11/5/13
11/4/13
11/3/13
10/31/13
10/24/13
10/23/13
10/19/13
10/13/13
10/12/13
10/10/13
10/8/13
10/5/13
10/4/13
Hemaris Thysbe
Is the thing in the header.
I've been calling them Hummingbird moths for years, really it's name is the Hummingbird Clearwing. Which is way cooler.
I've been calling them Hummingbird moths for years, really it's name is the Hummingbird Clearwing. Which is way cooler.
10/2/13
10/1/13
9/29/13
Good Morning
Serious Beard is Serious.
I keep thinking about the phrase- The worse things get, the harder I fight, the harder I fight, the more I love you.
Because Neko Case is... something. A lot of things, really.
and I keep thinking about this song
http://youtu.be/KRTVc-D8K2U
I suppose because people leave our lives, they die, or we send them away,
and then we have to kill whatever is left of them in our hearts.
Or maybe I have it stuck in my head because I'm a mean bastard.
9/28/13
New Paddleboats
I gotta go back with my camera sometime cause my phone just didn't pick up the scene: the new metal flake was glinting like stars or green sparklers as the boats bobbed in the water and the sun was playing across the water and sparkling almost the same way and the fountain was doing it's chandelier thing and it was oh just so sparkly and wonderful.
9/27/13
9/25/13
9/24/13
Old Guys Rule
"Napalm Death were scheduled to play a special one-off show at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, on 22 March 2013.[8] The show was eventually cancelled at the Victoria and Albert Museum, due to concerns that the noise levels could damage parts of the museum."
9/23/13
9/22/13
9/21/13
9/20/13
9/19/13
Melancholy Cat Poem for Lisa L.
I spend the morning wrapping duct tape around my gloves. As usual it's the index finger where they've blown out. I spend half a shower meditating on the transfer station over Southside off Hopkins road. Sparrows darting in the trash between lumbering equipment. I worry needlessly about my suspension under three quarters a ton of plaster, brick and mortar. I decide to leave the tail gate on until I get there. Still sitting, I turn off the hot water and let the last of it run off me like a battered hillside. I say Thy will, not mine, be done.
I tell myself you can't have it all, baby. I'll get you a buck knife, but not until you're older. You can have a week's worth of work, really only today, but that's all. You can have this field running under high tension wires filled up with Queen Anne's Lace. It will be shoulder high, just like you imagined, the smell of it overwhelming as you come over the hill, but you'll have lost every legitimate reason to go down that road ever again. You can have the sunrise. You can have an old flat headed shovel to unload the debris. You can have this cat. Clear a space out on the bookshelf over your desk and she'll leave one eye open as she sleeps, keeping careful watch over you.
I tell myself you can't have it all, baby. I'll get you a buck knife, but not until you're older. You can have a week's worth of work, really only today, but that's all. You can have this field running under high tension wires filled up with Queen Anne's Lace. It will be shoulder high, just like you imagined, the smell of it overwhelming as you come over the hill, but you'll have lost every legitimate reason to go down that road ever again. You can have the sunrise. You can have an old flat headed shovel to unload the debris. You can have this cat. Clear a space out on the bookshelf over your desk and she'll leave one eye open as she sleeps, keeping careful watch over you.
