Headed for Quakerdom

So, most people who know me know that I don’t get television. I mean, at my house. Our choices are either no channels or a dish, and to be honest, it’s just not worth the dish. This does not mean we are virtuous, nor are we promoting a lifestyle choice (ie, kill your television, which got old really fast, did it not?). It simply means that we are too tightfisted to spring for a dish. We have a tv, and rent lots of movies, and own some tv series dvds. And so anyway, there we are, without television.

Oh, and did I mention I live out in the sticks? That, after six years I got an internet connection for the first time this summer? Oh, yes, I’m isolated, all right. Anyway. I’ve gone without television for small periods throughout my life – like in college, senior year when I lived in a basement apartment and couldn’t get any channels except for Fox when we arranged the tin-foil just so, which we did every day at six o’clock for the Simpsons. For the most part, that year was television-less. But I was constantly at other people’s houses, the way you are in college, gathered on couches, snacking and watching television, usually with at least one person who is trying to get drunk. So there wasn’t this sense that I have now, after missing television for six years. This sense that I’ve missed things.

I can safely say that I think I am a different person because of it - so removed. And ignorant. I don’t know what TiVo is. I pretend to, but I don’t. I know it’s some new-fangled thing for the television, but that’s it. It’s like I’ve already skipped into my seventies, and have to lean forward and ask people to speak up as they try to explain current technology, at which point my eyes glaze over and I nod off.
I stopped watching television just as reality shows were starting to be on. I don’t know when Survivor started, but I never saw an episode. As a result, the very formatting of television has been basically revolutionized since I’ve stopped watching it. Everything is set up differently. Commercials, news shows especially, prime time, everything.

But here’s what I’ve noticed, and I know it’s been said before, but you can take it from me, someone who really actually likes tv, and is a would-be regular junkie: television is fucked. I mean it. It’s really messed up. It’s flashing, screaming, roaring, rapid scene after scene. That’s what I see when I watch television. All I can see is flashes of stuff, color, lights, and the noise. It’s so friggin’ loud. I can’t focus on whatever the show I’m watching is actually about, because I’m dealing with sensory overload (and too many jump cuts). And I even like loud stuff, as is evidenced by our stereo’s current volume setting. But television is messed up, and sort of spooky. Sometimes it reminds me of the Thunderdome, and the creepy emcee. It wouldn’t surprise me if they started having game shows where people bet their lives, or families or whatever. After all, they already trade families, spouses, houses, whatever. Again, pretty fucked.

Am I the only one who feels like television is spooky in a sort of mesmerizing way? Or maybe I should just become a Quaker. Embrace the simple life.

Radiohead & Insomnia

I’ve never found better music to write by than Radiohead. I can describe their music using adjectives I wish I could describe my writing with: compelling, devastating, elegant.

What about music when you’re writing? It seems to be a thing that everyone has a distinct opinion on. For me, it’s Radiohead, John Coltrane, Beck (Sea Changes or Mutations, NOT Guero, Mellow Gold or Odelay. These three have the opposite effect, in that I usually end up dancing around my office, then going to the kitchen for something to eat. Not what one looks for in inspirational music), Modest Mouse, Bjork, The Shins (only sometimes. Other times they bug the crap out of me), not usually Miles Davis (except for the super mellow golden stuff), Campfire Headphase, Thelonius Monk (same rule as with Miles) oh, and reggae. Reggae is surprisingly good to write to (Burning Spear, Bunny Wailer, and Dennis Brown. NOT Toots & the Maytals, not Peter Tosh, not Bob Marley or Lee Perry. They are in the same category as Guero), except for the fact that I rarely write something that feels reggae to me. But reggae is sort of entrancing, and I guess that’s the effect that I look for in the music I listen to while I'm writing. It’s the kind of music that feels like it's just happening in your head.

