On the Talents of Circus Performers
Friday, February 27, 2009 | comments (4)
Of course, there's the whole issue of balance. I'm sure part of the problem has to do with that.
Some people go along doing this one thing. Because that's what they've decided they will do. And other things are secondary to the one thing and they're treated like secondary things should be treated. Because they are less important. Or maybe not. Maybe they're important, too. It's just that sometimes you've got to make a sacrifice for the one thing, you know? It's right. And proper. It's one of the things I admire about circus performers.
I tend to treat the secondary things like the one thing. But because the one thing is what it is—the one fucking thing—I never really put it away. I can't put it away. So, the whole time I'm doing the other thing, the one thing is still there. I just carry it around and do tricks with it and flip it like an empty beer bottle. It's all about show. And looking cool. But there's no real substance to it. Not like the man on the wire who juggles the fire batons. That takes talent.
Then I remember—holy shit!—there's this other other thing. You know? Like a second other thing. And I wanted to do that thing, too. And so I put the one thing in my back pocket and the first other thing, well, I stick that through my hair like a pencil. Or a syringe. And with it safely tucked away, I work on the third thing for a while. And there are various clangs and dings and tweets. Then this fourth thing comes along and, wow, that thing looks interesting and it's really something I'd like to do. So I balance the third thing on my forehead and I look down the bridge of my nose at the fourth and, you know, maybe I should save the fourth thing for later. Maybe I'll just stick that right ... and that's when I realize—fuck-it-all!—how long has this thing been in my back pocket? Goddammit! I've been ignoring the one thing again.
And it goes along like this. And it allows me to maintain a dependable feeling of alarm, which I've grown accustomed to. And it also leads to a state in which I'm never quite able to forget and I'm never quite able to remember. I'll call this state, "barely functional."
I know what Moses would say. Something about priorities. Something about doing what you've got to do. So I don't bring it up with him. Because I don't need to hear that shit.
link to this | comments (4) | File: Writing TheLine Chewing
Some people go along doing this one thing. Because that's what they've decided they will do. And other things are secondary to the one thing and they're treated like secondary things should be treated. Because they are less important. Or maybe not. Maybe they're important, too. It's just that sometimes you've got to make a sacrifice for the one thing, you know? It's right. And proper. It's one of the things I admire about circus performers.
I tend to treat the secondary things like the one thing. But because the one thing is what it is—the one fucking thing—I never really put it away. I can't put it away. So, the whole time I'm doing the other thing, the one thing is still there. I just carry it around and do tricks with it and flip it like an empty beer bottle. It's all about show. And looking cool. But there's no real substance to it. Not like the man on the wire who juggles the fire batons. That takes talent.
Then I remember—holy shit!—there's this other other thing. You know? Like a second other thing. And I wanted to do that thing, too. And so I put the one thing in my back pocket and the first other thing, well, I stick that through my hair like a pencil. Or a syringe. And with it safely tucked away, I work on the third thing for a while. And there are various clangs and dings and tweets. Then this fourth thing comes along and, wow, that thing looks interesting and it's really something I'd like to do. So I balance the third thing on my forehead and I look down the bridge of my nose at the fourth and, you know, maybe I should save the fourth thing for later. Maybe I'll just stick that right ... and that's when I realize—fuck-it-all!—how long has this thing been in my back pocket? Goddammit! I've been ignoring the one thing again.
And it goes along like this. And it allows me to maintain a dependable feeling of alarm, which I've grown accustomed to. And it also leads to a state in which I'm never quite able to forget and I'm never quite able to remember. I'll call this state, "barely functional."
I know what Moses would say. Something about priorities. Something about doing what you've got to do. So I don't bring it up with him. Because I don't need to hear that shit.
link to this | comments (4) | File: Writing TheLine Chewing
Making Blueprints
Wednesday, February 11, 2009 | comments (4)
Moses has been showing up at the dog park lately. He wears a hoodie over layers of other clothes. His face is all eyebrows and a beard the color of road snow. We talk about the economy. He says things like, "When you're an architect, nobody wants to put you on retainer." I nod my head. I have been an architect. Of Web, of stories, of drinks. Nobody wants to put me on retainer, either. Moses speaks a lot of truths, and I like listening to him talk.
He brings Oliver with him—a bounding, white Labradoodle. When Moses wants Oliver to poop, he says, "Mooshy, mooshy, mooshy!" I like that. Honey poops when I say "Business." Now, that seems boring. I wish I had trained her with something more fun. Something like ... "Tucumcari."
Like Honey, Oliver has a lot of energy. But Honey is much faster. She's always beating him to the ball. But she lets him get it, anyway. It's because Honey likes older men. She listens to them. She follows them around. And she'll eventually let them win at games of chase. It's the girls her age she likes to antagonize. She never lets them win at anything. And she barks at them relentlessly. She's alpha to the core.
We like to meet there in the morning, Moses and I, while the temperature is still in the teens. It's mostly quiet then. It's good when there is a fresh snow and it's still white and powdery, before there are footprints in it, and before it's turned to the crunchy, icy stuff. We throw our tennis balls and the dogs fetch them and our fingers get numb in the sharp morning air. We make the first footprints in the snow, and we construct the day. And this is about as real and important as it gets.
