Off

Jose did not shine a light. As a matter of fact this last book of his was really quite dark, and only helped me to feel more hopeless about the current state of the world. But then I read The Magic of Blood by Dagoberto Gilb, stories quite similar to Ray Carver in their humanity, simplicity, and humor, and the made me feel somehow right again. Or at least cognizant of something resembling levity.

I currently feel afloat in my own fictional world as we are moving tomorrow. Funny how the term moving applies to one day, as we are always moving. In this case, it seems as though we have been in the process of moving for some time now. It feels fictional as I consider the oscillations of the last two years here in Troy. I will not list for I still have much to do. I love moving though, for I find such possibility buzzing around these new turns.

For now, the crickets rub beneath my open window. Teenagers giggle and cough, their sandals whacking the pavement. The neighbor upstairs high-heels down the steps and out the door. Where will the night take her? Her dog cries. I sit on the only remaining piece of furniture, a mattress on the floor. My son is asleep on his back, his left hand resting on his belly. He gives me an incredible hope for this world. I imagine I am simply overcome by his innocence, but there is something truly profound about watching your baby sleep.

On another note, I just discovered that my new record, though to be released on September 9th, is available for pre-order if anyone feels so inclined. Or impatient. Or excited. Click here.

And again I am up. The kitchen awaits.

Seeing

I am now reading "Seeing" by Jose Saramago. He has become one of my favorite writers in the last few years, though not without effort. His work is in some way reminiscent of Kafka, which I both love and do not love. Perhaps everyone has such a relationship with Kafka. I am currently on page 94 (keep in mind 94 pages of Saramago is like 175? of another author, as he uses very little punctuation) and he has yet to really introduce a character. I have not yet read a name. But I love him nevertheless. My favorite of his thus far is most likely "The Cave," though followed closely by "The Stone Raft," "The Double," and "Blindness," all wonderful in their respective ways.

A review at the front of this one says it quite well I think:

"reading Saramago requires dedication, not unlike reading James Joyce or Marcel Proust. But as with Joyce and Proust, Saramago readers are rewarded at the end with a new way of looking at things, of finding the extraordinary within the ordinary world." ~ The Baltimore Sun

In reading this book I cannot help but consider the similarities with the current state of American politics (read: jingoism), as the book is an absurd tale about the unraveling of democracy.

Then I read the following piece in Adbusters this morning, which echoes some of my thoughts about our current state quite well. (borrowed from Adbusters issue 79) Where do we find hope amidst such a grim situation? Maybe Saramago will shine some light for me.

Those who Refuse to Cross the Line

As a cyclist, I have come to identify (though grossly generalized) many types of distinct drivers, or passers if you will. While these are only guesses, brimming to overflowing with assumptions, I think them nonetheless. Yesterday, seemed to be the day of “drivers who refuse to cross the line.” I’m not sure about this one as I’ve never spoken to one of these folks about the matter, but I swear this is what must be in their minds. No cars coming in the other direction, broken glass in my path which I drift out (as little as possible) to avoid, and they explode past me, a mere six? inches from my left arm, tires safely inside the line.

As I have had so many people yell at me over the years, “get off the fuckin’ road,” I cannot help but think these folks have some sort of self imposed bylaw, wherein they refuse to cross over into the other lane, on the sheer principle that they feel the road is theirs and I do not belong there. Therefore they think, "I'm NOT crossing into the other lane."

I’m not sure how one feels this is logical in any way. I have over the years, considered trying to do more about bicycle awareness and advocacy which sometimes seems impossible. Why do they yell at me? Why do they call me “faggot?” Why do they pass so dangerously close? Why do they honk? And you assholes that have leaned out of your trucks and hit me or thrown something at me over the years, your karma is doomed. I just don’t understand.

Sure, I can conjure a wide array of reasons for their anger at my being on the road, but in the end I always just find myself thinking, “but I’m on a bike…if you hit me you may kill me.” Arghhh. So frustrating.

To make matters worse, the truck (really, really, big truck) that passed me WAY too close yesterday, had a bumper sticker that read: “I support gun control: use two hands when shooting liberals.” Why is it that so many conservatives on the right, foster such vitriol for those on the left? As much as I find myself saddened and disgusted by much of what the right (especially the extreme right) believes, I certainly don’t want to shoot them. While I know the bumper sticker is a joke, I just don’t find it humorous. It is precisely this thinking on their part, this way in which one perceives those different from them, that causes the problems in the first place.

