where it's at

folks,

we've started the travel blog. i'm not entirely sure why it's in a different place, but i guess it's in keeping with the whole idea of the road trip, which involves a certain amount of fresh-start-ish-ness.

so anyway, the blog can be found here.

we hope you'll tune in there, since it'll actually get updated pretty often if all goes according to plan.

unfortunately the many tunes that are in various stages of recordedness will probably not get finished and posted soon. if they do, or if we have occasion to put something new up on this blog, we'll certainly mention it on the new one. so what i'm saying is, if you're only going to read one blog, make the switch to the new one. i'll type out the link too for those who like copying and pasting:

http://samandabbie.blogspot.com/

the first post is already up there.

oh and one other thing: we sort of placed kind of well, which is to say not at the very top but also not at the bottom, of a songwriting contest! the song was "chemistry" and the contest was called the singer-songwriter awards. it's based in london. we were not finalists, who are the top four, but rather runners-up, which means we were somewhere in the next ten or fifteen. i'm not sure how many people enter but i think it's pretty popular.

so clearly we are now going to be internationally famous. we even got this cool certificate!



it only exists on the internet, but i guess we can print it out if we want....

anyway, this is so obviously earth-shattering, and we knew you'd all want to bask in our reflected glory. so go ahead and do that.

but seriously folks.... hope y'all are taking it easy in the meantime. please keep in touch - we might not always be able to respond right away, but we love hearing from you.

Really for My Sister

You're all welcome to read this post, too, but this is really just a shout-out to my dear sis, who has had quite a wild ride of it recently. Not just the usual air-conditioning-breakdown-just-as-it-gets-really-beastly-hot, but also (I'm not kidding) managing hazardous waste cleanup in her own home.

All with three small (and delightful) children.

So, instead of nattering on about how we're trying to get ready to go and it's only two weeks from Tuesday, or about the two major musical endeavors that seem so close to completion but just aren't quite done, I will instead present this poem that I've been meaning to send her.

Hang in there, sis. I love you.



The Lanyard


The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the pale blue walls of this room,
bouncing from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past --
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sickroom,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift--not the archaic truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.


Billy Collins

a little scrumblebutt

In my dream, she is reaching past my hollow core;
And her smile: an "open" sign on an abandoned store.


(from "Mink Car" by They Might Be Giants)


23 days left.

Abbie wants to be a filmmaker. Abbie is going to be a filmmaker. Abbie is a filmmaker.

And I am buying her a video camera. I am resisting the temptation to buy her the beautiful one that will take the amazing images, because I believe she might never actually use it. There are lots of reasons, I think, for that, and some of them are pretty good. For starters, we're going to be in the dirt and the weather and we need a camera that's tough.

On the other hand, there's this problem, which I'm sure you've already thought about, but it's nicely painted here:


The Vacation


Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.
He went flying down the river in his boat
with his video camera to his eye, making
a moving picture of the moving river
upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
toward the end of his vacation. He showed
his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,
preserving it forever: the river, the trees,
the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat
behind which he stood with his camera
preserving his vacation even as he was having it
so that after he had had it he would still
have it. It would be there. With a flick
of a switch, there it would be. But he
would not be in it. He would never be in it.


Wendell Berry


I think Abbie can beat this problem. Especially if I can find her a camera that fits. One that she can use easily and without caring too much about it. And one that's easy to turn off and put away.

Only 28 days left in town...!

In other news, we dearly love our nieces and nephew. Georgia came over the other day and Abbie helped us make some stuff out of clay. See:



One last thing: the band had a fun farewell show at the Neutral Ground. Thanks to all those who came or were there in spirit. We have a name now: "The Some Times." Just in time for us to cease operations (at least temporarily).

Hope you're having a peaceful week.

forty days and forty nights, give or take

Flock


It has been calculated that each copy of the Gutenburg Bible . . . required the skins of 300 sheep.

--from an article on printing


I can see them squeezed in the holding pen
behind the stone building
where the printing press is housed,

all of them squirming around
to find a little room
and looking so much alike

it would be nearly impossible
to count them,
and there is no telling

which one will carry the news
that the Lord is a shepherd,
one of the few things they already know.


Billy Collins


(You can hear him reading this poem here.)


in the forty days left before we blow this proverbial popsicle stand, we need to locate some health insurance, figure out what to do with our house, and identify and accomplish about three quadzillion other tasks. wandering around in the desert until we hallucinate is starting to sound preferable.

but really, we're psyched, except for the sadness of missing family while we're gone.

a new song is in the bag, and several recordings are like this close to getting posted here. we promise.

be good to each other and keep in touch.

Grow Food Movement

Michael Pollan, who wrote The Omnivore's Dilemma, wrote an article in the New York Times that I think is worth reading.

It's challenging, though. Maybe we can feel okay about buying carbon offsets for the road trip... or maybe we should be planning a bike trip?

Dads, Donuts, Directions

Georgia's preschool held an event they called "Dads and Donuts" last Friday. I am neither, but I got to go anyway, because Georgia's real dad had something important to do and couldn't skip. I, on the other hand, am called "Bum" for a reason.

