of as an aunt through my teen years, surrounded by people who guided me through my formative years. As I sat in the church pew, during a lull, a spark of memory ignited and I recalled that last night I dreamt that I was being executed. I was going to get a lethal injection for a crime that I didn't commit. I believe the rest of my family was too, but I'm not sure. In any case, the battle had already been fought and I knew I was going to die. Most of the imagery was in a white cinder-blocked hallway, but the events were so cerebral that imagery wasn't that important. Emotion was everything.

The part of the dream that I remember involved knowing that I could pick my last meal, the last music I heard, and my visuals while I died.* And what it really involved was me accepting the quickly coming inevitability of my own death. It was REAL. Unlike my zombie dreams, which seethe with reverie, adventure, and independence, this dream shoved together my consciousness with the end of my consciousness. The processes I went through in this flash of night were genuine, even though I know the probable cause for profound feelings in dreams. While the processes may be an effect of my brain trying to sort out its intake, that doesn't make the lessons or the experience any less real or valid. It really jarred me, forcing me to not just think about the reality of death but to truly experience it, completely forget it for eight hours, and resurrect it in the midst of slight grief. And of course, once it's resurrected, that feeling can be remotely accessed; genuinely re-felt upon command. It requires that unconscious point of gullibility and spontaneity to tap that feeling truly. Quite an unsettling sliver of sleep, that one.















*For the record, salmon sashimi and mashed potatoes with Mom's eclair cake, Erik Satie's Gymnopedie No. 1, and Elizabeth Lake shore at sunrise.

Everything Is Good.

You might think that title is a hippie-dippy succession in my philosophical post parade. But you'd be wrong, even though we should constantly remind ourselves of that little nugget. Have you heard Tone and Niche? They're pretty incredible people who write classic and moving songs. And not just moving in the slow, sad, must pay attention to all the words way; there's a real captivating melodic genius to Anthony Retka's writing that doesn't require active attention. It's so easy to hear and understand even through the poetry and nuance mixed in like peat to the rich musical soil. With influences as time-honored as Lennon and Dylan, and as far-reaching as Andrew Bird and Leadbelly, they've found ways to interweave pop science with contemporary songwriting experimentation. But basically, they write a damn fine song. And violinist "Niche" Nicole Varga? Just try standing on two legs while she plays her solo on "From Her to Me." I dare you.

Well, anyway, tonight they're releasing their first full length album since 2007 (I can't believe Rust was that long ago!). It's called Everything Is Good, and I can't wait to hear it. It's a pretty optimistic sentiment in ornery, cranky times, which is actually both comforting and yet seems a bit sarcastic. The band believes in their friends, believe in heartfelt conversation, and believe in the community of artists around them. They talk about the good in everything constantly. Tonight's show is at the Berkley Front, it's costume-optional, and you can even bring a painted or carved pumpkin to decorate! Time for me to bring out my best Nancy Drew.

The funny thing about me promoting this release is that I haven't heard a single track. I'm not even sure if I've seen them perform more than two of the songs on it. But I'm so assured in Retka, Varga and gang's ability to craft something beautiful that I'll confidently say it's more than worth the money to get, and the songs are so sweet that you'll find yourself humming them on car rides home from work, or walks to the mailbox. Please go. If you can't make it to the show, consider buying it or one of their other releases from their store.

Slow Down, Bessie.

It's mid-Autumn, which, of course, has its characteristic smells, sounds, memories, and compulsions. It's the most beer-friendly season, where warmth and family (in whatever sense family manifests) become more important than crazy hot nights. Even though Americans don't often operate how we used to when seasons actually dictated our lives, there's still some sense of needing to store, to take note of what we have, to plan. We see the animals doing it, and even though we can still get avocados in November, we're more compelled to use at least some seasonal vegetables. Many of us start staying in and drinking more, going into a little pre-hibernation or getting closer to our "best" friends.

This season, along with my reading habits and living habits, have me thinking about these ideas; the tenets of Fall. After an exceptionally rowdy boyfriend's birthday party, and the two days of hangover that have followed it, I'm taking at least a month off. Not just the sauce, but caffeine, highly processed foods, overly-salted or sweetened stuff, store-bought drinks, and other things that just basically suck for my body (and my psyche!). I'm sick of consuming things and wasting so much. It's a full-time job to organize your own waste efficiently, but I'm going to at least make conscious decisions on what to buy. I don't need to get bottled drinks. I don't need to get that candy bar (which is pumped full of air anyway), and I certainly don't need to get spring and summer produce in the dead of winter! (Although, I must admit, giving up avocados all winter will be very difficult!)

I'm reading a book called Eaarth by Bill McKibbon, and I think this feeling I'm getting relates largely to his sentiments about the planet's Autumn, when we sober up and realize reckless consumption can't last forever. Basically, McKibbon reasons quite astutely that the workhorse, not the racehorse, will need to rule the principles of humanity's future. "Durable | Sturdy | Stable | Hardy | Robust | These are squat, solid, stout words. They conjure a world where we no longer grow by leaps and bounds, but where we hunker down, where we dig in." (Emphasis his) We are so used to demanding and getting exactly what material conveniences we want (and yet being constantly mistreated, oppressed, and repressed in essential ways) that the idea of personal sacrifice seems ridiculous to many. I'm certainly exhausted after a hard day of work and have had my fair share of microwaved Lean Cuisine broccoli fettucini. But I'm starting to invest far more value into the notions of Durable, Sturdy, Robust. They speak of more depth; they resound.

