"Birds on the Beach", Staten Island, 31 January 2009. Larger here.

I don't read a whole lot of music criticism or even music writing these days, but every once in a while I'll flip through some reviews or read a feature or two. But if I actually find something that makes me say, "Fuck! wow!", rest assured it was a piece written by Pitchfork writer Mark Richardson.

I have read a lot of writing on music in my life and I can say without doubt that Mark Richardson is the best music writer I've ever come across.

To be clear: there are certainly more gifted writers who cover music in their writing, and others still who are able to write about music with a grand romanticization befitting our near-desperate need to blow up life balloons with emotional helium to lift our clippers into the sky and sail us to special lands. But none of these people or anyone else are able to write about music like Mark Richardson, to talk about the sounds heard and meanings meant, and describe it all in a fashion that is simultaneously analytical, emotive, discursive, ambiguous, and personal.

I won't espouse any further on Mark's talents because he's the humble sort of man who would prefer his writing itself to speak louder than my blubbering about his royality. But let me just say that there's a reason why he's the only music critic I've ever written to directly for a reason other than to question decisions made or opinions posited.

It could be though that one of the reasons I love Mark Richardson is because his brain seems to draw many of the same connections as does my own***. Case in point: I've been going on for the past few days about the awesomeness of the lo-fi glory Real Estate and in particular their majestic track "Beach Comber"--well, sure enough, Mark has been too, as he discusses in his latest Resonant Frequency column on Pitchfork.

This article, which is actually a very uncharacteristic and atypical stitching together of "Nine Fragments on Lo-fi's Attraction to the Natural World", gets directly at the heart of the some of the ideas I was trying to get at in my post on Real Estate and others in the past few months. I love that, like with my own assessments, Mark appears clearly engaged yet still sort of fails to actually hit a nail on the head in defining what exactly is happening, and why--because sometimes you just can't get more precise than "fuzzy", even though it might still be worth talking about.

Check out all of Mark's Resonant Frequency column at Pitchfork here. A few of my personal faves are this (the first piece of his that really hit me), this, this, this, this, this, and this. Seriously, read all seven of these. I could have easily put up 1o or 15 other faves.

I fucking love this man.

Good night.

NOTES:

*** - Our lone point of genuine disagreement: Mark loves the fuck out of Bruce Springsteen, while I personally have always been disinterested in the Boss at best and a total hater at worst. But Mark is also older and, hey, no one's perfect.

LISTEN:

Santo & Johnny - "Sleepwalk"

Modest Mouse - "Sleepwalkin'", from Interstate 8 EP and Building Nothing Out of Something

Labels: heroes, music, quickthoughts, thoughts

Labels: BEAUMONT, thoughts, VICTORY

A few additional thoughts:

--Lil Beau pointed out that this Arby's must do real well if a
Chinatown bus stops there every hour every day

--It has so definitively hit the point of fall>into>winter, as
evidenced by this week's awful cold and dreariness, coupled with my
desire to listen to Joanna Newsom for the first time since last
February. Of recent years I've listened only to sophomore (superior/
mature/etc) follow-up Ys, but today I put on Milk-eyed Mender, and was
reminded both of its bucolic beauty and impish pretention. Obviously
the album title is a starter, followed by song titles like "'En
Gallop'" and "Clam, Crab, Cockle, Cowrie", but I was reminded how
nothing from this record seemed more of a don't-play-this-one-to-gain-
new-fans than "The Inflammatory Writ". Already lesser as one of the
few harpless tracks on MEM, the lyrical content alone is enough to
induce both laughs and groans--beyond said "writ" and the wry of
discussion of it, is Newsom's casual dropping of the Did She Really
Say That? stunner "poetaster". Poetaster! I'm all for encouraging
intellectualism and our mock-pursuit of "forward-movement", but the
neo-Victorian nonsense of this song is so absurd that it could easily
become (or might be already, I guess) a Steampunk procrasturbation
anthem. Only today did I bother looking up the true meaning of
poetaster, and I suppose I'm satisfied to learn it means "writer of
inferior verse". Pleasantly ironic. Love you, Jo-Jo***.

