What Halloween Makes Me Think

Two main points:

1. Fascination with otherness.

Once a year our culture, in its entirety, embraces the opportunity to be someone else. I have noticed recently that the people whose favorite holiday is halloween are people who have admitted before and bemoaned the fact that they spent a lot of time not fitting in, or belonging. What a beautiful chance to dress in the skin of the fantasied and imagined.

2. Terror and death

I think there is no better manifestation of our society's massive trembling fear of death than Halloween. Zombies, Draculas, Ghosts, Ghouls, Slutty Nurses... Children revel in getting the shit shaken out of them, Adults flock to theaters to watch the latest gore-fest/disappointing psychological fake documentary fest. Fear. We want it because we feel it because we fear death as a culture. This is probably not news to anyone but I was struck by it hard last night walking around observing the youthful scavenging of sugar bites.

(3. holy shit it's november.)

((I want to do NaNoWriMo this year but I feel that I must focus. True focus. Single-minded, neglect plenty of things, focus. Hectic Glow is on the way. And I believe in it.))

Approach.

Something is coming. Something painful; something beautiful. I don't know why I know this but I do.

It was more than just the wind tonight and more than the coy patter of rain splattering on the windows. Everybody seemed tired today. Employees, customers, strangers criss-crossing along the highway. There was a lot of caution in the way people moved and spoke. Maybe it's the crash that comes from a slavish week of work. Maybe it's the crash the comes from a long year. The veil is thinning. The veil is thinning.

Something is coming. Something painful; something beautiful. I saw it in the face of the one I love -- a teardrop. I watched that tear stretch and scrawl down her face, like a bead of liquid diamond. This morning she swerved (protected) around a shadow. Her car spun and spun and spun and spun and spun and she was protected. I am among the blessed every single day but today there is more blessing than I can grab and hold in my arms.

What is coming? 

Who Doesn't Love Lists?

Muse (In the Lights)
Ancestor Bone/Cry Devil
Riot
La Mer
Comedian, Hypnotist, Priest
The Disappearance of Arthur Frost
Hectic Glow
Greenman & the Harvest


Dan offerred to let us record some songs for free...that could be an exciting thing.

Starting somewhere.

I could write this article a few different ways.

There's the self-promotion version: If you missed this show then you missed the best thing ever!! And then, there's the honest account:

I have high expectations, always. Playing music, I have the highest expectations of not just myself or the band members but of the sound personnel and the crowd and the people running the venue and every single person involved. It isn't always rational, but it's the way of things and I rarely fight it. Did the first live performance of this new project meet my expectations? Yeah. It was exactly what I thought it would be.

Now, It's been a lot of fun working through these songs and putting them together this last month or so and it's always fun to play these songs, partly because they're new and different from anything I've played before but also because I have the fortune of knowing and being friends with good musicians. We've had fewer full band practices than is reasonable but we all believe in these songs and what they say and where they can go. All those factors, however, do not dissolve the plaque of stress and anxiety that's been sedimenting in my mind leading up to the show.

Here's a tip, bands, for your first show: don't run your own sound.

Unless you have great monitors and a friend who can watch your sound board, focus on playing music, that's it. I am not saying that our sound was bad but it added another layer of responsibility to what we were doing. We were responsible for setting up, sound-checking, not having enough time to soundcheck well and run through songs, and then perform the songs. It's really not that burdensome; it just distracts. If an instrument is too loud, or the vocal blend isn't balanced, it takes you out of the world you're creating, the energy of things. And that is often noticed.

Perhaps music should be as it has been for most of its history -- acoustic (as in no electricity). Perhaps the hunt for a powerful sound introduces a sonic element that is harder to control, convoluting what should be a natural extension of the artist. As much as I hate to boil things down to control, professional musicianship is an art of control that's a whole 'nother article.