Connect Slow Food and Cittaslow with the current buzzy Occupations and finally publicized raised consumer consciousness (I may just muster up the gumption to move my money into a local credit union instead of the big bank it's been in for my adult life). The push for locality and conscious consumerism is hard in ways; some of us have been showed the inconvenience and price tag of paying attention our whole lives. Yes, it takes time to make meals. It takes effort to know what's in season. But the kinds of sacrifices we should be making are far more rewarding than the injustices that we endure regarding our livelihood.

I've been seeing a commercial lately that seems cute enough to work for lots of people my age. But I now have a hard time even being able to see the sense in it, and I have a feeling more and more people are starting to feel the same way. It's animated and the narration throughout it actually says that you accumulate Stuff through your life in your tastes and documents, and that Stuff is what defines you; it's who you are. It shows others who you are. Through the spot the cute little animated characters have balloons of music notes, calculators, computers, whatever that are attached to their blue and pink heads at all times. The end of the commercial is as follows: "...what are you without your Stuff? Better yet, without your Stuff, who are you?" It's a scary concept to consider "within the normal bounds of American ideology". I mean, by that logic Ghandi was a total loser, and so were all those other minimalists. If you don't have Stuff, like say, you're a refugee mother trying to freakin' feed her children in the Somalian drought, well. You're nothing, I guess.

No, it's silly to think that. It may seem like a harmless commercial but ads are powerful propaganda. With this said, my thoughts for the Occupiers everywhere boil down to this. Remember that while we are constantly brainwashed, our political power is constantly revoked, and our voices are constantly trivialized, we also have more power and responsibility than we sometimes think. The demands we make for freedom and justice really must mirror personal loosening of the shackles of consumer bingeing. It's got a strong hold, but it's important to even just be conscious of the Power we have. Not only the angry, demanding power we have, but the Hardy, Durable Power we have to hunker down and make things work for the Winter that's ahead. It's one of the grand human and American values a large portion of us have forgotten. I'm not trying to be holier than anyone--I'm a wimp who rarely follows through on any of her grand decisions. But we gotta try to wake up. Wake up and smell the leaves, feel the shift, gather the family, and tally the store.

>?

How is it considered negative damage when storefronts and billboards are ruined but the intrinsic worth of property on natural land isn't even a thing? Why isn't there an immense cost when we damage an ecosystem?

 How is there intrinsic value in manmade structures but none in natural resources?

Miss Guided

I had to run errands today. Apparently it's October and that means it's extra important to tell people their bodies are not their own, so there were a bunch of anti-choice church-related protesters all along Woodward for a good mile stretch surrounding the Shrine of the Little Flower. Signs that separated Jesus from baby-killing women, all that. I know that the people protesting (including preteen girls and boys and men and women of every age, all caucasian besides one family I saw) have no ill intent, and genuinely think that they are helping people with the blanketing notion of no abortion, and I feel no contempt for the actual vessels that hold the misguided ideas that seem to be spreading through a tired and cranky America.

But I couldn't just ignore it. It made my blood boil. The youth were laughing about the seriously twisted things they were saying: a joyful fellowship of horrific judgment. I had to express what I was feeling. Not angrily. I had to go to the mega-grocery store anyway for a couple things and I picked up a marker, poster board, and masking tape. In the windy lot I marked the thing up and then taped it to the passenger door (I debated the hood at first, which may have been more effective, but who knows). I trawled by. I don't think anyone even tried reading the sign, but you know, I don't care. Because I said something I believe wholeheartedly, publicly, without malice. And this was such a trivial little gesture, but for me it was big because I'm mostly unable to articulate myself. It's a step, just one of many. Ineffective to others as it in all probability was (except maybe for that middle aged guy with the pickup who watched me tape the sign up), it still signified a movement within me; a movement from reserved, tongue-tied sputtering frustration to clear, responsible expression. Whew.

The displays of white crosses I see on church lawns are angering and disturbing. I know someone who walked up to some protesters and asked them if they wanted someone else's shoes to walk in. I'm realistic; I know that this issue will be debated for a long time. But really, being vehemently against personal bodily choices is silly at best in the grand scheme of things. Really. 

Practice, taller ants.

Yesterday I was sitting on the raggedy "black" leather couch, eating my lunch (<3 burritos) and glancing intermittently at the ivy facing me and the book in my face. Though I did not feel it at all (where did you come from, ya bastard!), a little brown ant somehow very quickly crawled up my arm and near the center crease of my book. I contemplated the things I would have normally done. Either brush it aside fiercely (certain death for the ant) or close the book and crush it (beyond certain death for the ant), then let it fall to the floor. I instead thought about the value of the ant's life as higher value than the book binding. I tried to coax it out of the crease by several means: first blowing, then with my finger, by slowly closing it without crushing it, and finally by taking a pencil from my purse and trying to guide it out. Alas, that fucker was so confused by the whole ordeal that it kept trying to hide itself as deeply as possible, so into the tenuous binding of the book it fled. As much as my father taught me to be absurdly respectful of books and other such actually valuable possessions, I purposely partly broke the binding of this book (which is invested in cultural understanding) so I could properly herd the insect onto my arm and then blow it onto the floor.

In all probability, it never found the pheromone trail back to the colony and perhaps died victim to a sole or a terrier's tongue within the foot surrounding, but I like dreams and dreaming.

Wider Lens

My sis's blog is over here. It's cool. She's posting a picture a day, starting yesterday, while she's in Manchester. The first one's a loo.

That's it for the moment. :)