Thursday, June 11, 2009
new machine ritual
Another gray day today—the more typical June weather is back. Yesterday on the way to work I took a couple of pictures of the pedal path and one of the black sheep who hang out on the bank behind some buildings there on the slough. It’s a picturesque ride there, from behind Staples all the way out past Bailey Hill. I really enjoy it, but I don’t always enjoy the way bike commuting makes it hard to deal with logistics and errands and stuff. It definitely slows down the cash trickle. For me to stop at CD World on my bike, I have to cross West 11th at rush hour, such as it is, in Eugene. I haven’t been to CD World in like a week.
This is the third day I have written my A.M. pages on the computer. On both days I edited the entry down and posted it on my blog, which feels weird. The containment isn’t the same, of writing out thoughts, worries, stresses, petty angers, such and so forth, in the morning, by hand, and throwing it in a notebook not intended for anyone to see. I’d likely edit out the real petty stuff if there was a bunch in there. Or stuff like "I want to punch ****** in the face, but it's against the law." It’s just different when you intend to put it out there. Boring blogs are more boring than other boring things. A boring church service or a boring movie have their own dynamic with beginning, middle, and end….but a boring blog waves a sign saying “see me” indefinitely, on some server somewhere. A church you wouldn’t go back to at least has people in it, but a blog you won’t go back to is all alone without the feedback of church attendance records.
Anyway, I am going to keep up the typed Morning Pages for a week, getting more of a feel for the difference between introspection with no intention to share, introspection with some intention to share, or missive-writing in the form of journaling, shifted into blogging with a few key strokes. That tends to shift me over into comic writing as I manage less comfortable things with humor. It all started because my handwriting looks like Shelly Winter’s handwriting, when she’s swimming around in The Poseidon Adventure, right before she dies. I mean, if she'd stopped to leave a note, for her housesitter, or whatever. When Rollins gets a tattoo in a speeding dune buggy on Jackass, that’s like my handwriting.
This all reminds me of a favorite moment from The Wire, when the editor from season 5 zaps a writer’s piece, says “try to get that bullshit past me, mother******” and slams the keypad of his computer. He was one of my favorite minor characters. I also had a major crush on the campaign advisor, even though the character she played was hollow. "Who's your favorite Wire character?" definitely inspired the longest Facebook comment exchange I've initiated.
Last night I watched a little Danish movie called Kinamand. It was about a man whose wife leaves him—in a daze, he ends up in a Chinese restaurant, eating there every night, ordering everything on the menu consecutively and starting over when he gets to the end. He gets involved with the family and things take a turn from desolate to bittersweet. After all this is a Danish movie about divorce and the healing of social isolation, not a Spanish movie about casual sex between volatile tapas chefs. It was a quiet little movie with a slow ritual feel, really good. I have another one called Machine Girl, about a Japanese girl with a machine gun where her hand used to be, before Tokyo gangsters took it.
I heard some vintage Taj Majal on the Watt from Pedro show yesterday. I was blown away--like, what IS this? I had no idea.