The last thing to do, ever in a band, is to blame someone; so I'll blame myself. Shame on you, Jake, for getting so anxious and stressed about something so simple and beautiful. It is a pleasure to play music with friends, a privilege. I hope I never take it for granted. Playing in a band is much more than accurate reproduction of music. Playing in a band is more than an image and a sound. Playing in a band is creating micro-community that shares a vision and a story. Are there parts of the music we need to work on? Yeah. Are there things to celebrate about what we did? For sure. Are we going to blow minds? I believe deeply in this.

P.S. Playing in a band is also about going to La Herradura afterwards and being challenged to drink a 34 oz. Blue Moon that you'll before your 12 oz.-and-22 oz.-drinking rhythm section. 

Breathtaking

Shroud me in snow, in casket-clouds
Oh winter!
                 I am yours
The breathtaking wind blows
Silent but for the trembling
In my throat

My love took winter's hand
Winter took my love away

Fall fell too quickly
So I asked the Spring to hurry
Winter spills so thick
                                like night
Bury the world
In a suit of white

The grace of snow, stars sink
and ring around the chimney smoke
My love lay perfected
A statue draped in white-rose-petal-skin

My love took winter's name
Winter took my love away

Fall fell too quickly

So I asked the Spring to hurry

Winter spills so thick

                                like night

Bury the world 

In a suit of white

Winter's deep is undisturbed

Sleep,

Love,

Drift away.

A Loss of Understanding

Here's the deal: I am deeply confused by life at this moment.  One might ask, 'Aren't you always?"  And the correct response to that is yes, I am.  But right now I am as lost as ever.  But lost isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Lately, I have been having dreams about people I know (and don't know), and then when I wake up those people happen to appear that day.  Sometimes they're even the first people I see.

Lately, I've been writing more songs than have ever been possible for me to write in a year, all within the span of a couple months.  This excites me.  It also concerns me that every song is going to suck...which leads to the next interesting puzzle piece.

Today, just now in fact, Liz left for work and then came back immediately to deliver me a letter; there was no return address.  I opened the letter and it was addressed:  Dear Present Jake.  The content of the missive was a small collection of encouraging ideas and personal meditations.  The letter was written by Future Jake.

Now.  I am not one for too much unreasonable foolishness, so I have to wonder who actually wrote this letter.  I would love to believe that it is from my future self but I am certain that there is no hope for my handwriting, because whoever penned that letter writes neatly.  This letter brings to my attention features of myself which I, while aware of them, try to either ignore or accept as fixed structures.  Am I such a mess?

The most bewildering thing!?  Liz's Grandfather gave me his old Crown Victoria yesterday.  He gave me a car.  It was his birthday yesterday too.  How can anyone deserve such kindness and luck?  How can such a debit be repaid to the universal store of energy?  How can I live more graciously and gracefully?

This Meal brought to you by Five Points' CSA

Thai Peanut Basil Tofu w/ Garlic Green Beans and Golden Cherry Tomatoes.

For the Tofu:
2 thumbs of ginger (or just one if you're Andre the Giant)
1 big clove garlic
1 tbsp. plum vinegar**
1/3 cup tamarind juice***
1 tbsp. sesame oil
1 tbsp. brown sugar or agave
3 tbsp. peanut oil
1/3 cup peanut butter
1/4 - 1/3 cup water
1 block extra firm tofu.  (I use Twin Oaks because it's localer than other things and has a great texture.)
1 handful Basil leaves.

Sauce
THROW it all in a blender or food processor.  If you don't have either, then grate or mince the ginger, mince the garlic and whisk it all together in a bowl.  You can make that ahead of time and fridge it, or make it right before hand.

**I only have plum vinegar because it was on mad discount at Organic Food Depot.  If you don't have it, I would use rice vinegar and a little soy sauce.  Notice that there isn't any salt or soy sauce in that recipe.  That's because the plum vinegar is heavily salted, so if you don't use plum, make sure you add some sea salt or soy sauce, otherwise it might be a bit bland.

