The Chest of Drawers

On my way downtown yesterday, breezing quickly along Douglas St., I passed an old dresser on the sidewalk with a large “free” sign attached to its front, scrawled lazily in black ink. I pulled over and inspected. Not only did the wood look to be of fairly decent quality and solid, the gliding of the drawers was stunning…a thing of wonder really. I was amazed at the construction of this dresser, unlike any that has ever lived in any home of mine. Not that that means much, for the dresser I’ve used is one that used to be red, blue, and yellow, with my name scrawled in cursive across the front. This dresser was at some point in my teenage years painted a dull brown, under the sad guise of implying wood. At some point post college, I painted it again and sanded it down, trying to make it look old like something from the French countryside. This idea did not work. This idea did not even masquerade at working. Moreover, the drawers stuck. Imagine a catheter being removed from a man, grinding the wood on it’s way out. While the drawers were not by any means as personally invasive, and not at all painful, it was an emotional burden, every time I went for socks.

And so there I was, standing on the side of the road, pulling the drawers out, and pushing them in, pulling them out and pushing them in. In that moment, I finally realized how much I’ve hated that chest of drawers I’ve owned all of my life…and of course what followed, was a giant rush, an oceanic surge of excitement that I was, in that very moment about to eradicate my dresser problem.

So, I removed the sign placing it in the top drawer {my new sock drawer} lifted it {goddamn this thing’s heavy} and hoisted it onto the rack on the back of my bike. I realized of course, about halfway through the execution of this idea, as the bike was tumbling onto my legs, and the dresser struggling to leave my arms, what a bad idea this was. Somehow, I managed to keep the dresser airborne, at the minimal cost of some leg scrapes, and set it back on the ground. Shit. What now? There is of course, the imminent possibility that someone else will claim this glorious chest of drawers as I race home to get the car. I contemplated putting a sign that I had laid my claim, but that seemed silly. So I turned around, and rode off.

Just as I made my way down the street, I saw some barefooted gentleman {he must live nearby} with a poofy mess of hair, walking slowly down the street in the direction of my new sock drawer. I stopped. He reached the dresser and began pulling the top drawer in and out, in and out. He began to nod his head. This was not optimal. So I turned around on my bike, and as politely as I could, though knowing full well the answer to the question, “is that yours?” He explained that no it wasn’t, but there was a sign on it when he drove by and he was thinking about taking it, but felt funny with the sign gone. Be honest Jeff. So I told him that I had removed the sign, and was on my way home to retrieve my car so that I could take what I fully believed was now MY dresser home.

I can only imagine that the conversation that followed was rather funny. There was silence. More silence. Poofy hair. I said, “how badly do you want that dresser.” “pretty badly,” he replied. “I want it more than you do,” I said. “I really have to have that dresser.” And that was it. regardless of who wanted it more, we agreed that I had effectively laid claim to it first, and therefore it was mine.

I do admit to feeling like a bit of an asshole about it, but as Tom Robbins would say, timing is everything. I arrived home, carried it into the house, {ugly suburban duplex} placed it where the old one was, moved the contents of the drawers, set the plant and rocks on top, and noticed the degree to which the room looked AND felt better. Amazing. I even confess that I have peeked my head in the room many times since, to nod in joy at the improvement. Strange we humans are. All this for a beat up, pock-marked, thirty year old, free dresser on the side of the road. Trust me, a photo would only make this seem amazingly absurd.

my wife's head

sometimes {now} i finish reading a book {straight man} from an author {richard russo} that i enjoy so greatly, i simply do not want to read anything else. i pick them up and set them down, pick them up and set them down, still held captive by the world i just left and did not want to leave. perhaps this is a metaphor of sorts for the situation in which my wife finds herself presently. maybe if i can begin a new book, she will somehow through osmosis find her move {literally and figuratively} to this new world more graceful.

the above photo was taken by mike schwartz as the three of us {keri, mike and i} drove across the united states last fall. nevada. i played with it quite a bit in photoshop, and have decided to use it for the time being as the new promo photo for music, as there is such a sense of mystery and longing in it. maybe this longing comes from the face that we cannot see. the endless land. and soon dear reader, i will no longer feel as though i too am looking at the back of my wife's head.

