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Happy New Year, everyone! Click through for my 'End of the 00s' piece on THE AWL, which is everything and more that I wanted to say on the subject. (Note that the 'elderberries' are, in fact, pokeberries -- my mistake! -- and the site has been a little wonky, which is why I haven't been able to leave any comments.)
Yesterday I arrived at the airport just in time to see the sun setting over the Siberian plain of the airstrip.
The planes entered and exited the scene in front of me like giant prehistoric animals. Or perhaps extraterrestrial; I thought that this is what it will be like for people in ____ years after they are living on space colonies, where they will watch the inhospitable planet beyond from behind thick sheets of glass.
But at the same time, because I was reading 'The Guermantes Way,' the third volume of Proust, my mind was also occupied by the past.
And not just 100 years ago, or the scene at the opera described by Proust; rather, I remembered the first time I read the work, perhaps ___ years ago, and how at the exact moment when I came across this scene -- in which the narrator describes several aristocrats in the boxes behind where he sits in the orchestra as if they were immortal gods living in an underwater grotto -- I had been traveling across Pennsylvania with Stephen, en route to visit his parents in Michigan. At the time he was driving, and to both pass the time and to give him a taste of Proust (with whom I was becoming increasingly enthralled), I read the scene aloud. And as I read it again now, this time silently, I could remember how my heard beat frantically, almost reverentially with a sense of discovery as this scene unfolded, and how it seemed oddly perfect -- in the way opposites sometimes do, when they are placed one against the other -- as we sped across the most remote and uninhabited portions of Pennsylvania, in the north along Route 80.
'And when I looked over toward their box, far more than on the ceiling of the theater, which was painted with lifeless allegories, it was like seeing, thanks to some miraculous break in the customary clouds, the assembly of the Gods contemplating the spectacle of mortals, beneath a red canopy, in a clear patch of light, between two pillars of heaven. My eyes studied this momentary apotheosis with a disquiet that was partly attenuated by the feeling that I was unknown to the Immortals; the Duchesse had certainly seen me once but could surely have retained no memory of that, and it did not disturb me that she should find herself so placed in her box that she could gaze down at the anonymous collection of madrepores in the orchestra, for I was happy to be dissolved in their midst; and then, at the moment in which, by virtue of the laws of refraction, the blurred outline of the protozoan with no individual existence which I was must have been reflected in the impassive current of her two blue eyes, I saw them light up: the Duchesse, goddess turned woman, and for that moment a thousand times more beautiful, raised in my direction the white-gloved hand that had been resting on the edge of the box and waved it as a sign of friendship; my eyes were met by the spontaneous incandescence and the flashing eyes of the Princesse, who had unwittingly set them ablaze merely by the movement of looking to see whom her cousin had just greeted, and the latter, who had recognized me, showered upon me the sparkling and celestial rain of her smile.'
My father turns 80 next week, but last night we -- as in my family -- held a birthday party for him in Pittsburgh. All five of his children (i.e., my and my four siblings) were there, along with handfuls of grandchildren. There was even a dog, although sadly the cats couldn't make the trip. He and my mother (who have been married 56 years) both seemed very happy. The food was good and there was lots of it, all of the strains and broken and reforged alliances that inevitably mark any family that has endured for a significant amount of time felt far away. The atmosphere was respectful and at times appropriately exuberant without being unduly nostalgic or maudlin; for a few minutes (but only a few), we traded memories of working on different aspects of the family business -- mostly manual labor and the kind of assembly-line work that served as summer jobs during our teenage years -- my father started in the 1960s and subsequently turned over to my brother and sister. There was a sense of time passing, but not too fast or too slow.
The party ended and everything was cleaned up. Everyone dispersed, back to our lives, which feel at once very near and very far removed from what they used to be so many decades ago.