***The tamarind juice is from soaking fresh tamarind in hot water.  If using tamarind, you'll want a golf ball sized lump.  If you can't get fresh tamarind, you can get tamarind concentrate or paste at most international grocers.  Be warned though, you only need a teaspoon or so of the concentrate.  If you can't or don't want to get tamarind, it's hard to substitute but I would suggest squeezing in some fresh lime juice.

Tofu
1). SLICE the tofu like this:

2). HEAT a skillet between Low and Medium and put the slices in.  The goal is to let them heat slowly, without oil, in order to remove the excess water.  This method also can give the tofu a crispy brown crust, and again without oil.  This step can be omitted in exchange for your favorite method of preparing tofu.

3). CUT the tofu again, except this time into cubes.

Put it together
1). Throw the basil, tofu cubes and sauce in the same skillet you used before, and cook on medium high until the sauce thickens to your liking.  Yum.

(Spicy if you want) Garlic Green Beans and Tomatoes
2 cups fresh green beans
2 cups fresh cherry or grape tomatoes
1 tbsp. crushed garlic OR 2 cloves finely minced
1 tbsp. your favorite high temperature oil (peanut or canola or coconut)
1 tbsp. soy sauce
1 tsp. - 1 tbsp. crushed chili flakes or sriracha (optional but highly suggested.  just do it)

1). HEAT oil in wok or frying pan on ludicrously high setting and throw everything in.
2). COOK and stir and cook and stir until vegetables get roasty and dark colored.  When the tomatoes start bursting and their sauce bubbles, you are done!

Serve meal with basmati rice or jasmine or whatever you like.  Enjoy.

够

够
That's the Chinese word for 'enough.'  Pronounce it like 'Go!'

I don't have much to say in this entry, just thinking about the idea of enoughness.  Whatever that is.

Enough can be understand as: sufficient to meet a need or satisfy a desire.  You know that, we all do, but I am talking about the bigger 'enough.'  It comes from a Proto-Indo-European root '-nek' (to reach, to attain).

Sometimes it takes learning a word in another language to refocus and examine what the meaning really is; what is means to me.

Oh also, if you break down that chinese word into parts, here's how it goes:

句 (jù) - sentence & 多 (duo) - many.  Many sentences = enough.

Say less, mean more?

Verses

Sorry.  That last post was crazy.  I didn't mean for it to be terrible and nonsensical.  But I never mean to be either of those things.  I promise.

Today was a good day.  I've been writing a lot.  Less fiction than I'd like but enough lyrics and music to make up for it.  This music is...different.  I haven't decided yet if it's 'yeah...' different or 'oh...' different or 'hm...' different; I'll finish the songs soon and find out.

It takes me into a certain space though.  The process.  Embalming ideas in ink.  Being ready to recapture those ideas when they reanimate off the page.  Eventually they evolve, grow wings (or some other fancy metaphor for metamorphosis).  And hopefully those winged ideas migrate to their respective chord progressions in a timely manner.

I don't rush songs.  I also don't wait for 'inspiration.'  Sometimes I want to.  Sometimes, even when I love an idea so completely, I get bored with it if it doesn't do anything or go anywhere for a few months.  I stop playing it and reteach it to myself a couple seasons later.  It's not the most time effective method for songwriting but, I think, it keeps me from writing crap.

I'd like to think I'll have three or four songs done in the next week -- I may be performing at an open mic on July 7th.  I'd like to think that they'll be good songs.  I'd like to think that they'll work for Momentary Prophets even if we're dormant as a band.  I'd like to think I won't be terrified to perform alone.  Really, I just don't know any of that.  

I do know, however, that I feel a lot closer to a lot of everything when I'm right in the middle of a song.  The strings vibrating, the wood humming, my pulse syncopating against the chucking and strumming.  What a marvel that music is ours.     

Keep the Harem beatific.

"What have you been doing for the past two weeks, Jake?"  The universe asks.

"Oh,"  I look away because, "I need to think about that.  I've been pretty busy.  It'd probably be easier to tell you what I haven't been doing."  I laugh.