And so I got a donut, and also I got to talk to Georgia all the way to her school because I got to drive her, and I got to hold her hand while we walked in, and we got to sit in the Reading Center for a long time. At first I called it a library, but a kid named Aidan corrected me, although what he actually said it was was a "Weeding Centow." Then I looked around and there were no other "dads" - just kids and amused-seeming teachers. Georgia was still laughing at all the pictures of herself in the class's album. So it was past time to go. And so I went. And I got this card:



(They're donuts.)

Also wanted to mention that I am maybe going to start working for a City Councilmember. But I will probably only work for her for a month or so, so that we can still go on the road trip as planned. I will write again about this after I meet with them.

Jelly Burger

According to an article I read recently, human beings don't do very well at making big, complicated decisions. It was a while ago, but I think the article mentioned picking a college and choosing a mate as examples, and I assume my careerist ponderings would fit the bill.

The point, as I understood it, was that the rational parts of our brains, all too often ignored in any case, are limited in their processing power. Decisions with too many factors just overwhelm them. So, all of those things that go into a college "fit," like location and prestige and cost and whatever else... apparently our brains can only process a handful of those at any one time.

So we can either make the decision rationally but ignoring the vast majority of the factors. Or we can make it based on intuition, and use our rational parts to justify that decision after the fact. The second one is obviously way more fun and also way more popular. But actually, we don't necessarily notice that we've shut down the rational process.

So once you read this article, you have to ask yourself what the heck you're thinking, trying to design a rational process for making a decision about what to do with your working life. It's not like designing a training program so you can run a marathon... apparently it's more like designing a training program so you can run to the moon.

Anyway, I've been asking everyone for their thoughts on the topic of "people who make a difference / make the world a better place / whatever," and I might as well ask you, too, Dear Internet. What job or career plan would you recommend to someone who, for the sake of discussion, is only concerned with making the most positive difference possible?

Now that we've got all that out of the way, it's time for the real point of the post:



The Purple Cow


I never saw a PURPLE COW,
I never HOPE to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather SEE than BE one!



The Purple Cow: Suite


Ah, yes, I wrote the "Purple Cow"--
I'm Sorry, now, I wrote it;
But I can tell you Anyhow
I'll Kill you if you Quote it!


Gelett Burgess
(1866-1951)

Unseat a Heart

Dear Readers,

I'll see if I can't reestablish something like a rhythm here. Unusually, I have a few things to report in addition to my existential wanderings and banal schadenfreude.

For instance: our song, "Chemistry," available over on the right, is going to be on a promotional CD called the Chill Out Acoustic Compilation, put together by some people who call themselves Quickstar Productions. You can listen to their previous efforts here - it seems like they produce an album of this sort every year or so (in addition to offerings in other styles).

We aren't completely sure of what to make of it. We got in touch with one person from a previous edition, Chelsea Carter, who we thought was good and who very kindly filled us in on her experience with Quickstar.

She, like us, seems unsure what to make of it. She felt like she was fairly treated and everything. So I guess we'll see what happens - and at least it was nice of Quickstar to want to include us. If you're interested in owning one of these, drop us a line and we'll send you one once they're ready. They'll be on iTunes, too.

In other news, Abbie is really good at painting. So far she specializes in fruit.

And finally, the road trip is 58 days away. Can you believe it? We can't.

Here's a little poem for you.



Romantics
Johannes Brahms and Clara Schumann


The modern biographers worry
"how far it went," their tender friendship.
They wonder just what it means
when he writes he thinks of her constantly,
his guardian angel, beloved friend.
The modern biographers ask
the rude, irrelevant question
of our age, as if the event
of two bodies meshing together
establishes the degree of love,
forgetting how softly Eros walked
in the nineteenth century, how a hand
held overlong or a gaze anchored
in someone's eyes could unseat a heart,
and nuances of address not known
in our egalitarian language
could make the redolent air
tremble and shimmer with the heat
of possibility. Each time I hear
the Intermezzi, sad
and lavish in their tenderness,
I imagine the two of them
sitting in a garden
among late-blooming roses
and dark cascades of leaves,
letting the landscape speak for them,
leaving us nothing to overhear.


Lisel Mueller

long post no time

dear readers,

or maybe there are none of you anymore,

i am sorry for the long hiatus. rather than give an excuse, i'll just leave it at the apology, and mention briefly that there's a clean, final version of "chemistry" over on the right, which we hope you'll enjoy. and we'd love to hear what you think of it.

the road trip is almost upon us. we've got an itinerary thanks to abbie's hard work, and we're planning to email it out this weekend.

more news to come tomorrow. for real. meanwhile, enjoy this little ditty from good ol' emily:


It was given to me by the Gods -
When I was a little Girl -
They give us Presents most - you know -
When we are new - and small.
I kept it in my Hand -
I never put it down -
I did not dare to eat - or sleep -
For fear it would be gone -
I heard such words as "Rich" -
When hurrying to school -
From lips at Corners of the Streets -
And wrestled with a smile.
Rich! 'Twas Myself - was rich -
To take the name of Gold -
And Gold to own - in solid Bars -
The Difference - made me bold -


Emily Dickinson (# 455)

return me to a cigarette

i wrote a new one today. abbie likes it. but it's not as good as this!



maybe tomorrow i'll manage to get at least a rough version of the new ones up here. meanwhile, i humbly submit this poem, by my favorite gal. enjoy it responsibly.



