Typepad down = posting Mish-Mash

RockstarJ’s been holding out on me. She had said she’d been using my poetry to do some riffing – expanding/modulating the verbal phrases into musical ones. That’s pretty common – Hart Crane used to stick his head inside his phonograph and blast jazz before writing. I’ve used other arts as a creative springboard, but music and poetry have close ties.

However, I ran into her over H.s on Wed. and she completely surprised me with a song she’d recorded on CD which turned out to be one of my poems set to music. Sometimes the world lines up in odd ways. There I was thinking/writing about Dennis, and J, unbeknownst to me, is actually recording a poem of mine at the same time. I was impressed with the song (and I’m a terrible snot about such things; poets generally aren’t team players in the arts – how could they be?). The song was a 4 track, two vocals, a clarinet, and a base clarinet, all sung and played by J. It wasn’t how I heard it of course, nor how I’d read it, but it was the poem. The song is quite difficult to describe – swirling, a bit ghostly, a bit earthy, but it’s got that thing that grows on you, that feel you must you go back to and experience again. “That thing” is the most difficult accomplishment in any art. In fact, if I could describe it easily, if it could be paraphrased, it probably would be excluded from having “that thing.” Hell, call it “duende.”

Anyway, it was pretty damn cool. Made my day, made the whole damn week.

What didn’t make my day was cleaning out H’s basement – a long overdue task I’d promised to help her with. Why do people keep deflated footballs? Snapped taper candles? Empty kerosene drums? Actually it was fine, but I’m sore as hell today and made the somewhat questionable choice to bike into work again. It was a good ride, but right now I’m wishing for the mutant power of teleportation to get me home.

I actually do have a freakish non-bruising power; I’ve gone over car hoods without bruising, I’ve hit my hands with tools without bruising, I’ve been accidentally whacked in the shin so hard I couldn’t stand on it, but with no subsequent bruise. But in the shower (work) I noticed I had a string of 4 small bruises on my arm. How did they get there? Perhaps I should start looking for alien implants next.

**

Obnoxious day at work (socially, not work-wise). I wore a thin white shirt and was standing under a particularly bright light by the coffee maker.
Coworker: “Oh – you have tattoos.”
Scoplaw: (faced with a choice to utter the following appropriate response in the condescending-sorry-about-the-TBI tone or the slightly-viscious-can-we-next-publicly-discuss-your-body-in-particular-your-fat-ass tone, he chose the first.) “Yes.”
Coworker: (ignoring the first rule of holes) “Can I see them?”
Scoplaw: (who is not going to peel off his shirt at work, in the hallway, at 8:30 in the morning, in front of the damn coffee-maker for anyone, unless there’s a significant amount of money involved.) “Maybe some other time.”
Coworker: (hurt that I don’t want to take this bonding moment to divest myself of clothing for her amusement/curiosity) “I didn’t mean to offend you - I’m just trying to be friendly.”
Scoplaw: (wondering how “friendly” coworker would feel if our positions were switched) "No problem, I just need some coffee." (Which is a Scoplaw translation for “If you reflect on this you ought to be horribly embarrassed, but you won’t, so I’ll make some kind of lame excuseish comment that will transfer the perceived social burden of embarrassment to myself, as though I’ve done something wrong, and you can then graciously forgive me for being “unfriendly,” chalk me up to being a bit weird, and send me the data tables to edit without further commenting on what’s going on under my clothes.”)

**

In other news, this week I made significant headway on the monster poem. I’ve been working this guy for 2 years now. It began with an absurd challenge that I couldn’t pass up and every so often I take him out, reheat him, and start hammering away. He’s up to 250 lines now and is starting to find his final shape and character. The odd thing is, I have no idea if the choices I’ve made will work for a reader or not. Sometimes you lose you perspective if you work the poem too long.

Tonight: cook-out with H; she practices trumpet (gotta get up to speed for Australia as she's changed her embouchure, losing at least a half octave in the hopes of gaining that back (eventually) plus a bit more in the future. That's a difficult thing for anyone to do, take a deliberate step back to a shadow of your accomplishment, in the hopes you can go further later; I have tremendous respect for her doing that), I write. Tomorrow, RockstarJ plays out in a nearby city. Other than that, I just want to get my laundry done, finish the latest batch of poems (5 – a good week), chill with el Gato Perfecto and sleep. If I get even one bike finished and out the door it will be a bonanza.

**

But wait, plans change. Tonight I biked back through a pretty good rainstorm. I love biking in the rain, but for whatever reason, I feel like I’ve had the tar pounded out of me. I took the new Trek and made decent time, and the ride wasn’t difficult per se, but once I stopped I felt like I’d been dropped in a Cuisinart and pureed. I finished the ride at H’s house since the original plan called for a cook-out – but H. cancelled it due to weather. Instead we talked a bit, ate some veggies, then went out to see Fahrenheit 9/11, which was an affecting if uneven film. It was almost as though Moore glossed over some of the big issues and focused on minutia. I think it would be an effective piece of political propaganda for undecided voters, but I don’t think many Bushies are going to rush out and see the film. I’ll have to think about this a bit more, but my initial thought is really that he focused on the weaker arguments for which he had harder data – however I’m very very tired right now.

Tomorrow – Laundry, Packing/Sorting, Trail Bike (WTF! say the legs), Bike Fixing (unless I get a new seat on that Trek I will ruin my evenings forever after), Reprise of the Trumpet/Poetry plan with H. (although I think the muse is on vacation, or at least recovering from her bender (5 poems is a lot), meaning more likely lawish reading), RockstarJ.

And Coffee and Aspirin.

And Aspirin and Coffee.

Comments

[Dave Wish]

I am very, very sad to learn of Dennis' death. This is Dave Wish and I was with the Ants early on. If this gets to one of the other members of that original band (Joel or Mike) please give me a call at (XXX-write Scoplaw for the #XXX)

[Scoplaw]

Dave!!! How great to hear from you!! I'm taking down your # from the blog, but will pass it on to everyone. Call you soon.