"Hm, like not writing your blog."  The universe doesn't laugh.

I try to gather a ropy excuse from the heap of undocumented refuse that's filled in and filled out and filled up my mine-pit skull.  I don't do a good job.  I end up focusing on the stretchy sound that the universe's
eyebrow makes as the hair (and dark matter) rise up to make a '��'.

"I thought you were taking it seriously." The universe says, imitating anyone's disappointed mom -- with perfect pitch and tone.

"I was.  I am.  I just haven't felt inspired.  I've been busy."

"Doing what exactly?"

"Working at Path.  Studying Mandarin.  Composing for Generic Theater.  Herding ideas for stories and songs.  I'm not sure where they're all going but I guess I'm the person to take them there.  And then I just got back from Wisteria yesterday.  That's where the title of this post comes from.  It's the most in-in-inside joke I can think of right now."

"None of that inspires you?"  The universes tone softens.  It reminds me of my mother.  Specifically, it reminds me of a conversation I had with her (the topic of which escapes me currently).  At one particular point in that chat I perceived in my mother a shift in her perception of me, like she realized that qualities of her son were strangers to her.

I snap out of memory, inspired by the promise of justifying myself.  "Of course everything inspires me, that's why I do it all.  I can't 'be inspired' all day though.  If all I ever do is output, output, output, I'll end up with A, an empty well, and B, spiritual dehydration."  That's right.  Take that universe.

"Is writing a blog such a labor?"

"No.  But writing isn't natural for me.  Writing is toiling.  I have to grapple with ideas just to dissipate all the wordy fog.  Expression, while something I think I could do for a living, isn't easy for me."

"Of course not.  You're not alone in that.  After all, doesn't everyone struggle with it?"


"I'm sure they do.  I mean, I know they do.  But, sometimes it's hard for me to think about anything but how hard of a time I have trying to get everything I want done."

"Life isn't fair,"  Again the universe side-steps like a mime into my mother's robe and british accent.

"Thanks for the condescension."

"Jake, don't be childish."

"Don't be motherish then."

The universe reaches for something invisible.  A fridge manifests.  The universe pries the door from its spongy seal.  "Almond milk?  Orange slices?  Cat-shaped triple chocolate cupcakes?  I call them Choco Cup Cats."  The universe stares proudly at the four faces who stare back with pious chocolate-chip eyes.

I sigh and say, "You know I have no power against chocolate."  The universe tosses one my way.  Like a proper cat it lands right side up in my palm.  "Thanks."

The disembodied fluffy head tastes good.  But I can't help but feel as though I've just been goaded into sugar happiness.  

"It's not sugar.  I used agave."  The universe dunks its cake into a tall glass of almond milk, real nonchalant, as if it hadn't just read my thoughts and then corrected them.

"Where do you even get agave?"

"Whoa Socrates, slow down."

"What?"

"Exactly."

With the Cup Cat burrowing down my esophagus, I realize how thirsty it made me.  That glass of almond milk looks really good right about now.  So white and, presumably, cold and, presumably (because it is in the universe's fridge), unlimited.  Few things are better than the security of infinite almond milk.

I think for a minute of how to ask politely but not too politely.  "I'll, uh, take you up on that almond milk too."

The universe deposits the last coal-dark nugget of cake into its mouth and drains its own glass of almond milk.  "But you wanted a Choco Cup Cat.  So that's what you got."

Are you serious?  The universe can't be serious.  "Are you serious?"  I have to ask.

"I gave you the choice.  The almond milk would have hydrated you.  The orange would have..."

"Spare me.  Spare them.  I didn't think this was going to turn into a lecture about..."

"Having the cake and eating it too?"

So funny.  But no, universe, your deadpan delivery gets no laughs.  None.

"Reminders are so bad?"

"No.  Shitty jokes are.  You made those cupcakes just so you could get me with that joke."

"They are Cup Cats.  And yes.  But not totally.  I think I could retail them.  There's a lot of cat owners out there who'd love them."