There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons -
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes -

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us -
We can find no scar,
But internal difference -
Where the Meanings, are -

None may teach it - Any -
‘Tis the Seal Despair -
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air -

When it comes, the Landscape listens -
Shadows - hold their breath -
When it goes, ‘tis like the Distance
On the look of Death -


Emily Dickinson (#320)

i was born by the river

sorry for the long hiatus. i am definitely extra full of insight, wit, and touching poetry, though, as a result.

there's probably interweb slang for this phenomenon, whereby after missing a few days you feel the (sometimes paralyzing) urge to find something truly postworthy. otherwise you have to face the fact that you were probably posting too often before.

or else face the fact that there's really no reason for you to be posting at all. or at least no good reason.

my strategy, the obvious one, was going to be to post a song. but it's just taking too darn long. abbie and i have one we like, and we hope you will like it too. but at the moment it is missing some words. anybody got any words they can loan us?

meanwhile, please enjoy this poem, which was inspired by sacred heart's production of cinderella, and please take good care of yourself and get some sleep.


Lullaby


Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.

Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's carnal ecstasy.

Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of welcome show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find our mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness find you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.



W. H. Auden

crazy experiment

a special exclusive for blog readers!!:

there's a new tune over at right. it's called "emily." it's what i did today! and it has some experimental experiments. i would really appreciate feedback if you have a minute to leave some. even if all you do is make fun of me - i would still be very grateful.

hope you're doing well. over and out.

continuing nerd education

so, music production is a nerd field. it appeals to a wide nerd spectrum, from hi-fi nerds to lo-fi nerds, from nerds with lots of nerd friends to loner nerds.

and it offers a treasure-trove of what i would call "nerd crack:" which is, of course, minutiae. not just any old minutiae, but technical, counterintuitive, obnoxious minutiae that every once in a long while turn out to be really important.

i remember using a program in college called reason, which was really cool (in a nerdy way). it's music creation software, and it's completely digital - you don't need to know how to play an instrument or anything. i remember one guy made a cool (nerd) song totally from sounds he made using a paper bag.

anyway, what made reason so appealing and (nerd-) useful was the knobs. rows and rows of hundreds of little knobs. if you've ever seen a mixing console in a recording studio, you know that there are lots of knobs involved in this process; but in reason, because it was all digital, you could have as many knobs as you wanted. you could build your rack so that the knobs went on to infinity.

and each knob represents a Decision. and most of them don't matter, but some of them do. thus, nerd-crack: you could spend hours and days turning little knobs this way and that to see if they made something cool happen - all while sitting in a dark basement with headphones on, getting paler by the minute.

well, i'd been in withdrawal for a while without really realizing exactly what i was jonesing for. turns out it was something very, very obvious. something even non-nerds recognize and maybe even use: the graphic equalizer.

seriously, how cool is this thing? if you've never played with one, i must insist that you try it. itunes has one. just mess with them while a song is playing and see if you aren't overcome with the giddiness of a schoolgirl as i have been.

of course, this might turn out to be a gateway drug for you - and you could end up a full-blown nerd. after all, you're already reading a blog instead of going outside.

be careful.

i've updated "the pirate song" and might do so again, soon. also "emily" is in the works, an older song that i still like and have never recorded.

here's a mardi gras picture i'm just getting around to posting:



and a poem:


The Red Wheelbarrow


so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.


William Carlos Williams



Thanks for stopping by.

a tree Full of kids

Hey everyone. I heard some new music today, by a guy called William Fitzsimmons. At some moments his music sounds a lot like what I wish my music sounded like. At other moments his music just sounds really good. These are initial impressions and I invite you to disagree vigorously.

I had a lot of chores today, and I had a little of running around in the park with a dog pulling a leash pulling one arm and a laughing kid under the other arm. I can recommend the latter.

Abbie has a cute haircut and is working hard on the road trip. She would not call it work, though, because she is the product of millions of years of instinctual biological urges, all striving unconsciously to create the perfect road trip-planner. Watching her at it is like watching a great white shark devour a seal, which I have seen on T. V., except not on T. V. and therefore not in slow-motion.

Here's a poem


IN RESPONSE TO A RUMOR THAT THE OLDEST WHOREHOUSE IN WHEELING, WEST VIRGINIA, HAS BEEN CONDEMNED


I will grieve alone,
As I strolled alone, years ago, down along
The Ohio shore.
I hid in the hobo jungle weeds
Upstream from the sewer main,
Pondering, gazing.

I saw, down river,
At Twenty-third and Water Streets
By the vinegar works,
The doors open in the early evening.
Swinging their purses, the women
Poured down the long street to the river
And into the river.

I do not know how it was
They could drown every evening.
What time near dawn did they climb up the other shore,
Drying their wings?


For the river at Wheeling, West Virginia,
Has only two shores:
The one in hell, the other
In Bridgeport, Ohio.

And nobody would commit suicide, only
To find beyond death
Bridgeport, Ohio.



James Wright

said Coyote, exasperatedly

More tunes and photos are in the works. Meanwhile, I present two twentieth-century gems with crispy contours and gooey centers:


COYOTE AND THE HEDGEHOG


One day Coyote was walking in the woods when he saw Hedgehog. The hedgehog was hungry, but Coyote didn't know it. But Hedgehog had an idea.

"What are you doing?" asked Coyote.