9/18/13
9/16/13
9/15/13
Scoot Richmond
Since I inherited it in 2004, I have logged over twenty five thousand miles on my little yellow Honda. In that time she's had to spend a little time in motorcycle shops, both in this state and others, due not only to wear and tear, but also to the fact that the original owner took her in a direction just south of that special redneck variety of incompetence. Let's just say that there's been some necessary "re-working" needed. It has been my experience that most motorcycle shops are a huge pain in the ass. I have a suspicion that most of the motorcycle clientele out there are arrogant hard-heads or swaggering loudmouths, I don't know, but I have been patronized, ignored, barked at, second-guessed and my little yellow Honda has been hacked-up, half-assed, and landed in the back of the hopper ever since I started frequenting these places. I'm not a tough guy, I'm not a mechanic and don't count motorcycling among my intellectual pursuits, but I love Thumper (yes that's the name), I've done a lot to keep her, and I ride the ever loving shit out of her. All this is to tell you, friends and neighbors, that Scoot Richmond may be the last shop my motorcycle ever goes to. Sure they're a scooter shop. In the last two years, they've handled stuff both mundane and extraordinary, and I've never come away feeling like an asshole. They've gone back and worked with stuff that I've done, not charged me too much and even been nice about it. Here's an example:
Since I've had the thing, it's always seemed to lack a little something, granted it's got a 750cc engine that will never have the same amount of ass that bigger bikes do, but it seemed to run at less than it's full potential. After having asked about this for years and told nothing was wrong, I just wrote it off as I needed a bigger bike. Then last spring it died and I realized we had been running through batteries at a rate of about one a year. I loaded it up in the truck and took her down to Scoot. Here's where the story get's interesting-- the sales associate actually listened to me when I told him what was going on and seemed to actually consider what I thought was the problem. He wrote all that shit down on the ticket. In a day or so (less than two days! can you believe it??) he called me back and said yes it needed a new battery, but the mechanic had done some snooping online and in a forum I had visited myself, found what seemed to be a critical error with that model's electrical processes. Dude had eliminated my suspicion that the no-name, aftermarket, good-old boy pipes were messing up the jetting in the carburetor, and being that he was a BMW certified carb guy, I took his word for it. Anyway, a week and maybe three hundred dollars later, bang, Thumper rides home like a completely different machine. The proper term I believe would be "runs like a scaled dog." Nine months previous to this I had handed the exact same scenario over to the dealership, they shoved yet another new battery in it, charged me whatever they had always charged me for it and let me get on down the road.
Here's another for-instance: about two years ago a friend of mine, a woman, complains to me that her Bonneville is running funny yet she's loathe to take it to the Harley mechanic she's been dealing with for years. Apparently the last time she took it to him he laughed and diagnosed the problem as being that since she's a female, there's no possible way that she rides her bike frequently enough to keep it running properly. I immediately said "Fuck that guy, take it to Scoot. They'll be nice to you." So she does and a week later she calls and says the problem is fixed, didn't cost that much money and everybody was really nice to her. UNBELIEVABLE.
So yeah, Scoot Richmond is awesome. I love Scoot Richmond. If I could marry Scoot Richmond and give it a happy life til the end of my days, I would but unfortunately I can't. The End.
Since I've had the thing, it's always seemed to lack a little something, granted it's got a 750cc engine that will never have the same amount of ass that bigger bikes do, but it seemed to run at less than it's full potential. After having asked about this for years and told nothing was wrong, I just wrote it off as I needed a bigger bike. Then last spring it died and I realized we had been running through batteries at a rate of about one a year. I loaded it up in the truck and took her down to Scoot. Here's where the story get's interesting-- the sales associate actually listened to me when I told him what was going on and seemed to actually consider what I thought was the problem. He wrote all that shit down on the ticket. In a day or so (less than two days! can you believe it??) he called me back and said yes it needed a new battery, but the mechanic had done some snooping online and in a forum I had visited myself, found what seemed to be a critical error with that model's electrical processes. Dude had eliminated my suspicion that the no-name, aftermarket, good-old boy pipes were messing up the jetting in the carburetor, and being that he was a BMW certified carb guy, I took his word for it. Anyway, a week and maybe three hundred dollars later, bang, Thumper rides home like a completely different machine. The proper term I believe would be "runs like a scaled dog." Nine months previous to this I had handed the exact same scenario over to the dealership, they shoved yet another new battery in it, charged me whatever they had always charged me for it and let me get on down the road.