"Great.  Cat owners can give themselves treats and confuse the hell out of their cats at the same time."

"I see, you're in no mood for brainstorming or constructive criticism."  The universe reaches up and pulls the string to the lightbulb that appears simultaneously.  The fridge vanishes, leaving behind a small nest of snakeish lint and shredded leaves.  How so much collected in the span of a couple minutes?  Not worth thinking about, I decide.

"Sorry.  There's never really an excuse for negativity.  I'm just decompressing a bit.  Trying to sort myself out."

"Like usual?"  The universe smiles.  It reminds me of my mother.  Specifically, that benign grin reminds me of all the times I ever got sick, or got my heart broken, or really achieved something, and my mother was there, caring, knowing everything about me.

"Yeah.  Like usual."  I say.  I feel acutely aware of my predictability.  No, there's a better word: reliability.

(Too much?  Probably.)

"You should get to bed."  The universe says.  "Busy day tomorrow."

I laugh a little.  Mostly, because I am so predictable.

The universe recombines as the space between my fingers and the keyboard and the space between my legs and the blanket and the space between my head and the pillow.  Then the universe becomes everything again.  Which it always was.  And I feel no need to explain further.

I'm still thirsty though.  So I falling-asleep-walk to the kitchen.  I open up the fridge, hoping that Liz and I didn't down the new Almond Breeze already.  A frosty glass of almond milk poses like Superman next to siamese-twin Cup Cats who smile up at me from the plate.  There's a note:

Good Cat.

The Path stretches ever on.

Today was my first day and everybody's first day at Path Norfolk.  Those of you unfamiliar with Path Norfolk should make every attempt possible to become familiar with it.  It is a vegan restaurant.  It is a love restaurant.  It is a silly, happy, exciting, taste-bud popping restaurant.  And I get to work there.

It must have been early high school when I realized how much I loved to cook and that I wanted to have my own place some day.  While this isn't my own place, I'll be given a remarkable amount of freedom to shape and cultivate the entrée menu as time goes on.  I have so many ideas.  I'm thrumming and hopping with enthusiasm to unleash my culinary prowess on strangers.

It was a fun day.  I'll be uploading recipes and pictures soon as the experiments unfold and we get closer to perfecting the recipes which will (hopefully) be on the menu soon.

Stay tuned.  Stay hungry.  Stay with me.

Rings White Array

I essentially got hired on the spot at the Virginia Beach Trader Joe's today.  The First Mate from the Newport News store, affectionately referred to as The Todd, was manning the office.  When I asked for an application he responded:

"No shit.  You want to work here?"

It's good to have that settled, sorted out, so my breaths are a little less narrow.  I remember my last night at Trader Joe's -- two years and three days ago.  After my shift, I whistled for Shadowfax and rode into the infinte night, knowing that I'd never have to return to Trader Joe's for work.  Ever.  In my whole life.  Four hours and a pound of cherries later, I pulled into Ted's driveway  The next day we were rehearsing and preparing to record Sunflower.  What humor the universe has.  Such cleverness.  The way circles and cycles close and resume.  Surprises hop out of the horizon.  The universe asks:

"What do you know, Jake?"

"That I like surprises."  Says I.

And along those lines -- not the surprises but the manner of my soon to be source of income -- I spent an hour at a food safety class, learning a pile of food wisdom.  Magically, I was awarded a paper rectangle.

FOOD HANDLER

That's me.  It's for my fancy cooking gig at Path Norfolk.  Come eat my foods.

The food handler class was interesting but about 95% of the lecture was information that I'd seared into my head as a teenager, praying at the altar of the Food Network.  That was back when what I knew was that I would excel in culinary school and I would be a food architect and I would delight bellies and I would be a practitioner of man's longest, and grooviest, shaman tradition.  Making meals.

"Are you beginning to see a pattern, Jake?"  Asks the universe.

"I see patterns all the time."  Says I.

"Don't be cute.  Do you see this pattern?"