"I am sitting on my eggs," replied Hedgehog.

"But hedgehogs don't lay eggs!" shouted coyote.

"I do."

"How do you do it?"

"Go get some eggs and sit on them."

"Okay."

So Coyote did this and never ate. Soon Coyote died of hunger. The hedgehog ate him.


The moral is:

Don't listen to hungry hedgehogs.


Abbie Feinstein



Dawn


Dawn in New York has
four columns of mire
and a hurricane of black pigeons
splashing in the putrid waters.
Dawn in New York groans
on enormous fire escapes
searching between the angles
for spikenards of drafted anguish.
Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth
because tomorrow and hope are impossible there:
sometimes the furious swarming coins
penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children.
Those who go out early know in their bones
there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die:
they know they will be mired in numbers and laws,
in mindless games, in fruitless labors.
The light is buried under chains and noises
in an impudent challenge of rootless science.
And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs
as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.


Federico Garcia Lorca

for a good time

Here's a thought for you: two apes (with no tails) looking at the earth's magnificence in a tiny box. Narrated by Sir David Attenborough.

Yes, Abbie and I have been enjoying the Planet Earth series. Abbie closes her eyes when the predators get close. We both laugh out loud at the sheer majesty of the images. And you just can't help thinking - we are part of this, and yet so not a part of it. I will never see a snow leopard in the wild. So, it's wonderful and mind-expanding. And at the same time it's also just more TV, and it's more of sitting in a room looking at a little screen. As I am still doing. As you are doing.

Well, at least here's a poem for you! The best I can offer.



Forgive My Guilt


Not always sure what things called sins may be,
I am sure of one sin I have done.
It was years ago, and I was a boy,
I lay in the frostflowers with a gun,
The air ran blue as the flowers, I held my breath,
Two birds on golden legs slim as dream things
Ran like quicksilver on the golden sand,
My gun went off, they ran with broken wings
Into the sea, I ran to fetch them in,
But they swam with their heads high out to sea,
They cried like two sorrowful high flutes,
With jagged ivory bones where wings should be.

For days I heard them when I walked that headland
Crying out to their kind in the blue,
The other plovers were going over south
On silver wings leaving these broken two.
The cries went out one day; but I still hear them
Over all the sounds of sorrow in war or peace
I ever have heard, time cannot drown them,
Those slender flutes of sorrow never cease.
Two airy things forever denied the air!
I never knew how their lives at last were spilt,
But I have hoped for years all that is wild,
Airy, and beautiful will forgive my guilt.


Robert P. Tristram Coffin

they got some Crazy little Women there

It gives me great pleasure to report that my mother-in-law is, practically speaking, ready to arm wrestle or drink you under the table, but kindly enough in her spirits to offer you the chance to get beaten at scrabble if you prefer.

Abbie has a new haircut! Get excited:

She would probably prefer that I mention that this photo was taken directly after the fact, when her hair was still full of exotic chemistry, and that she has since soaked her head many times.

Abbie has been entertaining herself by going through her boxes of precious keepsakes. You should know that Abbie has (truly) dozens of these. Often content to be alone, today she got the urge for us to do this together. So she pulled out a box of college stuff and we got to work on the floor of her mom's room. Some of it, of course, is bizarre or embarrassing. Some of it does not ring even a faint bell for either of us. And then Abbie pulled out a manila folder... full of all of our old phone bills. All of them. If you know any mental health professionals in the Kansas City area, please leave a comment.

And the show is Friday. It promises to be the funnest experience anyone has ever had. This despite all of the death, surgery, air travel, and general upheaval of the past week. In fact, historically, there seems to be a direct correlation between those things and the quality of music. Especially if you replace "surgery" with "the drugs they give you after surgery."

If I had to pick a poem blah blah blah forever, it would be this one. I hope you also are electrified by it. Or else just that you have a good day today and get a good night's sleep.


Aubade


I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.



Philip Larkin

have mercy Baby I'm descending again

Dear Loved Ones,

You'll be glad to know that my mighty mother-in-law has emerged from surgery with all her colors flying.

If all went according to plan, Rocky went home with his new mom today.

I have been thinking a lot about something I noticed when we were out playing, as it turned out, on our last day together. We had just taken a run through the park and were in the backyard of the old NOCCA building playing tug-of-war. It was among our most epic battles, with both of us using all our cunning and strength, and it lasted quite a while.

And part of the reason, and this is the thing I noticed, was that Rocky never kept the stick. If he got it away from me, there was not even a split second when he exulted in his victory... not even a flicker of glee in his little beady eye. No trying to get me to chase him, even. Quite the opposite, in fact; he seemed... bored, I guess. Maybe a little deflated. And anyway he stood stock still while he waited for me to get a new grip so the game could start again.

It was all about the struggle, for good ol' Rocky. Nothing at all in the completion.

It reminded me of the summers I spent leading hiking trips out in Rocky Mountain National Park. I remember seeing a shirt that said "somewhere between the trailhead and the peak is the reason." This, clearly, is hiking counselor religion; it's something you try to get the campers to believe, especially on those days when weather (or whatever) keeps you from making the peak. We hike because we like hiking, not because we like bagging peaks, you tell them; even though any idiot can look in their faces and know that, by and large, they strongly dislike hiking and are only coming along because of the chance at making the peak (and because archery was full). The end, and only the end, justifies the means.