12

1. airplanes. I have many countless and somewhat overwhelming problems with airplanes, or rather flying on them, and the recent crashes do not help in any way to ease my concerns. Frankly, the fact that they believe everyone was dead in crash #1 an hour or so before the plane fell from the air, is one of the creepier and more eerie things I’ve ever discovered. The image of this big, silent plane save but the limp bodies shaking around, bumping into one another, a floating morgue in the sky, terrifies me. The stuff bad dreams are made of. Personally, I’ve never understood why they don’t include parachutes for all of the passengers. They give you a goddamn life jacket when you’re on a boat. Hmmmm. I confess to often having thought of taking a sky-diving course, and then bringing a parachute as my carry-on. At least I’d die trying if I didn’t make it. What horrors come to mind when contemplating that instant on a plane when everyone realizes that they will die in a matter of moments. Jesus.

2. george w. bush. I will be brief, I promise. If he would just come out and admit that he’s willing to kill lots of people so that Americans can ride around in their fancy, air-conditioned cars, in their rich lifestyles, drugged on mass media, oblivious to the utter despair and turmoil with which many people of the world live, I would despise him less. At least Clinton admitted that he got the blow-job. While his infidelity isn’t respectable either, at least he had the balls {no pun intended} to come clean. {again, no pun intended.} one of my favorite bumper stickers reads: “No one died when Clinton lied.” Well put I believe.

3. tomatoes. the tomato plants in the backyard are not doing well. They were planted by the previous tenant in this suburban box, and I believe I may have arrived too late {too long without water} to save them. Alas.

4. ron. Ron came to my show at the brainwash after which I drove him home. His tomato plants {his and sara’s I should clarify} are doing quite well, and he gave me some basil which has greatly enhanced many of my meals this last week. My god basil is an amazing substance.

5. record label. If anyone knows anyone who works at a record label that wants to release “I Am Not In Spain,” please let me know. I’m ready.

6. Jacob. Jacob Golden’s show was quite a disappointment. Either he’s lost a bit of the magic, or my tastes have changed, or he had a really bad night, or all of the above. Not sure. Goddamn he can sing though. The minute he opens his mouth, I gasp. Every fucking time. It is the precise effect I’ve wanted to have on people for years. I did buy a new ep of his though some of which is amazingly beautiful, as ever. He covers a portion of the song "Africa," by TOTO which brought an old nostalgia crashing.

7. tire. my rear time seems to have a slow leak, which has begun to annoy me, though I’ve admittedly been too lazy to fix it.

8. Keri. I miss Keri.

9. forgotten things. I had more to say, things I thought of while out on a ride up to lake berryessa the other day, fighting the monolithic wind, but they have slipped my mind, as things often do.

10. the quotes. Several from Richard Russo.
About writings from college students in a college newspaper: “as a group they seem to believe that high moral indignation offsets and outweighs all deficiencies of punctuation, spelling, grammar, logic and style. In support of this notion there’s only the entire culture.”

Thoughts from a writer {the main character of the novel}: “back when I was a writer, I might have been able to justify such musings since odd details and unexpected points of view are the stuff of which vivid stories are made, but now such thoughts seem more like evidence of an unbalanced mind, a warped sensibility.”

About a beautiful woman: “in the manner of most truly beautiful women, she reminds you of no one but herself.” I like this idea. I sat there, beneath the redwood trees shaded from the sun, closed my eyes, shutting out the ducks and the water, and pictured my wife.

11. I miss Keri.

12. the booger. I just scratched my nose, and discovered that there was a dried booger, sticking part-way out, which i believe was entirely visible, due to its placement and its size. i am presently at a cafe, and have been running errands downtown. i now of course wonder, how long this bodily secretion has been visible, and find myself wishing that we lived in a culture where strangers would point out such things, or at the very least, we wouldn't give a shit if they did. not that i really give a shit. more a matter of curiosity.

the trees move. a slight breeze. the sound of busses, of bicycle locks, the ones shaped in a closed u, clanking their metal-glass ping on handlebars. a small girl with her mom, wearing matching white dresses, carrying matching white purses. she is adorable beyond belief. the flies buzz, abundant in number. "what a beautiful day," the young girl says, "what a beautiful day."

the proliferation of cellphones

{page from journal}

while i am enjoying my time here to myself, exploring and rambling about in the heat, i'm tired of my wife being 3000 miles away. it has grown tiresome.....actually, it grew tiresome several weeks ago, somewhere after the first twenty four hours. i am reminded of how much our concept of home and the tying of roots is related to the people we love. the suburban walls and bad carpet AND wondrous things of this town, feel temporary without her. and so i wait, clicking off the hours. reading. playing guitar. riding my bike. sitting in the backyard watching the hummingbirds spin and dart through the air.