"Yeah yeah; I get it."

"Good."  The universe smiles and skips jauntily down the road.

"It's kind of crazy, you know?"  I jog to catch up, now a little breathless.  "How easy absolute is.  How shocking it is that changing my mind is even easier."

"It's really not that crazy.  What's actually crazy is shitting all over yourself for changing your mind.  For not being right."

"Shitting all over myself?" says I.  "Don't you think that's a bit harsh?"

"You tell me."  Replies the universe.  On it skips.  Jaunting through space-time.

Smart, smart universe.  Saying smart things.  Making me feel smart, just because it doesn't make fun of me for not getting it all right away.  Smart.  That's kind of a weird word if you look at it long enough.  Sound it out.  Really.  s.  m.  a.  r.  t.  Smart.  Anyway, so then I say to the universe:

"Where's all this going?"

"Where isn't it going?"  The universe raises a milky-way eyebrow.  Then it vanishes.

I thought long about that.  A good long think.  About as long as it took you to reach this question mark?
What?

So I didn't really think that much about the universe's question.  Because it made a lot of sense.  Something, I fear, I have now strayed from.

Ohhhh, and the whole point of this.  Sometimes people mispronounced words, rather, they get the letters and sounds a bit mushed in their mouths.  It's easy to tell where their brain is though -- already on the next word.  The teacher of the Food Handler class, who occasionally made good jokes, had this tendency.  Sometimes it's embarrassing to watch.  Other times, boring boring things become sublime and poetic and just plain interesting.

What he meant to say:

"You can thaw frozen chicken wings with hot water, as long as you cook those wings right away."

But the circuits leapfrogged and he ended that sentence with the words, rings white array.  I like that much better.

||MIDNIGHT:50||

bed.

Dreaming the Right Dreams

Today I slept in; it wasn't a choice.  I woke in the night (first time) because I was sweating.  The second time I was sweating feverishly so I yanked off my shirt -- with the same amount of grace a child-magician employs as he snatches the tablecloth from the table, breaking most things in the process.  The third time I woke may have actually been the first or second time or both of them blended together; either way I remember three distinct instances of being awake when I didn't want to be.

This morning, when Liz left, I woke suddenly, barely hearing what she had to say as she walked out the door looking luxurious and splendid in her fancy clothes.  I remember saying:

"You're leaving?"

I was shocked.  She was leaving!?  Already!?  But I had just woken...Despite my shock, I managed to soothe myself immediately back to sleep, maybe before she even left the apartment.

The next few hours were a quicksand gravity-well, spitting me out and sucking me in again and again.  I would wake, half-remembering the dream I'd just been a part of, and I would think, I want to be awake, I want to get up now.  But the blanket washed around me and the subconscious undertow dragged me down to the next scene I would scarcely remember.

After hours of that, I convinced my arm to reach for the phone/clock/reality buoy.  11:38.  Oh, come on...The frustration of sleeping three hours past my planned real world entry point was enough to get me out of bed.

I don't mind dreaming.  I love dreaming.  What I have a hard time with is slithery dream thoughts and flighty emotions (which habitually amount to the sentiment of 'it's not enough', or 'I couldn't quite make it.')  So many of my dreams, and the way they plot their course in my waking life, orbit around that 'couldn't quite make it' feeling.  My goals and aspirations amount to:

"When I can do this...When I can do that...When I am better at so and so...When this thing, that thing isn't in the way..."

It's easy some days to rise with the sun, to move and bustle like a pillar of photons.  Some days, the dreams are less mirage than they are marriage of accumulations and aspirations; I can touch them because I know them.  I know their names.  Other days, I'm sore from treading against the current, yawning through the daze of my psyche's clipped and hiccuped sound-bites.  This morning, I could hardly make sense of any single dream, waking or sleeping.  Today, everything is just too distant.

Drawing the White

Tuesdays are my favorite days.  The philosophy behind 'why?' is not sound, what's important is that today is no exception.