I often feel this way with Radiohead. To further this feeling, which I like, I habitually wear headphones when I’m at my computer. And also, I think, to make more complete my disconnection from the world. I used to be really good at blocking out the world when I was a kid. I still rock at it while I’m reading. Bombs could be going off around me, and I’d probably wander into the other room without lifting my nose from my book, and fumble around to put on my gas mask one-handed. It must be really annoying to live with.

Yet, when I’m writing, I’m so distractable. Why is that? I don’t want to be. I’m really enjoying myself, but it’s like the whole time there’s this part of my brain that is just searching for a distraction, a temptation, a worry, an obligation. Stupid brain. So I just use the headphones (they're big and cushy) as a little basic sensory deprivation, with the side benefit of mood enhancement. I have even been known, on occasion, to wear the headphones when no music is playing. Not often, and I know it makes me sound weird, but I like that muffly sound to the world. The world is far too noisy anyway. I wish I could just wear headphones everywhere, and the world would just hum away around me and I could just sort of walk around in it without actually taking part.

Um, yeah. Let this be a lesson to you all. No blogging during severe bouts of insomnia.

Back in Minnesota... again

yup. I'm back from the second of my two whirlwind vacations this summer. This one to Wisconsin and then Ohio, on the train. Oh, yes my friends, the journey was a blur of green fields and well, more green fields. And some trees. But I do love the train. Even when it's so late that you might miss your connection and they threaten to put you on a bus!?! Yuck. I hate the bus. And the bus from Chicago to Detroit Lakes? Long yuck. But I did make my connection, did end up on the right train.

As usual, I thought I would do all sorts of blogging during my vacation about my fun vacation activities. Ha. When will I learn? I had access to a computer for a good part of my trip, but it remained stubbornly peripheral in my vision. I had no impulse to check my e-mail, much less blog. I was too busy doing fun things I do far too little of, such as waterskiing, and going to baseball games. And shopping! Yay for shopping at cute import stores conveniently situated next to vegetarian restaurants in lovely little hippie towns in Ohio. Specifically, I'm talking about Yellow Springs. If you ever find yourself passing through the area (not too far off I-70), it is definitely worth a stop.

And as for baseball, I checked out the Dayton Dragons game with friends one night. Very cute little park, hometown crowd, and when a Dragon player hit a home run, the red eyes of the dragons on the scoreboard would flash and steam would roll out of their nostrils to the tune of an extremely loud foghorn. Does it get any better?

Anyway, I have more tales to tell, one of which has to do with a music festival, a migraine and a heavenly grilled cheese sandwich (sounds like a joke: a migraine, a music festival and a grilled cheese sandwich walked into a bar...). But another day...

One Of Those Days...

You ever have one of those days when it seems that, even though you don’t believe in a higher power (or maybe because you don’t), that higher power is thwarting your every attempt to be productive, efficient, or dammit, just get one thing done today?

Well, I’m not having one of those days. But J is. Everything he has tried to accomplish has been thwarted in a singular manner. It is relentless. I found him, twenty minutes ago, sitting on the couch with a toothpick between his lips, staring into space in abject misery. I could tell he was at the brink. The breaking point. The point at which I would’ve succumbed to tears (I cry easily and without much provocation even on a good day). He just looked miserable and angry and frustrated and sad.

You know how it is – you try to accomplish something – you have big plans. Your every move is blocked like there is a bully that has you backed into the corner and keeps saying, try to get out, and when you move to scoot past him, shoves you back.

So what do you do? Well, what I usually try to do is back off. Pick another project, smaller, less complex. More accomplishable. And I keep inching my way down until I find the thing that I can accomplish (which, by that point, is usually finding the Kleenex box by feel because my eyes are puffy and blurry with tears of sheer anger).

But, and this is one reason why I love the man, he does not succumb to tears, or slamming things around (another of my favorite venting methods). He sits and stares into space, then takes a deep breath, and heads back to the self-same project which brought him to such misery. No down-stepping to easier projects for him. I like to see this as evidence of his boundless persistence, although in fact it may be plain stubbornness, a quality, take it from me, he possesses in spades. Either way, it is admirable. I think.