Last week I saw another that read: “I wish Hillary married O.J.” Aside from just being stupid in my mind, I have such a hard time understanding how one would think this way, with such disdain for those who share different opinions. What the hell is wrong with people?

I just want to ride my bike, and all I can say is please, please, please, give me more room on the road. Please.

Secrets

I am currently reading Secrets of the Talking Jaguar by Martin Prechtel, which has been on my list for many years. I first discovered him in The Sun Magazine and was fascinated by his story. The short version is that he grew up on a Pueblo Indian Reservation and set off to explore the world at the age of nineteen or so. He eventually landed in Guatemala after a year of wandering, and made his way to a Mayan Village where he became a shaman and lived for thirteen years. This story is just amazing.

I'm almost done with the book, and it coincides with my begging a new film which I will keep under wraps for a bit longer. That said, the two are connected in some way (maybe many ways) so i include a quote I came across today:

"True creativity doesn't just make things; it feeds what feeds life. In modern culture where people are no longer initiated, the spirit goes unfed. To be seen, the uninitiated create insane things, some destructive to life, to feel visible and powerful. These creations are touted as the real world. They are actually forms of untutored grief signaling a longing for the true reality of village togetherness. The result of this uninitiated approach to life is violence, spiritual and otherwise, where the hoarding of wealth, the soul-curdling banality of popular television, and the creation of weapons of mass destruction are all accepted and considered status quo."

Manufactured

Last night Keri and I watched a film called Manufactured Landscapes, about the work of Canadian photographer Edward Burtynsky. The film was quite good, and Burtynsky's work is brilliant to me. Both his work and the film do an amazing job of looking at the effects of our industrial, urban lifestyle. The ravages we have inflicted on both the earth and other humans. The word other comes to mind of course because I believe we can only treat factory workers in developing nations (just one example) so egregiously because we perceive them as somehow different from ourselves. This is of course, terribly problematic for a wide number of reasons. Though the film is replete with numerous examples of things that make me feel rather dismal and hopeless about the direction humanity is headed, one fact that remains in my mind is this:

As little as 30 years ago (at the end of Mao's reign) China was 90% agricultural and 10% Urban. China's goal for the coming decade is to reverse that so that they become 70% urban and 30% agricultural. Wow.

What does this do to a society of 1.2 billion people? What are the lasting effects on a global scale?

Rather than carry on, I recommend the film. Quite affecting. Frighteningly so.

Politics and such.

And as the summer rolls onward, little pieces of news trickle in about Of Great and Mortal Men. For those of you with curious minds, the most recent interview here. I still feel as strongly now as I did at the inception of the idea, that this is an interesting way of looking at American history.

Today I pack things and get ready for a forthcoming move, pondering of course what it means to leave my current home. These trees I have watched swaying from for years now. Will they miss me?

President Jefferson; Father.

My dear friend Christian Kiefer, who has a number of children, told me just after my son was born that the reality of being a father didn't really hit him until he realized that someone else thought of him as their dad, in the same way that he thought of his. Wise words from a wise man. And so it was a month or so past, when I looked at a photo of myself holding my son. I understood that while he may not conceive of all this in my terms yet, he knows me as his father. How profound this shift.

Anyway, I've meant to write about president record news of late, and this photo has brought me here. We were talked into doing a photo shoot in colonial formal wear, and though this will not likely make its way to the newsstand, it is my favorite. The record has been done for some time, the book designed, and we simply await copies form the printer. It is officially due out on September 9th, and we're in the process of planning a handful of west coast release shows at the moment. A website is up here with a bunch of information.

In other news, Keri and I spent last weekend in New York City, which Tilden (our son) does not like at all. I'm afraid he feels the city is too loud with too many people. He is our son indeed, as we both felt like we couldn't leave quickly enough. While I have had many a magical moment in that city, and do love it in some way, this time was not so good. In part due to the fact that we were at a conference and so stuck down by Grand Central, a touristy spot, and a neighborhood I'm not fond of.

As much as I love New York City, I have finally come to accept that I simply must live among the trees. There really is no choice. I could elaborate, but I will not. My outfit need be back shortly. I wonder what clothing of ours will look funny to people 200 years from now.