After the heavy rains of the past ___ days, it was exhilarating to wake up to blue skies yesterday morning. I've noticed that New York is a city (unlike Pittsburgh) where the weather often shifts dramatically overnight, probably due to its proximity to the ocean. Regrettably, the one time I all-but-guaranteed this to happen to my visiting brother and sister-in-law, it did not, which also goes to show how New York City can offer great promise, but just as often break your heart.
Outside, all the snow had vanished, leaving only scattered debris in its wake.
There were many dead umbrellas to be found.
A flock of pigeons circled wildly overhead, but the camera couldn't focus fast enough; in a way, though, I think I prefer the blurry image, which in a way is the more accurate depiction of so much that we view in life.
Or perhaps the appeal is recognizing the contrast between the crystalline and the opaque.
As Stephen and I walked to the house, I could not shake a sense of anxiety as I considered flying to Pittsburgh the next day; I wished that it was only three hours away by car so that it would make more sense to drive.
I spent a few minutes in the garden, which had endured the snow with little apparent damage.
Already I longed for winter to be over, even as I recognized that it's less than a week old.
We returned in time to see the sunset over the bridge, which I could not help but find reassuring, as if to witness this amber light was a guarantee of equally beautiful days ahead.
Last night, I took a break from Proust to read 'Shoplifting from American Apparel,' the 2k9 novella by Tao Lin. It was slightly jarring to the extent that both works, though loosely autobiographical and by/about writers, fall at opposite ends of a certain kind of spectrum: if Proust writes about memory, emotion and the careful dissection of one's entire past in order to place it into some kind of order, Lin's work resonates with the aimless, aloof currents of a year or two of one's youth, that mostly directionless period in life when you can afford the luxury of completely surrendering to the chaos of modern life. Lin -- or 'Sam,' his alter-ego -- wanders around (both in New York City and Gainesville, usually holding an 'iced coffee'), he meets up with people who may or may not be friends, he watches bands and goes to clubs, he gets arrested for shoplifting a few times and does 'community service,' he spends time on his computer, he kisses girls but never seems too interested in sex (he seems very non-heterosexual in this respect), he spends a lot of time with his laptop. If Proust presents his entire life in the form of a seven-volume epic, Lin offers his in the flickering, washed out, kaleidoscopic images of a hallucinogenic drug trip. Stylistically, Proust's prose is -- obv -- lush and dense, whereas Lin offers short, choppy sentences that feel almost like a stream of consciousness (or perhaps, in keeping with the book, a series of blog entries).
None of this should be taken as a criticism of Lin's work (or Proust's); both seem entirely appropriate for the frames in which they are constructed. Much the way the sight of the George Washington Bridge can offer pleasure in very different kinds of weather, I found myself appreciating both writers' ability to describe small, seemingly insignificant moments with the kind of humor and detachment that had me frequently marking 'LOL' in the margins. Most intriguingly, both are obsessed with class, albeit again in very different ways: Proust is interested in the movement in and out of the French aristocracy at the start of the 20th century, whereas Lin is concerned with what might be called 'the Gawker aristocracy,' or the world of New York social media circa 2k5-2k8, in which the highest currency is internet traffic and no action is performed without implicitly asking whether or not Gawker 'will link.' With both writers, you are left with the sense that by describing these worlds, they are implicitly (or explicitly, in the case of Proust) criticizing or satirizing them, even as the writers actively participate and long for inclusion and acceptance.
Both works resonate with a sense of melancholy that -- as Lin testifies on the inside cover -- is a function of the passage of time, and the always difficult process of growing older, no matter how much one might like to pretend otherwise.
Outside it was raining, the skies were gray and the wind was blowing hard.
Umbrellas were problematic on Broadway, which acts as a something of a wind tunnel.
Almost all of the snow had melted, leaving deep puddles in the tree pits. I wondered who decided to replace one of the Belgian blocks with that shitty beige brick. Life isn't always easy for the street trees in Washington Heights, that's for sure.
But looking up, I could not deny a certain stark beauty to be found in the contrast between the bare trees and the decrepit pre-war buildings.