--After Joanna, I was still looking for kind of appropriately dark and
wintry bleak tunes, and ultimately turned to Modest Mouse's 1999
errata comp Building Nothing Out of Something. Beyond "Sleepwalking",
a special night time mood track that will stay with me for evermore, I
was reminded in listening to this record how absolutely no other mess
of music will ever be able to so appropriately encapsulate the
overwhelming prickly life darkness of my extended post-adolescent
depression from Age 17-22. While i was typicaly confused and depressed
from Age 12-15 as well, the 17-22 period in my life stands out as
being the real time where I thought it might be possible enough where
my near-adult brain and its capacity for "analysis"-born Weltschmerz
might actually pull me into absolute End-of-Day darkness. During all
of this time, the tunes of the three '96-99 Modest Mouse releases (and
to a lesser extent, The Moon and Antartica) played over and over in my
various Death's Head Chariots as calls to march like Wagner's
Valkyries or Morricone's "Dollars". But unlike a decision to blast the
inarguably black doom tunes of Nine Inch Nails or Slayer, there was
always just enough ambiguous hope in Modest Mouse so as not to cast me
among the world-is-over goth-wannabes. But, yes it was always
ambiguous at best, and if anything, made me feel like I was The Man in
Cormac McCarthy's The Road, constantly heading "forward" under the
cover of night down a road to who-know's-where, hoping that I might
wind up in Salvation even if I knew I'd probably just find more dark
road. The haunting strangeness of Isaac Brock's yelp-lisp, coupled
with the stark wire-guitar minimalism of the tunes and Brock's
penchant for opaquely existential wasteland lyricism added up to make
a body of work that any thinks-he's-wise future-doubtful teen could
turn play as a soundtrack for forever (for night time as much if not
more than winter). Thankfully, I've found my own place to be now,
where there is sunshine and light (albeit different and less dramatic
than the Salvation I once imagined), but it still feels weird and
powerful to return to the old MM every once in a while.

-----

And please, dear god, let this bus ride end.

NOTES:
***-- The only hanging remotely resembling a pin-up I've ever hung in
my home (certainly this one but possibly any of them) is a cut-out
from a 2006 Arthur magazine of Joanna, currently taped to my
refridgerator door. Hot nerds, please, always, forever. Also, Fuck you
Andy Samberg and Bill Callahan.

Labels: crushes, Joanna Newsom I Love You., memories, Modest Mouse, My Love Of The Imaginary West, quickthoughts, thoughts, words

To be fair, this is typically true for me of things advertising gambling, but there is something about this ad that combines
vulnerable childlike cuteness and inane absurdism (as opposed to other more creative/inspired forms of absurdism) in a way simultaneously angers and creeps me out. And then, in light of the fact that these tactics are simply a way for the government (of all groups!) to schill
regular humans out of their hard-earned dollars, you could my blood is actually boiling.

I am not sure why I hate gambling as much as I do; I know my disgust for it is clearly the root of my frustration here.

My hatred of gambling seems especially curious given my tendency toward (occasionally dangerous) risk-taking. However, I was raised by a mathematician, so on a purely calculating level i know I've never been ok with gambling because of the obviousness with which I am likely to lose. There are plenty of empty hedonistic causes like beer and nice hot meals that make better use of dollars I might not plan on saving, rather than just literally putting them in someone else's hand.

But really, If i had to guess, I think what I absolutely cannot get behind in gambling is the fact in nearly all situations there is one party preying off the weakness or poor thinking of another for (usually) monetary gain. This kind of vulturing seems to go against my
basic idea of what the human spirit should be: either helping one another, or going it alone, but never going forward by means of pushing others backwards.

By this thinking, the lottery is as a result is one of the worst kind of gambling, as the odds of winning are so terrible as to be almost nonexistent. Sure $1 or $2 isn't all that much on a one-time basis, but so many people buy tickets everyday, and some even two tickets or more. The fact that the government not only sanctions this shit but
actually is responsible for it just cuts me apart.

Labels: quicksnaps, thoughts

Labels: fucktactics, kids, plans, quickthoughts, thoughts

Labels: case studies, quickthoughts, thoughts

Labels: BEAUMONT, JB screeds, mp3, plans, quickthoughts, thoughts

[WARNING: This is one of those terrifyingly long Beaumont posts (tagged hereafter as "JB screeds"). And actually, it's two long stories, but well, I don't feel like separating them from one another. So, yes. Sorry?]

PART I: Bank of America, I Would Like To Completely Obliterate You And Demand That You Take Reverse TARP-Funding

After a wonderful and lengthy (but not long enough) visit, last week my visitor is now gone, off to see more of the world on her long, strange world tour--seriously, her voyage will last SEVENTY-SEVEN DAYS and is touching down on six countries on three continents--but I had a great weird ten days wandering around parts of the greater New York environs and amazing seeing things that I've either never seen before or saw long ago and have since taken for granted.