Rocky would've been a great camper, although it's true that he trips a lot and is weak on trail etiquette. He's all about the joy of the process. He'd be a good songwriter too. Because sometimes when I think about songs, I mostly want to finish them, even though really the most fun part is the writing itself.

Another reason why thinking about songwriting is so bad and distracting. Better far to write than to think about writing.


It's "Fun with the Scanner" time!

Here's mom, about the time she graduated from Centenary and was married.




Suicide's Note


The calm,
Cool face of the river
Asked me for a kiss.


Langston Hughes

apple rulez the school

my laptop's back already! who knew that apple's repair service was this awesome?

it's not easy to understand the materials they sent back, but apparently i had an assy heatsink that needed replacing. i was a little offended at first, but now i'm thinking "assy heatsink" is a pretty good album name.

more music and poetry and stuff soon.

waking up in a strange place

dear everyone,

my computer's broke. please enjoy the new tune more than you usually would, if you can, because (a) it might be the last one for a while and (b) the hard drive that contains it will probably be wiped clean by the repair gnomes. i can redo it... but who knows if it'll just get worse and worse from here? meanwhile, like many of my friendships, it exists only in "cyberspace."

joke, joke.

thanks for the chair socks!

so sleepy. but there's a new version of "the pirate song" over there. it's full of goofs - but it's new! enjoy.

your baby'th not thweet like mine (she'th got thoth)

Happy Thoth Sunday everybody! And good job, Eli (not bad for a Greenie).

Heaving Up Our Lives

Dear Internets,

There has been so much going on that I hardly know where to start. Most of you know about my dear mother-in-law's breast cancer. (If you are interested to learn more, not to mention see awesome photographs and read about her efforts to improve the lives of African children, check out her blog.) We're headed up there within a few days to get in everyone's way and generally make nuisances of ourselves.

Also, you will all be happy, and maybe a little sad, to learn that Rocky has been adopted. I guess I should point out that the deal itself has not actually been done, since his new human isn't picking him up till Friday, but in the meantime he is back at SAF getting ready for his new life. We really miss him. But of course are glad he's going to have a permanent home. His new human seems perfect.

I also would like to mention my old comrade who is now a famous movie star. Brooke Lyons was Abbie's roommate freshman year and is a lovely human being. But forget all that! She's pretty! And in a movie with Martin Lawrence! That's what I'm talking about.

And finally, I'd like to announce a new segment on our show called "Fun with the Scanner" in which I scan stuff:

a young Sam, doing what I do best

how you know someone loves you

my parents



Fire and Ice


Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.


Robert Frost


We'll really miss you, buddy.

my second favorite poem by my favorite guy

Church Going


Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new--
Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
"Here endeth" much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for, wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation--marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these--for whom was built
This special shell? For though I've no idea
What this accoutered frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognized, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.


Philip Larkin

There's music coming soon and very soon. Sleep well in the meanwhile.

just another dog day / poem

The "Chemistry" demo still isn't completely fixed but it's been updated somewhat.

Here's another dog poem that I like. I'm amazed by how many poems are about dogs. Is it too cute? And/or getting old? But I feel like I have to use them now because he might get adopted soon. Anyway this is probably the last one. Enjoy!


Golden Retrievals


Fetch? Balls and sticks capture my attention
seconds at a time. Catch? I don't think so.
Bunny, tumbling leaf, a squirrel who's--oh
joy--actually scared. Sniff the wind, then

I'm off again: muck, pond, ditch, residue
of any thrillingly dead thing. And you?
Either you're sunk in the past, half our walk,
thinking of what you can never bring back,

or else you're off in some fog concerning
--tomorrow, is that what you call it? My work:
to unsnare time's warp (and woof!), retrieving,
my haze-headed friend, you. This shining bark,

a Zen master's bronzy gong, calls you here,
entirely, now: bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow.


Mark Doty

some joyful Tidbits

Dear Humans,

I have a couple of things to share. First, a speech Abbie made last night at 11:03 PM:

"Whooooa. Right when I unplugged that, you turned the light on. I felt like I unplugged the darkness."


And this bulletin just came in from my sister. "G" is my four going on five year old niece, Georgia.

"We just counted out 100 beads for a school project. G did the counting, and after 39 (she pronounces 'furty-nine') she asked me, 'Was that the first "furty?"' I said yes, and she said 'Furty. Furty-one. . . .'"


Here's a poem.


The Aim Was Song


Before man came to blow it right
The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
In any rough place where it caught.

Man came to tell it what was wrong:
It hadn't found the place to blow;
It blew too hard--the aim was song.
And listen--how it ought to go!

He took a little in his mouth,
And held it long enough for north
To be converted into south,
And then by measure blew it forth.

By measure. It was word and note,
The wind the wind had meant to be--
A little through the lips and throat.
The aim was song--the wind could see.


Robert Frost


And here you can see the results of an epic battle between Rocky, his rope toy, his tree (or what's left of it, which is a vertical stick right behind his shoulder), and a sunbeam.
(The sunbeam won.)

crumbs in the bed

It's been a peaceful and productive day.

Another one like that, and "we" ought to have some new tunes up here shortly.

Please feel free to leave a comment if you have any ideas about what Abbie should use her awesome new wooden box for.