At the house, I admired a patch of moss that had colonized a crack in the side of the front stoop.
A fern seemed determined to outlast the snow.
Unlike me, the garden seemed very happy with the cool weather and heavy rain.
Except for maybe the bamboo, several of which had been snapped in half by the wind.
The moss-covered brick path seemed to wind into infinity.
The Hinoki Cypress shook in the relentless wind.
The red azalea also seemed happy to emerge from the snow, in which it had been completely covered for the past week.
As did the sedum.
Over the years in the garden, I've noticed (and I'm sure this won't be news to other gardeners) that snow, no matter how deep, rarely seems to bother the plants. Ice, by contrast, is far more problematic.
'Goodbye snow, see u next time.'
--a lil fern
Today we woke up late, but not late enough, apparently; we all felt very exhausted, as if we were recovering from the entire year (or perhaps decade). The sky, appropriately enough, was gray and sullen.
Stephen and I went to the house, where I found a card on the sidewalk. I turned it over with some trepidation as I considered the possibility that it held my fortune.
It probably could have been a lot worse, given that seven is generally a lucky number, although clubs tend to be a weak suit in almost any game I'm aware of.
More ominous, perhaps -- or at least annoying -- was a package that the postal carrier had seen fit to toss into the snow bank rather than deliver it through the slot. Having lived in Washington Heights for a decade has effectively destroyed any sympathy I might have once held for the U.S. Postal Service.
I felt better in the garden, however, as I observed the phlox emerging from the melting snow.
Plants are really quite optimistic when you consider what they put up with, yet always manage to strive for more -- to reach toward the water and air and light they need to survive -- no matter how weak they are. They live until they do not.
The same could not be said for the condominium development across the street, which has been abandoned for at least a year now.
Stephen and I walked down Broadway and passed an apocalyptic array of garbage.
To live in Washington Heights is to be regularly reminded of the very thin line that separates society from anarchy, and beauty from chaos.
And how -- at least as far as humanity is concerned -- it seems impossible to ever have one without the other.
Today, Christmas Eve in the Year 2009, was a bright clear day. Outside the air was warm and the light was blinding as it reflected of the streets, wet with melting snow from last week's storm.
The moon appeared faintly in the azure sky above the houses in Washington Heights.
It was a relief to step out of the light into the house, where the amber tones of sun pooled on the dark floors.
The fronts gates looked more charming than usual through the frosted glass.
Upstairs I took a shot of myself in the mirror, which I found on the street several years ago and installed into the tenants' apartment.
I contrasted this image with one that had been taken almost twenty years earlier, when I was still living in Washington, D.C. As I wrote on my tumblr: Above is the Christmas Card I sent out when I graduated from college and was living in D.C. in 1990. I had spent the afternoon walking around with my friend Brigit, who took the photo, which I made into a subtly ironic ‘holiday card’ (the first in a series I made, until the endeavor exhausted me) and sent out to friends and relatives (on whom the irony was certainly lost, which is not surprising given the limited extent to which I understood it myself at the time). When my parents ‘downsized’ a few years ago, my mother returned the card to me, and now I’m ‘deconstructing’ it with these Photoshop arrows that I’ve lately become obsessed with. When I was a child, Christmas Eve was one of my favorite days of the year, because all of my older siblings would be arriving soon from college (I was MUCH younger than all of them), and I could sit for hours in front of the Christmas tree, stretching my eyes so that the ornaments and lights would blur into a hallucinogenic kaleidoscope in which the past and future disappeared, replaced for a few seconds with the giddy bliss of anticipation.
I felt pleased by the sparseness of the room in which I stood, as if it were my mind removed of so much old clutter.
I went outside to the garden for a few minutes, where I listened to the drip of melting snow and observed the moats around the tree trunks, which seem to offer proof that these are living things, not so different than us.
Back on Broadway, the flower shop seemed busy.