"There's no real blueprint out there for how to do this thing," I say.
"Then you need to make one."
link to this | comments (4) | File: TheLine Chewing
He brings Oliver with him—a bounding, white Labradoodle. When Moses wants Oliver to poop, he says, "Mooshy, mooshy, mooshy!" I like that. Honey poops when I say "Business." Now, that seems boring. I wish I had trained her with something more fun. Something like ... "Tucumcari."
Like Honey, Oliver has a lot of energy. But Honey is much faster. She's always beating him to the ball. But she lets him get it, anyway. It's because Honey likes older men. She listens to them. She follows them around. And she'll eventually let them win at games of chase. It's the girls her age she likes to antagonize. She never lets them win at anything. And she barks at them relentlessly. She's alpha to the core.
We like to meet there in the morning, Moses and I, while the temperature is still in the teens. It's mostly quiet then. It's good when there is a fresh snow and it's still white and powdery, before there are footprints in it, and before it's turned to the crunchy, icy stuff. We throw our tennis balls and the dogs fetch them and our fingers get numb in the sharp morning air. We make the first footprints in the snow, and we construct the day. And this is about as real and important as it gets.
"There's no real blueprint out there for how to do this thing," I say.
"Then you need to make one."
link to this | comments (4) | File: TheLine Chewing
Third Grade Journal: November 18th, 1982
Monday, February 09, 2009 | comments (3)
Today at school nothing happend [sic] except in P.E. we played Elimination and I won. Then we played Monarch and I was the Monarch. Also at school I was supposed to have a time test and I was supposed to study. But we didn't have it. I was glad. After school I had another rough day at soccer. This time the coach got mad at all of us and we ran laps almost all soccer practic [sic]. It was no fun! When soccer was over my mom and I had dinner. Tomorrow was Craig's birthday so we went out and got him a present and I got a book. Then we whatched [sic] T. V.
Teacher comment: I use to hate to have to run laps during hockey practice.
I love how I never actually come out and say I didn't study for the timed test. Even then, I was careful to remove myself from any blame or self-incrimination ... Show me where it says I didn't study, Teach. Clearly, I knew I was supposed to, I say so right here. And if I knew it, you have to assume I did it, right? I was just glad I didn't have to take your bullshit timed-test.
But it's pretty obvious I didn't study, isn't it? Maybe if I had, I wouldn't have constructed a sentence like "Tomorrow was Craig's birthday."
And speaking of bad sentence construction, shouldn't that be "I used to hate?" Shit, Teach. How you 'spec me to learn nothin'?
link to this | comments (3) | File: GradeSchoolJournal
More Beer Bottles Than Trash
Thursday, February 05, 2009 | comments (2)
"I walked by Dave and C's today."
"Yeah?"
"They've always got more recyclables sitting out there than actual trash."
"Well, that's a good thing, right?"
"Except it's all beer bottles ... it's kinda embarrassing."
"Maybe not."
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe it's just embarrassing to you."
"No. Christ. I'm sure the whole street notices. And have you seen him lately? When do you think the last time was he saw a razor?"
"What do you care? He's not your husband."
"Thank God. Okay, I wasn't going to tell you this because I know you think he's alright, but ..."
"What?"
"The other day I saw him throwing the tennis ball with Honey in his back yard. I could see him from the street."
"Yeah, so? He's always doing that."
"Well, it was snowing and cold and ..."
"What? God."
"All he had on was boots."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"He was, like, nekkid?"
"Well, he had on underwear ... oh, and a hat. But that was it. And the boots."
"Wow."
"Yeah. He waved at me, too. Like it was all perfectly normal and shit."
"You think he just ... forgot?"
"It begs the question, doesn't it?"
"Uh-huh."
"Maybe it's a symptom of all the beer bottles."
"I see your point."
link to this | comments (2) | File: TheLine
"Yeah?"
"They've always got more recyclables sitting out there than actual trash."
"Well, that's a good thing, right?"
"Except it's all beer bottles ... it's kinda embarrassing."
"Maybe not."
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe it's just embarrassing to you."
"No. Christ. I'm sure the whole street notices. And have you seen him lately? When do you think the last time was he saw a razor?"
"What do you care? He's not your husband."
"Thank God. Okay, I wasn't going to tell you this because I know you think he's alright, but ..."
"What?"
"The other day I saw him throwing the tennis ball with Honey in his back yard. I could see him from the street."
"Yeah, so? He's always doing that."
"Well, it was snowing and cold and ..."
"What? God."
"All he had on was boots."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"He was, like, nekkid?"
"Well, he had on underwear ... oh, and a hat. But that was it. And the boots."
"Wow."
"Yeah. He waved at me, too. Like it was all perfectly normal and shit."
"You think he just ... forgot?"
"It begs the question, doesn't it?"
"Uh-huh."
"Maybe it's a symptom of all the beer bottles."