The Hound


Life the hound
Equivocal
Comes at a bound
Either to rend me
Or to befriend me.
I cannot tell
The hound's intent
Till he has sprung
At my bare hand
With teeth or tongue.
Meanwhile I stand
And wait the event.


Robert Francis


It's been a peaceful and productive day.

dreaming in your philosophy

Dear People,

Lest you forget who is really the boss around here, I submit these additional images of Rocky.

He is still looking for a home. But we have our fingers crossed about a very cool couple who met with us today. They have a shepherd-mix puppy named Satchmo, who of course completely bossed Rocky around despite being five months old and about twenty pounds. We will keep you posted.

In music news, we are in touch with a producer guy, and there's really nothing to report, at least not yet, but I just wanted to say that it has been very nice to communicate with a successful industry person who seems to be a human being.

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant---
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind---


Emily Dickinson




And this is the face Rocky makes when I kiss him:

their names are called; they raise a Paw

Dear Fellow Mammals,

I'm going to share this link to Postsecret, even though probably most of you already know all about it... and even though it's one of the most popular blogs on the internet and certainly doesn't need lil' ol' me to link to it.

But for anyone who's not familiar, it's most definitely worth checking out. There's a new set of images every Sunday, so that's cool. And it's a community art project, so that's cool.

Now I'd like to share this little anecdote about our home life. My dear sweet Abbie, who is very dear and sweet, has a very funny habit of referring to me as "we" whenever she makes a request or gives a command. Let me give some examples:

Abbie: Do you think we should walk Rocky?
Translation: Please walk Rocky right now.

Abbie: We should probably call so-and-so to make some plans for this weekend.
Translation: You forgot to call so-and-so and you'd better do it right now.

And now, one of my favorite examples of all time as well as one of the most elaborate, this just happened two seconds ago. Abbie is in bed, about two steps away from the alarm clock but also nice and cozy and warm under the comforter. I am in the other room, typing the first part of this blog post.

Abbie: Sam, would you please help me remember that the alarm clock is still set, and we should turn it off before we go to sleep?
Translation: Come in here and turn the alarm off now, before you forget, because there's no way I'm getting out of this bed.

I hope all of "we" have a good night.

something rather more heartwarming

By way of apology for my earlier outburst, please enjoy this article from the New York Times about our friends in the UK continuing to gaze at their national navel.

Some of my favorite suggestions for their national motto:

Once mighty empire, slightly used
Let's discuss it down the pub
At least we're not France

forgive me: a little emotional brush-clearing

I think it's unfair to Dubya that he has to decide whether waterboarding is torture when he's never had the experience himself. Don't you?

harvester of hearts

Dear Interwebs,

We made a song. It's over on the right. You might or might not have to scroll around to find it.

It's called "Chemistry" and we hope you like it. This version will get replaced with one that has fewer screwups in the next few days. So, it's kind of a collector's item... if you're a collector of screwups.

Rocky charmed several chumps on our walk today. He's really just so very cute. At least women seem to think so. We ran far this morning, so my hope is that he sleeps for the rest of the night without too much snoring. Who knows? Tomorrow might be his last day with us.

Go look at Abbie's blog (you won't regret it).

Happy birthday to my dear father. Good night to all of you.




Nick and the Candlestick


I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb

Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish—
Christ! They are panes of ice,

A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking

Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.

Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs—

The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.



Sylvia Plath

dream load one

It was a big ol' honkin' three-day weekend over here, and we hope you can say the same. Friday especially was weird, what with Rocky's un-adoption right before the show. Thanks to all who came out for that, by the way. Then Rocky kept us up all night practicing his guard dog skillz. I spent the extra hours reliving my various errors from the concert... so that was fun.

But we're all rested up now, thanks to some naps and Rocky's mercy. As a result, I am in a position to promise that there will be a brand new tune posted on this blog tomorrow night, come heck or high water and by hook or by crook. I am not in a position to promise that it will be good. But neither am I in a position to judge - that's you.

In my few lucid hours, I've been pondering this article about morality. I know, I know. But really, click on it and take a look if you have any interest in good and evil, or why Republicans are the way they are, or why I am the way I am (possible dain bramage?).

One excerpt that I hope will entice you:

"[Here's] the favorite new sandbox for moral psychologists, a thought experiment devised by the philosophers Philippa Foot and Judith Jarvis Thomson called the Trolley Problem. On your morning walk, you see a trolley car hurtling down the track, the conductor slumped over the controls. In the path of the trolley are five men working on the track, oblivious to the danger. You are standing at a fork in the track and can pull a lever that will divert the trolley onto a spur, saving the five men. Unfortunately, the trolley would then run over a single worker who is laboring on the spur. Is it permissible to throw the switch, killing one man to save five? Almost everyone says “yes.”

"Consider now a different scene. You are on a bridge overlooking the tracks and have spotted the runaway trolley bearing down on the five workers. Now the only way to stop the trolley is to throw a heavy object in its path. And the only heavy object within reach is a fat man standing next to you. Should you throw the man off the bridge?

"Both dilemmas present you with the option of sacrificing one life to save five, and so, by the utilitarian standard of what would result in the greatest good for the greatest number, the two dilemmas are morally equivalent. But most people don’t see it that way: though they would pull the switch in the first dilemma, they would not heave the fat man in the second. When pressed for a reason, they can’t come up with anything coherent, though moral philosophers haven’t had an easy time coming up with a relevant difference, either.