What I done so far:
Wrote 2000 words (of which at least fifty weren't awful), hugged gentle-clever-paws Botkins, read a post on Gabriel Robinson's blog GemForest (a connection which those in the 'Rudras-know' ought to dig), and then I got to watch this:

http://vimeo.com/24648634

This is a year and a half in the making.  The artfulness, the delicacy, the beauty that Jenna expressed with this video was enough to make tear up in FairGrounds.  Last winter, I sent out an e-mail to as many film schools as I could find, essentially volunteering the services of Momentary Prophets for any student who wished to have original and/or newly composed music for any projects they may do.  I heard back from one student; Jenna Harcher.

She lives in Savannah (soon New York) and studied at SCAD.  She is sunshine in the shape of a cat, and then wrapped in human.  She directed this video.

Co-inspiration, distance collaboration, blessed blessed emotion, thrills me today.  Anyone want to collaborate on any kind of project?  Stories?  Musics?  Food?  Interpretive Dance?  Let me know.  I need to be better at sharing.

Happy Tuesday.   

I don't know if I can make this place my home

Lyrics are strange.  Other people's words and feelings and thoughts, sometimes thorny, other times fulfilling and deeply moving.  I used to have this strange conviction -- in a former life -- that music was all that matters.  Just notes.  Immaterial tones strung together, bong-rips for the imagination.  Lyrics got in the way.

That was before.  Before a lot of things.  I write those strange things now, I purposely put them in the way of the music.  As best I can, I give it an exact meaning and hope it guides people to the images I've been personally transformed by.

Lyrics are fickle.  Like most arts and crafts, one day it's perfect in it's unpolished simplicity, the next day it's corny, obtuse, cliché.  There is too much at play cognitively to really dive into all of it now because I had a point.  Have a point.

Sometimes (and this is the strangest things about lyrics) we extract the lyrics and they mature into mantras, ideas that transcend melody, rhythm, and timbre.

I love this song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RzBM34cEyUU

When we learn to walk

Today I had a nice walk.  The walk was long.  The sun grinned the whole time.  I thought more and came closer to a conclusion in regards to what I would say, what message I'd deliver, if the whole world was listening.  I am, obviously, thinking too hard about this.

Today I did not have a nice writing session because I did not have a writing session at all.  Instead, I played a lot of guitar and came closer to understanding the mood of a new song I'm writing.  I hope I will finish that song as well as a few others before the fin du mois; next mois I may play in a local singer/songwriters showcase at Kerouac Café.  Tomorrow I will meet with the lady who books it.  It will be a good song.

This evening I had a splendid time hanging out with Skye and Gabriel and Brendan at the opening of Gabriel's art show.  Floating Island Sanctuaries. . . from what magicful corner of the universe does Gabriel import his genius?

Speaking of genius, there were several babies about:  Anita and Scotty's baby girl who smiles and dances and flirts like a bee, Brandi and Tim's baby boy who mostly screams at the humans around him but giggles gently when lowered in front of a dog's friendly face, and Liz and Jonathan's baby, who still nests in Liz's tummy awaiting the world and a name.  Liz is pretty sure she's a she.

I think I need to ask my mother when I first started walking.

||Happy Friday||

The Running of the Racoons

Today a thing occurred, the silliest thing I've heard in at least twenty-four hours...Gabriel and I were walking, conversing about vegan entrées we want to explore for Path, and as we were leaving (out the man-sized hole in the fence) we stumbled and were stumbled upon by a raccoon kit.

|| Almost 2/3 of the cerebral cortex area that is reserved for sensation is reserved for tactile sensation -- touch.  That's cool ||

The baby raccoon's eagerness to be our friend was alarming.  Not because we feared the tiny creature but because we didn't see his/her parents around and that meant that they could be hunkered down under some bush ready to torpedo our necks -- á la Monty Python and the Holy Grail rabbit.

Let's call the raccoon Sneaky-Pants.

