rocket to nowhere

Ears hear what’s near here. Tongues can be silver or forked. I laugh when my girlfriend says I have selective hearing. She said she licked his bearing.

She must like to cook. She says Olive Oil all the time. I love you too.

Once upon a time, when we were very young, I wanted to ask you a question, tell you a story, make you listen, talk. Your mouth opened. My mouth opened. Instead we kissed. Lady, Lady Mondegreen. I swear I laid him on the green.

And then Joyce. I’m a wake, or in the wake of, and so much sleep. How do you? Perched oh so precariously on the edge of your bed. You’ll bump your head, and thew ords willco meou tall wrong. A song! A song! Please don’t be long. Please don’t you be very long. Please don’t be long, or I may be asleep. And then, I’ll have to start all over.

song: “Fly Me to the Moon” by Bobby Womack

Open hand. Frail heart. He tore across the lawn, leaving deep ruts. I don’t remember if he clipped the side of the house. The flowers. Make believe that we were there.

That we saw. Smelled. A deepening fragility connected to the broom. Straw, I can’t. Well, you were right.

Leaving. Always that long, drawn-out, odious, well-worn. It was so tired. I was.

And then he revved his engine. The tires squealed. You squealed. I remember sinking in the mud of my desire for you. Unable.

To move. We did have something before that. Blue ghosts hovering in a mist of humidity. How did he?

I swear. The windows were all open. The smell of burnt rubber, lilacs, departure.

I haven’t fed the fish in days, but let it nibble on my fingertips. And I think about the grass. The rut. Your squeal, damp thighs. Something.

For him or? I held out my hand. And closed it around the handle. A sweeping motion.

Must be something. Musk. Machismo. Mechanics.

song: “Juke Box Drive” by Mitch Woods

The last time we kissed, I touched the bare-skin swell where waist curves into hip. You bit my tongue. The baggage. Pillows and suitcases all stacked in a row. Don’t fall down.

Remember the time? We didn’t even touch. Just ran around the monkey bars singing those songs. Snatches of those songs. I wanted your fingers. Cold. It would have been.

The last time—then the bear-hug. The squirm. The slap. I haven’t got a way of explaining to you. Just—The plant on my sill is confused. Is pushing out clusters of little pink flowers. Little—are they flowers if they don’t have petals?

The German word for hip is Hüfte. The one for skin is Haut. Both are feminine. I like to say them. Three times. The last time . . .

The last time, you moved away from me like a blind person. Hands out front. Only you were walking backwards. Or was I? Or did I fall? The pillows and suitcases in a neat row. And was it soft or hard? You and the walls and your teeth and that curve . . . that curve, all stop.

song: “My Space Buggy” by Asleep at the Wheel

The noodles expanded when we cooked them. It just didn’t seem like the pots and pans were hot enough. Loud enough.

A welcoming into. A fashionable length. The sandpaper was rough. The table was smooth. I sanded it myself. Long strokes with the grain. Short ones against.

The kitchen smelled of thyme, Rosemary. We ate our fill. Butter. Wineglasses sat on thin stems. Easily crushed in a strong hand. Sanding. Standing. Sitting.

She laughed when I filled one of the glasses with marinara. And let it dribble down my chin. It’s all leading somewhere. Pointing. Announcing and welcoming.

Whether or not you think you are, you did. Are doing. Have done.

Sit down. Tie this napkin around your neck. Eat what has been prepared for you. Long strokes with the grain. The equivalent bears no resemblance to the thing that we were talking about before. Not laughing or the sound of glass breaking. Not eating or rubbing or spilling. We were moving something if not ourselves.

song: “Hillbilly Band From Mars” by The Rio Grande Band

I said. No. I was saying. No. I was. No. I. You. He. Then. But then I was trying. It was like a. Like a. But no. I was. Will you. I said. No I did. So. Say. Listen I was trying to say that I said. But then. No. Something. I was trying. Was saying. Was. No. Even so. Not. It was. It wasn’t. I said to him.

I said to him that if he didn’t get his dirty paws offa me I’d knock his dirty paws offa me and then I’d knock him a good one or two and if he didn’t believe me to then well go ahead and leave them filthy paws on me cuz I will not have paws laid upon me not by man or beast and not by anyone cuz I’m a man that needs his space and them paws them dirty filthy paws in in my space and even more they been laid on me and he should get em offa me NOW! And then I knocked him.