"When psychologists say “most people” they usually mean “most of the two dozen sophomores who filled out a questionnaire for beer money.” But in this case it means most of the 200,000 people from a hundred countries who shared their intuitions on a Web-based experiment conducted by the psychologists Fiery Cushman and Liane Young and the biologist Marc Hauser. A difference between the acceptability of switch-pulling and man-heaving, and an inability to justify the choice, was found in respondents from Europe, Asia and North and South America; among men and women, blacks and whites, teenagers and octogenarians, Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, Christians, Jews and atheists; people with elementary-school educations and people with Ph.D.’s.

...

"But when the people were pondering a hands-off dilemma, like switching the trolley onto the spur with the single worker, the brain reacted differently: only the area involved in rational calculation stood out. Other studies have shown that neurological patients who have blunted emotions because of damage to the frontal lobes become utilitarians: they think it makes perfect sense to throw the fat man off the bridge. Together, the findings corroborate Greene’s theory that our nonutilitarian intuitions come from the victory of an emotional impulse over a cost-benefit analysis."



As I've probably mentioned to some of you, I am one of the very very few people who would flip the switch AND push the dude. Abbie, on the other hand, is one of the very very few people who would NOT flip the switch (or push the dude). She can't believe I would push him, and I can't believe she wouldn't flip the switch. But we both seem to believe what we're saying... and if so, we're both in tiny (different) minorities of the species.

Key to our successful marriage? Explanation of some of our bizarre idiosyncrasies? Or yet another symptom of some deeper weirdness? You be the judge.

But the article has other cool ideas, including some thoughts about the genetics of morality and of why liberals and conservatives don't agree but both think they're morally right (as I mentioned).

Enough of that. I hope you enjoy this brief and peaceful poem as an antidote to my long and frantic post. Good night, all y'all!




In a Station of the Metro


The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.



Ezra Pound

sorry that i lied to you

Folks,

It turns out that Rocky's still in need of a home. The SAF folks went to check out his adoptive family and didn't like the size of his yard, or the size of the fence, or the fact that there was access to the underside of the house. So the adoption was called off.

It's good that they're thorough, because when Rocky eventually gets placed, we can be sure it'll be a good place.

But I do wish they'd done their homework before they told us--because now I feel like I've messed with all y'all's emotions (in addition to messing with my own and Abbie's).

We're going to put up some more fliers tomorrow and enjoy some extra time with the boy. Keep him in mind if you know anyone who needs a fine companion.

New song coming soon I promise - it's written and we performed it tonight and we just need to record it. Rocky will undoubtedly be audible in the background.

Sweet dreams!

rocky's headed Home

Rocky got adopted. It happened all of a sudden, and I'll drop him off in the morning. This poem I offer as a tribute to the proud beast, in the hope that he will enjoy many happy years with his new family, whom we met briefly and who seem like very good people.



Walking the Dog


Two universes mosey down the street
Connected by love and a leash and nothing else.
Mostly I look at lamplight through the leaves
While he mooches along with tail up and snout down,
Getting a secret knowledge through the nose
Almost entirely hidden from my sight.

We stand while he's enraptured by a bush
Till I can't stand our standing any more
And haul him off; for our relationship
Is patience balancing to this side tug
And that side drag; a pair of symbionts
Contented not to think each other's thoughts.

What else we have in common's what he taught,
Our interest in shit. We know its every state
From steaming fresh through stink to nature's way
Of sluicing it downstreet dissolved in rain
Or drying it to dust that blows away.
We move along the street inspecting it.

His sense of it is keener far than mine,
And only when he finds the place precise
He signifies by sniffing urgently
And circles thrice about, and squats, and shits,
Whereon we both with dignity walk home
And just to show who's master I write the poem.



Howard Nemerov


We'll miss you, buddy!

not even Crying save me

Slapstick



If there are angels,
I doubt they read
our novels concerning thwarted hopes.

I'm afraid, alas,
they never touch the poems
that bear our grudges against the world.

The rantings and railings
of our plays
must drive them, I suspect,
to distraction.

Off-duty, between angelic –
i. e., inhuman – occupations,
our slapstick
from the age of silent film.

To our dirge wailers,
garment renders,
and teeth gnashers,
they prefer, I suppose,
that poor devil

who grabs the drowning man by his toupee
or, starving, devours his own shoelaces
with gusto.

From the waist up, starch and aspirations;
below, a startled mouse
runs down his trousers.
I'm sure
that's what they call real entertainment.

A crazy chase in circles
ends up pursuing the pursuer.
The light at the end of the tunnel
turns out to be tiger's eye.
A hundred disasters
mean a hundred comic somersaults
turned over a hundred abysses.

If there are angels,
they must, I hope,
find this convincing,
this merriment dangling from terror,
not even crying Save me Save me
since all of this takes place in silence.

I can even imagine
that they clap their wings
and tears run from their eyes
from laughter, if nothing else.




Wislawa Szymborska



Know that movie where the front of the house falls on Buster Keaton, except he's in exactly the right spot so that he ends up standing in the open second-story window with only his hair messed up?