Here's another for-instance: about two years ago a friend of mine, a woman, complains to me that her Bonneville is running funny yet she's loathe to take it to the Harley mechanic she's been dealing with for years. Apparently the last time she took it to him he laughed and diagnosed the problem as being that since she's a female, there's no possible way that she rides her bike frequently enough to keep it running properly. I immediately said "Fuck that guy, take it to Scoot. They'll be nice to you." So she does and a week later she calls and says the problem is fixed, didn't cost that much money and everybody was really nice to her. UNBELIEVABLE.
So yeah, Scoot Richmond is awesome. I love Scoot Richmond. If I could marry Scoot Richmond and give it a happy life til the end of my days, I would but unfortunately I can't. The End.
9/13/13
9/10/13
September Tenth
Through some shared numb-skullery between me and my doctor's office, I went off my meds last Thursday. It's something I take, and a real light dosage at that, to help with anxiety and depression but my script ran out and I detoxed off the shit, hideous skin-crawling withdrawals and everything, all weekend. Strung out in front of my kids just like I promised myself I'd never be again. Called around to all my friends in recovery trying to score pills, had some big laughs about it. However I got a legitimate refill last night. Today is the closest estimation of the phrase "Back on Track" that I can imagine. This is the chemical approach to the idea of Self Care and as indignant or hostile as I may be toward it, it has been helpful. We take care of ourselves first. So that we may then therefore take better care of our children. Or each other. I guess helping daddy bring in groceries and put them away while he lays down for a bit is not the same thing as watching daddy sleep off a bender all day on the couch.
I told my son once about the idea of having a wound of the mind. It was just after a friend of his, age four, the same age as his sister, had died suddenly and unexpectedly. She was the red headed daughter of a carpenter I work with, she was sweet and funny as hell and everybody loved her. Actually we had the conversation well before that point, when he asked me why I was moving out and not living with him, his mother and his sister anymore. I explained to him, that because of some things that had happened to me, I had something I considered a wound of the mind, and that I needed to do somethings to work on it. When his friend the little girl died, he asked if her father would have a wound of the mind because of it. I said, yes, that was the idea of it, and that was something he'd have to deal with for probably a long time.
So today is September tenth and this morning, after I realized the date, felt like writing something here. Whenever I run across firemen, be it in the grocery store parking lot or riding my motorcycle past a firehouse, I always try to make it a point to blip the throttle one time and wave or else look them each in the eye and say good morning. I never go any further than that. They look at me like I'm a nut anyway which I may very well be, but I never explain to them I was in New York city on the eleventh. I never tell them that I knew people who lost half their family that day or for years I'd watch the stupid memorial shows on tv and cry my fucking eyes out whenever everybody would march down there and play the stupid fucking bagpipes and all that shit. It took me a couple years before I figured out the wound in my own mind did not necessarily include what happened on September 11th 2001 just because I was there. But because I was there strode in to work the next morning to put on a tool belt and do what I could, when there were hardly any subways running and not a single car in the city, I can feel some ownership of it, and that for that reason, I've always felt a kinship to firemen whenever I see them, like they're my brothers of some higher nobility. I don't know, maybe I'm just crazy and stupid. Maybe when I'm an old man, I'll stop one of them or else wander down to the firehall and sit a young guy down and tell them my story, touching them occasionally on the arm to make sure they're still paying attention to me.
I told my son once about the idea of having a wound of the mind. It was just after a friend of his, age four, the same age as his sister, had died suddenly and unexpectedly. She was the red headed daughter of a carpenter I work with, she was sweet and funny as hell and everybody loved her. Actually we had the conversation well before that point, when he asked me why I was moving out and not living with him, his mother and his sister anymore. I explained to him, that because of some things that had happened to me, I had something I considered a wound of the mind, and that I needed to do somethings to work on it. When his friend the little girl died, he asked if her father would have a wound of the mind because of it. I said, yes, that was the idea of it, and that was something he'd have to deal with for probably a long time.
