the long stretch of nothing

monday morning. grey. windless. busy this morning with household things and preparing to drive to redding to visit my folks for a night. the weekend was one of explosions. we saw nels cline and scott amendola perform, which was one of the better jazz shows i've seen. i'm never really sure what it is, and i'm positive that half the time the musicians themselves don't have any clue, but it was simply transcendent. nels is a terribly interesting player, using knowledge and technical proficiency in really interesting ways. it ultimately made me feel somewhat hopeless, as i often feel after watching a great player. it also made me want to finish "the work of kings," really badly as scott plays on the record, and i was reminded on friday night what a truly beautiful drummer he is.

and so the guitar beckons. i will practice before we drive.

on another note, you will see the above poster (designed by my wife) announcing an upcoming show this friday night. you may read more about the show, and buy tickets in advance here if you wish.

redding. I-5. the long stretch of nothing. oh, by the way, we watched a film last night called how to draw a bunny which i highly recommend. indeed a must.

detention and water

yesterday, while running the detention room at a certain middle school i will not name, i was repremanded on numerous occassions, one of which was the result of my painting. of course the woman who relieves me for lunch sits and does crosswords and reads people magazine. the fact that the administration perceives my activity as unacceptable and hers as acceptable is frightening to me. i won't even being with the apathy of the kids. how they simply sit there and stare at the walls from 8 to 3 is perplexing to me. of course their teachers don't seem to care enough to give them any work, and without using physical force i simply cannot get these kids to read. i cannot get them to draw, i cannot get them to have a conversation. in the end, it just makes me feel like our world is doomed. as my grandfather used to say, "we're headed for hell in a handbasket." i don't want to feel this way, but frankly sitting in a room with these kids all day is amazingly depressing.

they complain incessantly about being there, and yet they are there because they've done something "bad." they simply refuse to take any responsibility for their actions, and don't understand the punishment. i spent much time trying (with compassion) to explainto one of them why calling someone a "fag," and then proceeding to knock his hat off his head is NOT acceptable behavior. after an hour of discussion, i simply couldn't convince him the one's sexual orientation is indeed biological. he just wouldn't buy it. he said, "maybe people wouldn't mess with him if he decided to stop being gay." only moments later, as i was explaining to him the the greatest majority of intelligent people in this world read quite a bit. he replied, "i don't read at all." somehow, he failed to miss my point entirely. but then writing about this wasn't my point either this morning. i want to write about the rain. the unexpected water that is washing away my idea of a long ride. the weathered prayer flags that move in the slight wind. paper cranes twisting. maybe keri and i will bundle up and splash through the puddles, skidding the leaves. perhaps i'll head up into the hills, for it is only water after all.

"art is a result. it is the record left by those who have truly lived their lives. those who have genuinely lived their lives will leave behind the stuff that is incontestably art."
~ Jane Urquhart

cold winter sun

a bright sunday morning. i slept until 9am yesterday, the latest i believe i've slept in over half a year. graduate school applications, the general chaos of the holidays, and third graders, had completely worn me out. so today up again at 7:30, i drink tea (as always) and sit on the couch reading and listening to classical music. my wife has been gone since thursday morning, and she arrives home this evening much to my delight. i dearly miss her constant presence in my daily meanderings. of course, i don't mind having our relatively small (a double) bed to myself for a few nights. but only a few. her absence has worn thin.

meanwhile, i continue to work on a new record with christian kiefer and ron guensche titled "to all dead sailors," which will hopefully be done in early spring. the recording is about 90% there, we just need to make time to mix and put it all together. last weekend, we recorded the ocean sounds at muir beach. hard for me not to think of "il postino," standing out there by the shore with microphones, the sea moving back and forth, back and forth.

today, a bike ride up to the lake, the cold winter sun shining on green things.

here

and now i lay bricks on the ground; these heavy weights that have lain upon my shoulders. the graduate school applications have been sent off, and the holidays had. the rains come and i spend evenings at the piano. the children test my patience in the day, which seems infinitely shorter back at work. when one asks, (or begs) children to be quiet much of the day, one feels quiet themselves. i turn down the amplifier and play the guitar. drink tea. light candles. these are the things that remind me i am indeed still here. my wife on the couch preparing shrinky-dinks.