According to some book, he did that, for real. No stunt man, no special effects. And of course! It's easy, right? You just measure it... and then maybe measure it again just to be sure.

But would you do it?

I admire that confidence in the laws of physics (not to mention his set builders). I think we have to celebrate these moments where the rational parts of the brain (cerebral cortex?) manage to make the stem say "uncle" at least for a moment. The results are always spectacular.

a Thing that we've never Made

We had a meeting with the family that might adopt Rocky. They were great. I am very hopeful that our boy will have a playmate (a very cute half-Pomeranian half-circus dog named Pagan) in addition to two loving humans. Nothing's set in stone yet. But at least he didn't break any of their stuff with his ridiculous tail (though it was a near thing).

Another funny speech that Abbie once made while half-asleep:

"But, there's a thing that we've never made and we have to put it in a bowl. No, it's not really a weird thing. You made the situation weird because you turned off my TV so that I sound like a freak."

Hope y'all all sleep well.

put aside the Theft

Rocky hasn't been adopted yet, but it'll probably happen within another day or two. This poem, by my favorite guy, is about a house with no dog in it.



Home is so Sad



Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.



Philip Larkin


Our little band has managed to get 1,000 plays on myspace, which means we get free lifetime memberships, a solid gold trophy shaped like an .mp3, and some radio play on the island of Nauru. Many thanks to all of you who have visited our page, especially G-lo and my sister, who have logged over 400 hours on the site by some estimates.

Having met that goal and a few other deadlines last week, we are bringing our steely focus and iron will to bear on the goal of posting a new tune before the show on Friday. Everyone grab hold of something.

what happens Outside the screen door

Good news about the proud beast.

As you can see from these poses, which he calls "attitudes of sun and showers," he's pretty much irresistible.

We have reason to hope he'll be adopted by a very loving family in the very near future.

Good and sad news.

Abbie's favorite for today:


This Is Just to Say



I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox



and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast



Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold



William Carlos Williams

for the Record

We're expanding our efforts to get Houdinky adopted with a craigslist post. Please feel free to share, of course.


10:52 PM

sam: scoot over.
abbie: no.
sam: scoot over.
abbie: you need new pajamas.
sam: what?
abbie: hmm.
sam: what did you just say?
abbie: you need the thing to help you do what needs to be done.
sam: okay.
abbie: wait.
sam: what?
abbie: did a lot just happen?
sam: um.
abbie: because i was asleep for a second there.
sam: okay.

I Wanna Piece of Date Bread

The band has some dates, and my are they tasty:

January the 18th
February the 15th
March the 14th (birthday of my beloved mother - hope she's okay with that)
April the 11th
May the 9th

If the roadtrip doesn't happen for some reason, we'll continue to play the second Friday forever after.

All these shows are at the Neutral Ground Coffeehouse in New Orleans (5110 Danneel Street) and they all start at 8 and are free.

Rocky has been escaping. I've spent most of my time with him today either scolding him, chasing him, watching him suspiciously, or building barriers against him. Plus at least a few minutes trying to think of a new nickname for him. Houdini is the only escape artist I can think of, and it doesn't mix with Rocky very well. All I get is "Houdinky."

But he's doing it because he likes to explore. It's not about being bad, at least based on how happy he is to see me when I catch him. Maybe Amerigo Vespocky? Rockgellan? Columbocky? Leave a comment on this pressing topic please.

Seriously, I'm worried about this exploratory streak. Abbie thinks he's squeezing through a tiny hole in the fence. I'm not sure that's possible and think he's leaping the fence on his newly-re-empowered legs. She thinks I'm crazy. Either way, it's bad. I'm not sure we can fix the fence without involving our landlady, who is not explicitly anti-animal but who will not be thrilled about the idea of spending money to fix his fence. And we have been putting off telling her about him since it's such a temporary arrangement (he's only been with us for two weeks, which is just plain nuts). And if I'm right and he's just jumping it... well, that's pretty nuts and unsafe, too.

Either way, it seems likely that we'll have to return him to the wonderful people at SAF sooner than we had thought.

So, again, I beg you to help us get him adopted. Surely someone knows someone who needs a wonderful, sweet, housebroken puppy who's pretty well-trained if I do say so. Drop us a line.

We're becoming those people.

So we bought Rocky a new toy today. Abbie chose it, and it made her--both of us--really happy that he loves it so much.

But he also really loves to play with rosebush branches with huge thorns. So why are we buying him toys? Gotta love capitalism.

You look into his eyes and you want to pet him and love him and hug him. And that's not enough somehow, maybe because he's still got a wild carnivorous beast somewhere down there in his DNA, and you suspect that he wants more than just food and sticks and constant belly-rubbing (all evidence to the contrary). So, as you droop in the weakness of your love, the merchant strides forward with the hilarious bauble and overmasters you.

But he really likes it though.

Also: if you can't grow one of these, why grow one?

i wish there was something i wanted as much as Rocky wants to keep playing tug of war

Thanks to my mom for today's poem, which is written from the perspective of a cockroach named archy (cockroaches don't use capital letters because they can't press shift and a letter at the same time):



the lesson of the moth



i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself

archy



Don Marquis, in archy and mehitabel, 1927





I love this last one because he's looking at Abbie. Rocky's version of multitasking: completely distracted and yet maintaining his grip.