the tongue of the mind

"The act of putting pen to paper encourages pause for thought, this in turn makes us think more deeply about life, which helps us regain our equilibrium." -- Norbet Platt

I've written about how important it is to me (or how important it has been in the past) to have a perfect environment and set of tools in order to sit down and write. I've read a lot over the years about how electronic paper is going to revolutionize how human beings write by fans of the new form over traditional pulp. I am on record as being absolutely not a fan of ebook, despite having taken part of the initial launch and production of eBooks in the publishing industry. No, not even Amazon's Kindle has enough behind it to win me over. I couldn't even finish my blog post about it a few months ago, that's how non-plussed I was.

I am, however, intrigued (more so for David Pogue having found some joy in it) by the Pulse Smartpen. I'm a gadget geek, I admit. Reading Pogue's review in the Times left me curious and wanting to play a little. While not the elegantly understated design of an S. T. Dupont rollerball, it is still quite lovely and more in closely keeping with the general look and feel of a classic writing instrument. It records and it writes. It maintains the new and the old. In sporting terms, it knows the basics before it tries to do more. This, I like.

in relation to everything else

There have only been a few things that have truly perturbed me about my relocation, though most of those, have amused me more than anything else. Walking out of the dentist's office with three wooden crosses instead of a new toothbrush and some floss, for example, that kinda struck me as an experience unique to this place. Churches that act as anchor stores in the strip malls--and bank tellers that try to sell you on their particular mall church when you open an account--even that, I anticipated. Nice people, polite people, that wasn't too hard to get used to either. Hell, I even have an awesome used bookstore nearby (something I didn't have in my home neighborhood in NY, or even all that conveniently in my work neighborhood there), Burkes Books, that lists Leonard Cohen as a favorite artist on their MySpace page ... really, how hard can this be for me, right?

So what is it that has me chomping at the bit and itching and fussing on weekday nights or worse, weekend nights? Sure I miss my friends (very much), and I miss living around the corner from Wave Thai. But, the fact is, there are plenty of good restaurants and bars and other places to entertain oneself here. There are parks to play in and fabulous bike trails yet to explore. No, those aren't the things that get to me. What gets to me is the lack of live music options in the birthplace of rock 'n' roll. Seems Nashville would have been a better fit for me in this regard. I was further convinced of this not only while perusing events on upcoming.org or even in my weekly TicketMaster local band email (pretty much every band I want to see plays at Mercy Lounge in Nashville, a name eerily similar to Mercury Lounge, a fave in NYC), but after coming across the blog It's Hard to Find a Friend, started by Caleb Palma and kept going by him and several of his friends (from what I can tell), I know for sure I am living in the wrong Southern town.

On the plus side, the blog has introduced me to some truly fun bands (new and old), offers up witty and infinitely enjoyable "mixed tapes," and has now given me something to do on a Tuesday night in the near future as, it turns out one of the bands they rave about (to which I concur), Somebody Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin, is actually (amazingly) playing at the nearby Hi-Tone Cafe on April 29th (they're also playing at Mercury Lounge on April 22nd). And I can't wait, getting the camera ready now ...
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give me your christians © 2008 duluoz cats

everything you wanted

It would figure that my first post after moving away from NY would be to recount an evening during my first trip back to my hometown ... However, the long weekend trip back was perfectly timed to coincide with a performance by one of my favorite new bands, the (relatively) unknown local darlings, Longwave, at Mercury Lounge (still a preferred venue for seeing bands in NY for me, as well). And while as much as I'd love to say that the third time was the charm for seeing them, I'm still holding on to their performance at Luna in Brooklyn last year as living up to my expectations of them. To be fair, they were trying out a lot of new material this past Saturday night, much of it to be heard on their still as yet unnamed new CD, though a few tunes can be heard on their MySpace page, and it was a little rough around the edges. Fortunately, there were also fine renditions of some old standards and personal favorites, "Tidal Wave," "Everywhere You Turn," along with a version of "Wake Me When it's Over," that might just make me a believer of that tune ... As for the new songs, even unfinished, they were promising, fun and in line with what I'd expect from lead singer Steve Schiltz--the only man I can stand with long curls--nice guitar riffs and catchy post-alt-pop-rock (is there anyway to describe the current music scene without ten hyphens??) melodies and heart-sure lyrics ... All in all, a great treat while being home, for the one thing I miss most about NY these days is the live music. Certainly Memphis has its blues and funk, but that, like men with curly hair, is generally not my thing.