Sneaky-Pants seemed only to want our attention and affection but I'll be honest, a small creature (rabies?) who clings incessantly to strange humanoids (starving? [and rabies]) and then follows them out of the woods into the streets then back to the woods then into a big field and then makes a heart-breaking caaaaaawwwww bark, makes me feel two things: Guilt from running away from it and. . . no, just guilt.

Sneaky-Pants was so cute.  "But he might have rabies!?"Gabriel and I reassure ourselves as we run circles to lose the furry, evolutionarily advantaged mammal.

We re-entered the bird sanctuary and saw Sneaky-Pants' two siblings watch prudishly from their perch in a bendy tree.  Careful-Pants and Gonna-Tell-Mom-Pants eventually descended and in a few minutes Gabriel and I, and the guy we met in the field who was throwing frisbees to nobody, sprinted through the bird sanctuary with a trio of galloping raccoons in hot, whiny pursuit.

We lost them in the small but tall patch of mint and milkweed.  And then Gabriel and I ran away, laughing and sweating and feeling guilty about the whole thing...

Running into people

I was asked by a friend earlier:

"If you had a chance to get one message across to the whole world, what would it be?"

Oh my god.  What kind of question is that?  A great one.

I guess I'm still thinking about it.  I was thinking about it when I left the house to go write and I was thinking about when I ran into a friend from CNU (and fellow musician) Joe Hamm.  We really don't talk much at all but we share the trajectory of being independent musicians.

He asked what I was doing and I rattled off the list of things: composing music for a play, scoring for an independent film, studying chinese, working on silly fiction stories.  He responded:

"Wow, you're really in the creative zone."  If you've heard Joe speak then you understand the enthusiasm and amazement that accompanies most of the things he says.  I was glad he said that because it gave me a distraction from the excellent and intimidating question that loomed over me.  He was right, is right.  I am in a great creative zone.  I am lucky.  How is it that I can spend so much time poring over emotional and imaginational work?

I don't start my next 'real' job until after this weekend.
Ahhhhhhhhh.
It's ok
It really is.
I will enjoy this week of unhindered jake-divides-his-day-exactly-how-he-wants time.

Maybe if I work hard enough for the next few days I can shrug off the responsibility of answering my friend's question.  Because then -- by dodging even a slight thread of responsibility -- I'll really be an artist!

Where am I?

Botkins, perfect cube Botkins. He is currently occupying the cubic space above my right shoulder, thus making him the angelic half of my conscience. As of now there is no demonic counter, so everything I write is golden and effusive and trumpet melodies at the gates of heaven.

I have had an excellent day -- as is the course for most days and all Tuesdays.

Production meeting for ENRON earlier went well. A lot of talking happened. A lot of me sitting with my arms crossed happened. For about one minute (of the 120) I talked about what I had done and would continue to do as I compose techno-bluegrass moonshined romps. It was great. I love to be around people who have ideas and creativity and who seem very important; I imagine them all to be anyway, even if they aren't.

Liz made popcorn -- vegan chili cheese popcorn victory -- and I devoured it as we soaked in some of the last episodes of Battlestar Galactica Season 3. I won't say anything, because if someone reads this some day and hasn't gotten to the end of Season 3, I would be equal in shittiness to Baltar (and that's not a spoiler.)

Now it's 11:41. I am not tired, but have filled my day with all the beautiful things I wanted. Walking, chocolate, songwriting, techno-music mosaic puzzling, Battlenerd Addictica, yogurt-infused rice, more walking, writing silly stories, stalking cat, being stalked by cat, admiring cat's spontaneous gymnastic spasms, and being with Liz. I even applied for a real job at American University. Let's have a prayer to encourage that job:

I am poor

You're less so

Jake gets job

or

Gore will flow

Not ex-VP

Not Vidal

Slice one, two,

three,

Guts will fall

I know where

You all live

It's right there

on

The website you give

You will beg

Kittens weep

Your head's an egg

I'll

crush in your sleep.

I really think that's the right vibe. Yeah, I'm gonna get that job.