"I see your point."
link to this | comments (2) | File: TheLine
Expiration Date
Wednesday, February 04, 2009 | comments (2)
"I think I'll get Honey another one of those bones for this weekend."
"I don't know ... looks like she's still got some mileage on that one."
"Yeah, but it would probably be good to get her another one anyway, you know."
"No ... I don't. Why?"
"I don't know ... it just would."
"You just like buying her things."
"No ... it's just I think ... they've got expiration dates, those things."
"Bones?"
"Yeah. If they don't, they should. Shit ain't fresh."
"Jesus."
"She needs a new one, that's all."
"Do you even realize it's my birthday tomorrow?"
link to this | comments (2) | File: TheLine Honey Cath
"I don't know ... looks like she's still got some mileage on that one."
"Yeah, but it would probably be good to get her another one anyway, you know."
"No ... I don't. Why?"
"I don't know ... it just would."
"You just like buying her things."
"No ... it's just I think ... they've got expiration dates, those things."
"Bones?"
"Yeah. If they don't, they should. Shit ain't fresh."
"Jesus."
"She needs a new one, that's all."
"Do you even realize it's my birthday tomorrow?"
link to this | comments (2) | File: TheLine Honey Cath
Third Grade Journal: November 9th, 1982
Tuesday, February 03, 2009 | comments (2)
Today wasn't such a good day. I got in trouble in math and I didn't feel it was my fault. Then, at soccer practic [sic] my coach got mad at me because I didn't kick the ball well. Tonight is getting better. I enjoyed doing my homework. I played outside before soccer and had a good time.
Teacher comment: We all have bad days! Coaches don't always understand children are just children and can't be perfect after all God's not finished with you yet.
Teacher comment: We all have bad days! Coaches don't always understand children are just children and can't be perfect after all God's not finished with you yet.
Enjoyed doing my homework? Man, even at eight years old I was a little suck-up.
Maybe God was finished with me, after all.
link to this | comments (2) | File: GradeSchoolJournal
Fourth Annual Blogger (Silent) Poetry Reading
Monday, February 02, 2009 | comments (7)
I've never been a huge fan of poetry. Without the assistance of music, poetry usually doesn't hold much rhythm to my ear. Not like prose does, anyway. Sometimes reading good prose feels like I'm reading a poem. And that's usually the stuff I like.
So my favorite poets are mostly modern songwriters. They'll probably never end up in an Anthology of English Literature. But what they do—communicate thoughts through rhymed and unrhymed verse, use words to illicit feeling, emotion—seems a lot like ... um, poetry, doesn't it?
There is some "academic" poetry that has appealed to me over the years, too. Unfortunately, my taste in this stuff is a lot like my taste in fiction: I am drawn to the stuff that is darkly comic, ironic, irreverent, or preferably, all three, please.
I've never participated in the "Blogger (Silent) Poetry Reading" before, and I hesitated doing so today, due to my mixed feelings about what we as a culture refer to as "poetry" and because I knew anything I put up here would most likely be depressing. And, you know, I'm normally so chipper. But in the end, my desire to partake in something my blog friends were doing won out. And yes, if they jumped off a bridge, I guess I would, too. So long as they were jumping into a whiskey river.
So here goes ... this is Dream Song #14, from John Berryman's Dream Songs. It has stuck with me and haunted me ever since I read it in Freshman English over 15 years ago. It's not necessarily pretty or pleasant, but it does have a sort of dangerous beauty to it that I find compelling. And while on first read the message seems entirely pessimistic, on subsequent reads, I've gleaned a faint note of hope in it. But maybe that's just me.
14
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatedly) 'Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,
Who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
—John Berryman
link to this | comments (7) | File: Poetry
So my favorite poets are mostly modern songwriters. They'll probably never end up in an Anthology of English Literature. But what they do—communicate thoughts through rhymed and unrhymed verse, use words to illicit feeling, emotion—seems a lot like ... um, poetry, doesn't it?
There is some "academic" poetry that has appealed to me over the years, too. Unfortunately, my taste in this stuff is a lot like my taste in fiction: I am drawn to the stuff that is darkly comic, ironic, irreverent, or preferably, all three, please.
I've never participated in the "Blogger (Silent) Poetry Reading" before, and I hesitated doing so today, due to my mixed feelings about what we as a culture refer to as "poetry" and because I knew anything I put up here would most likely be depressing. And, you know, I'm normally so chipper. But in the end, my desire to partake in something my blog friends were doing won out. And yes, if they jumped off a bridge, I guess I would, too. So long as they were jumping into a whiskey river.
So here goes ... this is Dream Song #14, from John Berryman's Dream Songs. It has stuck with me and haunted me ever since I read it in Freshman English over 15 years ago. It's not necessarily pretty or pleasant, but it does have a sort of dangerous beauty to it that I find compelling. And while on first read the message seems entirely pessimistic, on subsequent reads, I've gleaned a faint note of hope in it. But maybe that's just me.
14
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatedly) 'Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,
Who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
—John Berryman
link to this | comments (7) | File: Poetry
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This work by nicolasix.com is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
This work by nicolasix.com is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.