In any event, if you haven't yet heard their songs, you really owe it to yourself to have a listen. They have an album, "There's a Fire," as well as several EPs, and the aforementioned upcoming untitled CD, to which I am very much looking forward.
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longwave © 2008 duluoz cats

a brand new start of it

So, two years, almost to the the date of moving to my new digs in Astoria and starting my life over, I find myself having packed up and doing pretty much the same thing all over again. This time, a little more drastically (and dramatically) as I have given up my very precious job (my career) at a major publishing house, and once again packed up the apartment, the cats, the books and music and drove 1,100 miles away from my lifelong home of New York City (my family's, for all practical purposes, ancestral home) to the suburban enclave of Germantown, TN ... a very Southern and very mid-Western part of the country. A state I'd never stepped foot in until I crossed the border a few weeks ago to rest for the evening in a Best Western a couple of miles over the state line. The area is what I have seen in my travels across the country, very much like every other place anyone has ever been. It is not, in fact, all that unfamiliar. There are dozens and dozens of Long Island towns that are more than vaguely reminiscent of the main strip that I must now drive down for groceries and other sundries (and I must drive everywhere for everything now). The malling of America (and there were so many complaints about it happening in NYC, too) is real, but it is also, sadly, comforting. A Target is a Target is a Target (and there are three of them within 5 miles of me now, so I say this with some authority) whether it is in College Point, NY or Cordova, TN.

And so I now find myself resident in a part of the country that I'd more often than not viewed with car-crash curiosity. A state where Huckabee won in the Republican primaries on Super Tuesday. I'm going to take this major shift to begin this blog again (almost tempted to rename it On the Road, but that seemed a little forced and obvious. An in joke and minor chuckle for me ...). I am exploring again. Perhaps I'll wade through the bookshelves, once again reordered in another not necessarily sense-making manner and finally re-find the beat-up copies that I have of Tennessee Williams' plays. There is a local theater set to perform a series of his work, perhaps I will find myself there one of these nights, too. My new location has afforded me a visit to a city I've long hoped to enjoy (one I wished to be in two February's ago, my how time flies ...), New Orleans. And I am happy to say that the sin and decadence of that town is alive and well. It got my heart beating again, if only for a weekend--perfectly situated just after Valentine's Day.

This could be interesting. Or, it could be something very much other than that. Trust in Jesus and Elvis as the graffiti on Beale Street said? I just don't know that I can, I certainly haven't ever before. I am away from my home, from all of my friends, my family, from everything that I know and trust and call my own. I have taken with me all of the things that one can keep during times of change. I've got my aforementioned books and music, and they are enough most days to get me through. Through until what has yet to be determined. My g*d, it's full of stars ...

and after all what do I really know

"... the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!' " - Jack Kerouac, On the Road

I love the expression "awww" ...

It's been all over magazines and newspapers the past few days, the celebration of it having been fifty years since Jack Kerouac's On the Road was published. Owing more than an homage to the man, I thought it only appropriate that I acknowledge this and offer up a few links of note and interest on the story. Most of the articles can't help but revisit the scroll form of the original manuscript and the legend behind its benny-fueled completion. In fact, the manuscript is being republished in its original state as part of the whole push to promote. I did enjoy reading some of the original reviews of the novel, the Village Voice's in particular, which has been reposted online for their 50th anniversary in 2005, as well as some nice reflections on how it has stood the test of time and the vast influence it's had, not just literary but also culturally, throughout the decades.

However, in all of my perusing, I did come across a fun bit of trivia with regard to the current status of the oft-mentioned 120-foot scroll (actually cut-and-taped tracing paper, according to Luc Sante's Times article). The text currently resides with Indianapolis Colts owner Jim Irsay, who purchased it at auction at Christie's for $1M+. An odd coupling on the surface, though Irsay is apparently an eccentric collector, and perhaps there is some connection between his interest and Kerouac's brief and tumultuous gridiron days at Columbia. I'd love to learn more about how Irsay came about this and how deep his interest in Kerouac, and his writing, goes.

real vision is the ability to see the invisible

“The moment we indulge our affections, the earth is metamorphosed, there is no winter and no night; all tragedies, all ennui, vanish ...”
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