tonight, Jacob Golden plays at old ironsides, a musician who used to inspire me so greatly that it was paralyzing. i wonder if i will feel as intimidated by his voice tonight as i used to in the past. as much as i know that i need to embrace MY voice and MY music, i find it difficult not to compare myself {don't all artists do this?} and i find it difficult to refrain from wishing sometimes {all of the time?} that i could sing like Jeff Buckley...and frankly, Jacob does sort of sing like Jeff Buckley. i think i've grown {i know i have} quite a bit since i saw him last, both internally {spirit} and externally {singing, songwriting, etc} and perhaps now i can listen and feel the music without judging myself. this is, i believe, on some level at the core of what all artists must do: fall in love with what they have been given, and embrace it completely, something i admire so much in my wife. lifelong work i believe.

three men sit at a table in green {not matching} baseball hats, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. a grey haired woman in a purple tank top, flashes her buck teeth. laughing, she adjusts her wire rimmed glasses and tightens her lips. her eyes dart. somehow, her movement matches her light purple shirt. the man to my left wears all white, and of course, talks on his cellphone. people eat eggs and drink coffee. a man with green dreadlocks, eyeliner, and an amish looking beard drinks beer and talks on his phone. the world in the pink shirt with the dog, talks on her phone. the woman eating the bagel talks on her phone. a woman in a black skirt and grey shirt, paces the sidewalk as she talks. the proliferation of cellphones is dizzying. the whistles and bells. the beeping. i confess that it depresses me a bit.

wait until they get home

my head is still rather sore from where i rose into the ceiling. difficult to wash my feet in the shower, as i tend to lean my body against the wall, supporting myself with my head. the shoulder becomes my pillar. it seems to be cooler today, though still early, and while i love the great and endless heat, the relentlessly reptilian sun, i look forward to an afternoon in berkeley and an evening in san francisco. i play another show tonight, this one at the brainwash {a cafe/laundromat in san francisco} and i am indeed excited. i admit to being just as excited to sit at the pub {across the street from my old home in albany} and have a beer while reading, as i am to hitting the guitar and singing tonight. i am currently reading a confederacy of dunces, which is one of the more unique and strange and odd and beautiful and horribly thick, sour, bloated and brilliant things i've consumed. while it took 60 pages or so, i am completely consumed, and have grown sad 300 pages in, that it will have to end soon. such it is with the great books.

again, people stroll the lot with phones to their heads. people eat their lunch, crunching the bread and running it through the eggs. how odd in some way to see all of these people having conversations out here. i wonder as many people do in many situations, what someone from 1910 dropped here on this patio would think. i believe, more than anything else, they might wonder why people need to be talking to people who are not sitting beside them. why they cannot wait until they get home. my favorite thing on this patio, is how the small yellow leaves lay curled upon the dark wood. fill the cracks. a girl in a pink shirt, loads her things into her volvo and drives off. a green honda fills her space. sometimes it seems we're always filling space. cluttering cracks like leaves, yellow on the brown wood. twisted up by the cigarrette butts. dry.

leg shaking.

an old woman, 67 or so, rides off on a red bike with a blue box on the back. trucks grind the road, as the heat begins to rise. i had forgotten the daily temperature fluctuations in this part of the world. and so i sit at a cafe, listening to snippets of conversations. the impact of baby boomers on the montana economy. complaints of the heat to my left. two girls, holding hands and whispering with with faces so close. a young man with his fancy glasses, strolling the grey lot, by a white car, talking on the phone. i wonder if these college boys look at me and think me old. today, after hitting my head rather hard on the ceiling while attempting to hang a plant, i went into the bathroom to check for blood. one of the good things about my hair beginning to thin, was the ease with which i could part the seas, and check for red. alas, the ravages of age. so i sip my iced tea, wonder how i would feel if i too removed my shirt like the man to my right. is there ego in this man's desire to cool himself? but then in about ten minutes, i will be out on a patch of grass, {a rather public patch of grass} with my headphones on, dancing. this dancing thing is a long story that i've not told, that i will not now tell, for it is time to dance. time to shake a leg as one might say. if perchance you read this, and see me dancing, please know that i do not speak while shaking my leg{s}. no offense.

weird.

i had every intention of writing about all manner of things, ranging from the long drive across the country, notes on the misery of suburbia, garden spiders that quietly land in your hair, a bicycle that i've loved and missed, the first show i've played in well over a year, and other such things.

but not long ago, i was shocked rather intensely by a plug coming out of a wall outlet, and now i just feel weird. really fucking weird. slow and weird. disoriented and weird. weird. i certainly don't feel like writing.