I wondered if they were selling any of the potted conifers, and if so, how long they would survive.
Turning the corner, I was not enticed to purchase one of the ornaments for sale.
Upstairs, I found the cats watching the sunset.
A package arrived -- presents from my mother -- and Elektra (the youngest member of the household, after all) seemed particularly pleased as she played with the ribbon. As I watched her, I remembered a similar excitement that I used to feel on Christmas Eve, and could not help but contrast this with my life now, in which celebrations are more serene; far from regretting this, however, I felt glad, secure in the knowledge that if nothing else, I had traveled from one place to another in the course of so many years.
November 1, 1995/Montreal: The Canada shows finally came together after an arduous episode with a sleazy promoter in Toronto who managed to get us one of the four shows he had originally promised. We crossed the border in a foggy rain, sweating bullets for no reason in particular. We had heard stories of bands getting turned away, strip searched, etc., but we were reasonably well prepared. We didn't bring more than a dozen t-shirts/CDs/singles and we had a letter from Kevin at Cargo saying we had booked recording time. As it turned out, we didn't even need the letter, as the guard let us through after only a few questions. We arrived in Montreal and drove up St. Laurent to the club, where we met John from Pest 5000. When I first met him in Burlington, I thought he was nice, but goofy to the point of annoyance -- he's over 6 feet tall and he was wearing a big jumpsuit a la Devo (who I later found out is his favorite band). Now I realize that he is just enthusiastic without any cynicism, which is very refreshing. He invited us to cook dinner at his his apartment, which we did after shopping at the local grocery. We made butternut squash soup and had bread and salad. I had been feeling a little tired and under the weather, but this dinner cured me. John's girlfriend Denise was also there, and she was also very nice and interesting. They live in a tiny East Village style apartment fill with American pop culture relics; Denise, for example, collects all of the Oscar Mayer Hot Dog Car paraphernalia. After dinner, we went to the bar, called Boomerang, which was right around the corner from John's apartment. The first band that played was called Sachville, and they were a sort of county/indie band -- very good. Genevieve of Pest 5000 played violin for them. Then we played and were warmly received. We sold a number of t-shirts and records after. Finally John's band Starbean played, and they were very good, sort of Stereolab/Blonde Redhead style drums (Bruce), keyboards (Miss Kim) and John played guitar. They were very cool to watch because the drums and keyboards were in the back and John played up front. We also played foosball with Kim, which was also fun. The place was actually pretty crowded for all three bands, so we got our guarantee and John even gave us some extra money at the end of the night. The one tense moment of the night occurred after the show when some guy for no apparent reason slammed his fist down on a table in front of where we were selling merch and shattered a bottle of beer in his hand, which sprayed everything. Jennifer was convinced that a sliver of glass had flown into her eye, and there was blood all over the table when the guy got up. After the show, we all went out for pizza and then bought bagels, which people from Montreal say are better than New York's. We stayed at Pat's, who runs a little label called Derivative Records. The funniest thing about staying at Pat's was his cat Sam, who looked like Oscar the Grouch because he had just been shaved because his hair had become too tangled.
November 2/Ottawa: We got up and ate bagels, which were pretty good, but not better than New York's -- a little crispier and sweeter perhaps, but less fulfilling. After picking up our equipment at Starbean's rehearsal space, we left for Ottawa. We played at this club called Zephod's, which was sandwiched between two strip joints, but still located in a rather gentrified section of town called 'The Market.' We almost fell over when one of the guys from the first band told us that he had bought our record at the local store. The first band played at 9:00pm and had a Spacemen 3 lineup (they covered 'Revolution'). We played at 10:00pm (the cover was $1 dollar) to a decent crowd, but the people really started pouring in at 11:00 for the alternative dance party. It was fun to see all these kids dancing to the Cure, New Order, etc (along with some crap -- Green Day, etc.). The club had given us so many drink tickets that we had to give them away at the end of the night. We did an interview with the local radio station (8 watts) and then drove back to Montreal. The promoter was very enthusiastic about having us back, maybe for a festival in the spring.