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corner of my eye © 1977

clear the room

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, An End Has a Start ... and the Editors (no publishing relation ... nudge, nudge, wink, wink ...) are indeed rock stars (in every good sense of that word), touching all parts. Performing live they are in constant motion (lead singer Tom Smith, in particular) and absolutely enveloped in their creations. Their songs allow one to feel all that music allows us to ... in the studio, they created and released a new album that hit upon every corner of the brain. Over a year ago I gave up tickets to see them, and I am glad (for several reasons) to have had the time to sit back and wait to see them. It has been a long time since I've been to a concert where I experienced personal joy of the music and the public expression of the person who created it with equal intensity. It is a rarity I will cherish.
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editors © 2007 duluoz cats

here's the chalice

"Baseball knows no limits, and the true baseball field, the foul lines diverge forever, eventually taking in most, or all of the universe." - WP Kinsella

It was funny for me to find, having gone to a minor league game a few evenings ago that baseball is still a sentimental game for me. As with so much of my life, it was something I left behind for years, something that was ingrained in me at a young age--something I don't remember ever being without. It is intertwined with family and friends and myself. And I lost it along the way, voluntarily for the most part (I never thought baseball could ever get more exciting than during the 1986 Mets season, and, frankly, I've not yet seen otherwise, even though they've put together good teams since then). In any event, sitting in the stadium a few weeks ago, I found myself flush with memory again ... hearing my grandfather's laments in the cries of the old men sitting in the stands behind me. It is true that the game is no longer as revered as it was decades ago, it is not really "America's Game" in the true sense (and all the better for it, in my opinion) anymore, but there was still pleasure for me to watch the old men and so too the young ones at the game, and recognize the look in their eyes as they scanned the adjustments of the players on the field, their connection to every shift in the outfield and silent or vocal judgment of the decisions coming from the dugout.

Growing up in New York, walking distance to Shea Stadium (soon to be Citi Field and sentimentally modeled after Ebbets Field)--and granddaughter to "Babe," it has always been in my blood to have loved the game of baseball. So many lazy afternoons of my childhood were spent either at the stadium (watching the Mets lose) or in my grandparents' tiny living room in Queens listening to my grandfather cursing the Mets losing ... My grandfather was a legend in the neighborhood, scouted by the Yankees, drafted by the Giants, but he gave it up for family responsibilities--sentimental reasons, as it were. My father was a great pitcher, coached by his father, but he gave it up for more creative pursuits, which gave my grandfather further laments, though these were unspoken.

What this has all had me considering recently is the conflict that I've seen in so many of the men I've known in my life. A conflict between sport and creativity. As a woman, I suppose this dichotomy is less apparent, less suspect. A woman is not "expected" to be able to discuss the game on Monday afternoon at work ... there is no real pressure for her to get the difference between balls and strikes. But, so many of the men I've known have expressed such horror at sports, at having to play them or watch them, or explain why they don't enjoy them. Their story, frankly, is as boring as the jock's to me. I have always loved sports, I have always envied those who could play them well, and I have always appreciated those who could perform them to a level of skill that even I, as an observer, could recognize as something sacred.

So many of my favorite (and despised) authors have been able to bridge this dichotomy between being the "starving artist" and the "wide-necked jock." Irving, Kerouac (who was himself, a star athlete, attending Columbia on a football scholarship and playing for a week on a broken leg)--heck, George Plimpton, perhaps the most "fey" of them all, not only wrote of his fascination with sport but did first-person research spending time in training camp with the Detroit Lions and Boston Bruins, resulting in two stunning accounts of the life of athletes with his books Paper Lion and Open Net.

In any event, baseball. It's a curious thing, like the uniforms themselves. And the stories that have been written about the game are by these men are equally so. Perhaps it's because even the skinny gangly kid (that "starving artist") could give the game a try. Baseball is one of those games that doesn't require one to be big and muscular, or even to be very fit, to play the game. Perhaps it's the simplicity and accessibility of setting up three "bases" using parked cars and a sewer grate on a city street, cutting off a broomstick and getting a ball at the corner store. Perhaps it's as simple as allowing an ease in living a creative fantasy to pretend to be your greatest hero (just as it is when reading a comic book and wanting to be Spider-Man). It was long America's Pastime, but it has also always been a "thinking man's" game.