I said to him. I said. I was trying to say. There was a. No. Not. A. Yes. But. I was trying to say that it was. Yes it was. I’m saying. No listen. Listen. But. The. Him. To him. Yes. I was. Really. Really. Trying. I was trying. I was trying to say.

song: “Red’s New Dream” by Louisiana Red

Imagination isn’t required for what I’m about to do. No fairies or sprites will be harmed during the performance. As a last-ditch effort, I might ask you to remove your hats. Please look up. What you are about to see may astound or amaze you. What you are about to see, ladies and gentlemen, what you are about to see . . .

Mistakes are not made. They are allowed to happen. The punch will land directly between the eyes, and right on the bridge of the nose. There will be dancing after the show. The lights will tremble. A flock of boomerangs will come home to roost.

Ladies and Gentlemen! Ladies! Do not fear! Do not run screaming from the building! Everything is true. Man achieved flight through trial and error. Allowance and mistake. The plates will not harm you! This is the Ninth Plan. The Ninth Circle. Please!

The satellites have been reading newspapers over your shoulder. This is how they get their news. I ask now that you remove your hats and fling them into the air. Watch closely! Blind as a bat is not a metaphor. Do you see? Helicopters are also called whirlybirds.

song: “Flying Saucer Boogie” by Eddie Cletro

1989. 9th grade. My junior high decided to abandon the regular class schedule for a week, and instead run everything around a theme. The theme was space. We took English, math, physical education, science, and social studies classes about space and space travel.
During that week, I started drawing the “rocket to nowhere.” I haven’t stopped.
My mother taught 8th grade English at the same junior high school. She wanted something special and space-themed for her homeroom, so she asked an artist/musician friend of ours, Lanny Fiegenschuh (who had an incredibly large collection of LPs), if he could make her a mix tape of songs about space. He provided her with 90 minutes of Space Tunes.
When the week was over, I inherited the Space Tape.
1989-1997. I listened to the tape regularly, and drew the rocket on everything (within certain legal limits).
1998. I had the rocket tattooed on my left deltoid.
1999. My girlfriend and I moved to Chicago. A couple of months later, she and I went out of town for Xmas, and I inadvertently left the Space Tape in her car. The car was broken into, and the Space Tape was stolen. I was heartbroken.
2000. My mother tracked Lanny Fiegenschuh down to Oklahoma City, OK, wrote him a letter, and asked him if he could reproduce the Space Tape. He replied that he had unfortunately been forced by circumstance to get rid of his incredibly large collection of LPs. But then he remembered that he had made master copies of all the mix tapes he had made. He still had those. He not only sent my mother the original 90-minute Space Tape, but also a second 90-minute tape full of songs about space, as well as a third 90-minute tape which contains songs about nuclear power and atomic weapons. My mother gave me the tapes for X-mas.
2001. I started writing down bits of lyrics from the songs (“All the girls will wear bikinis, except those who wear blue-jeanies”). I don’t know why I started writing them down, and I didn’t know what to do with them until I found . . .

The Gopoian Method (named after a good friend of mine, Rebecca Gopoian, who has created several beautiful pieces of writing this way–one can be found here)

1. Pick a phrase. It should be vague, but suggestive.
2. Write the phrase at the top of a blank page in your little notebook.
3. Move as far away from the source of the phrase as possible.
4. Meditate on the phrase.
5. Allow a thought to enter your mind.
6. Write that thought down.
7. Allow that thought to leave your mind.
8. Repeat steps 4 through 7 until the page in your little notebook is full.
9. Do not worry about making sense.
10. Let the writing sit for at least 24 hours.
11. Edit, but minimally.

I used The Gopoian Method to create seven pieces of writing from some of those aforementioned bits of lyrics for a class I was taking.
2005. I posted those seven pieces of writing (plus the songs whence the bits of lyrics came) on my blahg: rocket to nowhere.

[Over the next seven posts, I will be sharing some writing and some mp3 files with you. If you are using a PC, you can download the mp3s by right-clicking the link and choosing "save link as." If you're using a Mac, you can press the "ctrl" button on your keyboard, click the link, and choose "save link as," or you can press the option button on your keyboard and click on the link, which will automatically download the linked file. Enjoy!]