November 3/Montreal: Considering we went to bed around 4:30am, Mike and I got up at a relatively early 11:30am and went running. The day was gray and overcast, but the sky was bright on the horizon, way out into the distance, as if the light were a waterfall running over the clouds above. For me the sky was particularly remarkable because I had dreamed it the previous night. We ran through the old stone buildings of McGill University and to the top of Mont Royal, where it was incredibly windy and desolate, but where we could see the entire city around us. That afternoon, we all went bowling, which was fun -- Pat and Kevin came with us. We ate dinner at a little deli right next to where I had eaten with Matt K__ and Megan the previous spring. That night we played at an art gallery and again the crowd was pretty decent and very enthusiastic. It took us about two hours to soundcheck because the sound guy didn't seem to know what he was doing. We seriously wrote parts for about four songs while we were waiting around. After the show, we went out to a bar and Mike and I got slaughtered at foosball. Then we went back to Pat's and watch a few episodes of the X-Files, which is the hot show these days. Pat asked us if we want to do a single with his label, which would be great for us. We all went to breakfast in the morning and had 'godlike potatoes' and drove back to New York. Jim almost ran out of gas. I just finished 'Of Human Bondage' by Somerset Maugham; my favorite line was at the end: America was here and now.
This morning as I walked to the subway and passed the banks of garbage-filled snow, I felt like the magic of the storm had worn off.
I was surprised to find a dollar bill mixed in among the debris; as pleased as I was, as if I were a five-year old version of myself, I almost regretted it after putting the wet bill into my pocket, where I could feel its cold dampness against my leg.
As I continued up the block, I admired the row of brownstones in the eastern light, and considered the strength of paper bills; it seemed remarkable to me that money can go through the wash and survive. There are still dozens and dozens of abandoned townhouses in Washington Heights; most are not on the market, but are stuck in some sort of bureaucratic purgatory from which they may never emerge, at least during my lifetime.
I would never call myself patriotic, but I could not deny the beauty of the light streaming through the U.S. flag attached to the fire station.
On the subway platform I was amused by the graffiti.
Suffering from a cold, I returned home early from work, in time to see the sun arcing down over Washington Heights.
The sky was made even more blue than usual by the white snow of the rooftops.
Time passed and I contemplated the end of another day, this one slightly longer than the one that had preceded it.
I had many things to do, but as I watched the bridge under the bands of color, I knew that all of them could wait.
ORDER HERE
A RADICAL NEW MYTH ABOUT SEX, FAITH, AND THOSE OF US WHO WILL NEVER DIE
A young boy wanders into the woods of Harlem and witnesses the abduction of his sister by a glowing creature. Forty years later, now working as a New York City homicide detective, Gus is assigned to a case in which he unexpectedly succumbs to a vision that Helen is still alive. To find her, he embarks on an uorthodox investigation that leads to an ancient civilization of gods and the people determined to bring them back.
In this colossal new novel from the author of The Metropolis Case, the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice collides with a new religion founded by three corporate office workers, creating something beautiful, illogical, and overwhelming. Part sex manifesto, part religious text, part Manhattan noir—with a dose of deadly serious, internet inspired satire—#gods is a sprawling inquest into the nature of faith and resistance in the modern world. With each turn of the page, #gods will leave you increasingly reborn.
Praise for #gods
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-- The New York Times
Music: Death Culture at Sea and Saturnine
Listen or download songs and records from my indie-rock past with Saturnine here and Death Culture at Sea here.
Music Video: Remembrance of Things Past
Watch the rock opera Remembrance of Things Past written and performed by Saturnine and Frances Gibson, starring Bennett Madison and Sheila McClear.
Video: The Chaos Detective
The Chaos Detective is a series about a man searching for 'identity' as he completes assignments from a mysterious organization. Watch the first episode (five parts) on YouTube.