W.P. Kinsella has written dozens of short stories and a few novels about the game of baseball and the emotional tug it has between fathers and sons. And many of his tales move on to the next logical step for those boys who never got to become their high school football team's QB into the realm of science fiction, the other safe refuge for boys growing up in a world where looks and strength are everything.

Maybe it is all tied up in the romance of feeling a breeze during a cool summer night, baseball is summer and escape from school the way that science fiction is an escape in the cold winters and early school night bedtimes.

thinking with another person's mind

"We read to know we are not alone." - C.S. Lewis

So, while this is embarrassing, it is also an important confession. It has been over a year-and-a-half since I have read a book. A novel. Hell, let me just lay it all out ... I have barely been able to complete a full magazine article, never mind a nonfiction title. A couple of months ago I staggered into skimming short stories, but, that didn't hold my mind enough to keep the pages turning, despite the fact that I enjoyed the tales. The mathematics of this is staggering for me, as, for most of my remembered life, I cannot recall a time when I have not had at least two books in my bag or backpack that were either in preparation to read (back-up for when the subways were delayed), or being thoroughly devoured, on my train rides to school or work.

I have tried, for a long time to ignore this long running drought. Ignore the possible reasons why, ignore what was occurring in my brain (or not, as the case may be). Fact is, I really had no clue what to think about how I could go from reading three to four books a week, to absolutely nothing. None. No interest. Yes, my life was being deconstructed when this all started to occur, however, reading has always been an intrinsic part of who I am, what I love. It was connected to nothing but myself.

So, it was perhaps a sign for me that the recent (and rather violent) death of my iPod forced me to once again peruse my aching bookshelves for a title or two that I have not as yet cracked the spine.

How does one choose to begin again? It was a difficult decision to make. I looked very closely at my shelves. Most of the titles there I'd read at least once. But, I did not want the familiar. I required something new. I needed my return to the novel to be accessible and something I knew I could dig into (ie, an author whose style I was familiar with and enjoyed). So, I chose Kevin Canty's Winslow in Love. It is true, though I've never mentioned him here, that Canty is an author who is connected to my past, however, I have always been a fan, and it turns out, that, the story is a perfect anecdote for me right now. He was the author I chose years ago, during a prior difficult time, he was an author I shared. He wrote in a way that I enjoyed and recognized. He is safe, but interesting.

Two days in, and I am three-quarters through. I may need to place another book in my bag tomorrow, as the trains have not been running on time at all this week.

the camera is the ideal arm of consciousness

"We are only beginning to learn what to say in a photograph. The world we live in is a succession of fleeting moments, any one of which might say something significant. When such an instant arrives, I react intuitively. There is, I think, an electronic impulse between my eye and my finger. But even this is not enough. I dream that someday the step between my mind and my finger will no longer be needed. And that simply by blinking my eyes, I shall make pictures. Then, I think, I shall really have become a photographer." - Alfred Eisenstaedt

Last weekend's New York Times Magazine was their "photography issue," and as with all things Times-ian, it is best taken with a grain of salt, though there is always something there to enjoy, if superficially. So goes the paper of record in my esteem ... but, I digress, as I am one of those who is guilty of most of the quaint "ha has" they wrote of. Yes, I have over 4,000 photos on my flickr page, obnoxious, really, but, most of them are personal snaps of friends and family, to be shared, in what I feel is the most unobtrusive of ways--with the people most likely to care to see them, when it's convenient for them. It avoids the "look at my vacation pictures!" moment that most of us have, at one time or another, had to smile stiffly through.

I am constantly amazed at the quality and creativity that I find on these photo sites. Just a random scan of some of the "Explore" pics that flickr puts up, is a guaranteed thrill. I am also pretty lucky to have a lot of friends who take really great photographs, in addition to those fun throw-aways that come with a lot of laughter and shared good times ... memories preserved.

I checked back on Operation Photo Rescue, which I wrote about last February, and they have set up the OPR Workshop, as an extension of the work they did recovering and restoring the photographs that the residents of New Orleans lost in the horror of Hurricane Katrina, almost two years ago. As this year has passed, and photography has become more and more important to me in documenting what I have done and who I have become and where I have been, I understand the pain all the more deeply, of what it would be like to be without those moments, big and small.
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"clear exit" © 2006 duluoz cats