The motion-activated paper towel dispenser in the men’s room at work has been broken for weeks, so le Croque du Soleil and I came up with some ways to fix it.

1. Mount a roll of paper towels on the wall and mount a working bear trap over top, forcing user to pry open the steel teeth and yank out a handful of towel, risking certain bodily harm and possible loss of limb. Will be easier/more effective than current model.
2. Install a bathroom attendant who tries much too hard to be accommodating and helpful, going so far as to offer to hold the restroom user’s penis and shake off the excess at the end, and who then berates and screams at the user for wanting a paper towel at all (as he had the option of not dirtying his hands at all) as well as for leaving too meager a tip.
3. Hang two dozen nubile young maidens from the ceiling by their toes around the faucet area. User will raise hands in air as he walks to the exit, maidens will blow forcefully to create a drying current of wind just above user’s head.
4. Install an empty, 50-gallon oil drum near the sinks, and light a fire in it. Users of the restroom, should they wish to dry their hands, will be issued one of six pairs of fingerless gloves (one for each sewage drain in the restroom). Users must then stand around the fire recounting the good ol’ days o’ plenty when they had paper for drying one’s hands, and rub their gloved hands thoughtfully over the fire. Rotgut may or may not be provided. All blowing newspaper will be caught and added to the fire. The Brooklyn Bridge may or may not be prominently displayed.
5. Install PA and various subwoofers to achieve “bitchin” sound system, through which Irene Cara’s “What A Feeling” will be looped throughout entire workday, forcing user to shake hands in Flashdance ecstasy until dry.
6. Declare wet to be the new dry.
7. Install shag carpeting. Knock everyone’s shins with a crowbar, and let them drag their knuckles.
8. Mount one of those fans they use to make wind in the movies on the wall, and tie a rope to the door handle. Set the fan to “gale force” and make the user pull himself out of the restroom using the rope. The wind will dry the backs of his hands, the rope will dry his palms.
9. Create a door made of terrycloth.
10. Install a secret door that leads to a posh and opulent lair filled with silken pillows and lithe young ladies gently waving ostrich feather fans.
11. Turn the water off entirely and quit pissing on your hands.

I am not, or do not see myself as, a pundit in the culture wars, or (even more broadly) a cultural commentator. However, I suppose any art, or any attempt at art, is a bit of cultural commentatery. Hmmm. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I am not the kind of blogger who reads the headlines, thinks (deeply, I’m sure) about the cultural impact of said headlines, and then puts in my two cents on the meaning of those headlines. There is a reason I insist on the term “blahg.” Perhaps it’s pretentiously high-minded of me, but I’m hoping to create a kind of antidote to the cacophony of the s0-called blogosphere, rather than add another “voice” to it.

That being said, I would like to make a small-ish comment on the nature of the Winter Holidays here in the good ol’ United States of America.

1. Yes, I did say “Winter Holidays.”
2. It most certainly is better to give than receive, but you know, and I know, we all know, that these Holidays and that notion give a great deal of credence to the idea that Money is Everything.
3. The so-called split in American culture and society is older than red states vs. blue states, or even older than this season’s battle for the meaning of Xmas. All of those people who are screaming that we should put Christmas back in the Holidays are probably still going to buy their children a whole big pile of stuff this Holiday Season.
4. And then they’re going go home and watch heart-warming television specials (both animated and not) that purport to remind us all of the true meaning of the Holidays: It is better to give than receive. Each and every one of those heart-warming television specials will be presented with commercial breaks.
5. I am not trying to comment (well, not really) on America’s consumerist culture. I’m trying to comment on the split between what we think we’re doing, and what we’re really doing. That’s the old split, and it’s as old (probably older) than this country. These culture wars are not new, and I’m quite certain we’ve lost sight of their true meaning.
6. A really good discussion of the very split I’m talking about (what we’re doing vs. what we think we’re doing) can be found in an essay by Gilbert Sorrentino about the true true meaning of It’s a Wonderful Life.
7. If that depresses you, check out this presentation of It’s a Wonderful Life in 30 seconds as re-enacted by bunnies.

crock sent me this actual photograph:

this is my photoshopped response:

p.s. I really like that the acronym from the first picture is IAM, because when Moses asked the burning bush/God who He was, God answered, “I am.”