So today is September tenth and this morning, after I realized the date, felt like writing something here. Whenever I run across firemen, be it in the grocery store parking lot or riding my motorcycle past a firehouse, I always try to make it a point to blip the throttle one time and wave or else look them each in the eye and say good morning. I never go any further than that. They look at me like I'm a nut anyway which I may very well be, but I never explain to them I was in New York city on the eleventh. I never tell them that I knew people who lost half their family that day or for years I'd watch the stupid memorial shows on tv and cry my fucking eyes out whenever everybody would march down there and play the stupid fucking bagpipes and all that shit. It took me a couple years before I figured out the wound in my own mind did not necessarily include what happened on September 11th 2001 just because I was there. But because I was there strode in to work the next morning to put on a tool belt and do what I could, when there were hardly any subways running and not a single car in the city, I can feel some ownership of it, and that for that reason, I've always felt a kinship to firemen whenever I see them, like they're my brothers of some higher nobility. I don't know, maybe I'm just crazy and stupid. Maybe when I'm an old man, I'll stop one of them or else wander down to the firehall and sit a young guy down and tell them my story, touching them occasionally on the arm to make sure they're still paying attention to me.
9/9/13
Eve
I might have posted this before. I don't care.
--Uploaded on Dec 7, 2011
--Uploaded on Dec 7, 2011
"EVE' is the title of the fifth album
from UFOMAMMUT. Recorded at Locomotore Studio in Roma by Lorenzo
Stecconi (Soundlord on Idolum), Eve is a 45 minutes long single track
developing in 5 main movements. Passing through the massive atmospheres
of Idolum and filtered by the mastodontic riffs of Snailking, 'EVE' is a
totally new step in the sonic adventure of Ufomammut, another level in
the band's sound research. This album is a homage to the first Woman on
Earth, Eve and the rebellion to her creator for bringing knowledge to
Man.
9/7/13
8/28/13
8/22/13
Avenue of Champions
I haven't written anything in a couple of months. Met with my editor buddy two weeks ago and he said, meh, don't worry about it, print out everything I got, give it all to him and we'll start stitching this monster together. Just printing it all out is a daunting proposition. I got something like twelve chapters from one computer, plus whatever shortie shorts I put up here plus I think another three on a little old dell laptop my dad gave me. The little dell has a bad display that I have to fix before I can get whatever I have in there out. I still haven't written the big stuff, the middle, and the end. It's okay, I keep telling myself, don't get stressed out, it's happening, just slower than I would like. Life happens. I started working on old houses again, doing restoration carpentry in Church Hill, decided to focus on work a little more. It's okay, I can get back to it. My editor or somebody recently brought up that song by the Band, When I Paint my Masterpiece. That's what it is, just a big ass painting. I drive around this city and see more shit I want to put in it. The sensation of hand sanitizer drying on greasy hands, the smell of hot trash. Fuck it. It's gonna happen. Fuck the Band, fuck Bob Dylan.
This week I'm not writing anything. I'm getting my motorcycle ready for Saturday when I drive the 640 miles between here and Chattanooga. Family reunion on Sunday, up to my aunt's cabin on Sunday night, then over the mountain Monday morning and up the Blue Ridge parkway. Again. I don't know why I can't come up with a better trip. Maybe I want to learn that road till every lonely stretch becomes as familiar as a lover's body. Run every empty curve til my mind empties and there's nothing left except breathing.
This week I'm not writing anything. I'm getting my motorcycle ready for Saturday when I drive the 640 miles between here and Chattanooga. Family reunion on Sunday, up to my aunt's cabin on Sunday night, then over the mountain Monday morning and up the Blue Ridge parkway. Again. I don't know why I can't come up with a better trip. Maybe I want to learn that road till every lonely stretch becomes as familiar as a lover's body. Run every empty curve til my mind empties and there's nothing left except breathing.
8/21/13
7/5/13
6/18/13
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