The whole experience last week of "time off at home" was truly fantastic, EXCEPT for one financially-related blip having to do with my entire world of funding (two bank accounts and a credit card) having been frozen due to some overzealous Bank of America "fraud preventioneering".

The issue was triggered on Monday Sept 14 when I headed with Lil Beaumont to go pick up a new bike from a girl in the heart of Bushwick. As she temporarily had only limited dollars, I agreed to cover her purchase temporarily. I went to the ATM to withdraw funds from my credit/debit card but accidentally added an extra digit in attempting to get money from my account (therefore going over the limit) and was rejected. I then attempted to withdraw the correct amount from my account on the same ATM but was again rejected. Trying once more (thinking perhaps i'd mistyped something) but this time even less funds, I was declined a third time.

I then received an automated call from Bank of America asking me to approve three potential fraud transactions, which I did, but then I immediately called the Bank to make sure that in doing so they didn't think I'd actually withdrawn any money from the account.

"Hi, thank you for calling Bank of America. I look forward to helping you today."

A rep on the phone confirmed for me that nothing had been taken out and said he'd help me make sure the fraud lock is lifted if I'd just wait a second. In the meantime though I was warned by the person on the line when asked a variety of security questions that despite having opened my account at a Fleet Bank in Saratoga Springs in 2001, my account now stated that it had been opened at Rockefeller Center in some time more recently...also apparently my "user account phone password" is "customer", which I also got wrong. I'm assuming that BofA chose this for me since I have to believe that I would have never chosen such a hilariously terrible password (I would have at least gone with "password" if I was going to go the ridiculous route). Finally, after being placed on hold, I was for a second time sent to the automated fraud removal line. I groaned--and probably shouted out loud--but went through the prompts yet again and then went home without attempting to use my card again.

After going Tuesday without using my card, on Wednesday, I went to work and managed to use the card three times as a credit card at a Duane Reade and to get food at a nearby eatery--seemingly without problems. I did not attempt to withdraw any cash from an ATM though.

Coney Island sign, from behind train station entrance

I was under the impression at this point that everything was fine, until on Thursday Mia and I went to Coney Island. Immediately after getting there I decided to get some cash so I could show her the wonders of corn dogs and fried clams (amazing honestly, being able to give someone a first experience on that stuff). However, when I attempted to withdraw $60 from my account I was given an "external decline" message and told to contact my bank. Sure enough, within minutes I received yet ANOTHER call from the automated fraud prevention line asking me to sanction potentially fraudulent activity. I did not go through the prompts this time though, and immediately hung up and dialed customer service because I was so angry that simply attempting to withdraw reasonable amounts of money from random ATMs throughout the CITY I LIVE IN would signal the "fraud preventioneers" and wanted to talk to someone immediately to straighten things out. After getting someone on the line and explaining my situation (including the desperate plea NOT to be sent again to the automated line), I was put on hold and then... sent back to the automated line.

Increasingly frantic in my desperation for dollars and annoyance at BofA bullshit, I dialed them back once again and this time insisted on speaking to a human who could help me. They finally transferred me to a "fraud prevention specialist" who said he could take care of things.

This is where things went rapidly downhill: he asked me my security word ("customer") and my social security number, fine, but then the question of the age of my account came up. He asked if my account was older than five years. Obviously it is based on what I mentioned above, but to make sure I was clear to him I said, "Yes, it is. My account was opened at a Saratoga Springs, NY Fleet Bank location in 2001 or 2002, but I have been told that it may now say Rockefeller Center and I have no idea therefore what year you have listed."

Long pause.

He then asked if I have any direct deposits set-up (yes, my work). He asked me the amount it was for. Mind you, I'm standing on a boardwalk at Coney Island starving and staring at corn dogs. I have absolutely no idea what the amounts of my direct deposit are, only that each paycheck is a slightly different amount because of my health insurance deductions.

Long pause.

He then asked if I had any regularly scheduled monthly payments (yes, credit card and a checking-to-savings swap). Did I know the exact amounts though? No.

Longest pause.

Speaking slowly, he said, "I'm sorry sir, but since you have not been able to pass the security requirements I'm going to have to ask that you go in person to a Bank of America to verify the account."

I couldn't believe it. I had more or less answered all of his questions and could provide exact detail on a variety of things he didn't ask. I then pleaded we him if there was anything else we could do to get the fraud prevention removed and he said no, and so I then asked for his BofA ID # so I could file a complaint against him and asked to speak to his supervisor. He then paused again and said hold on and then the line was disconnected. gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

So after spending about 25 minutes of me being on and off hold and answering question after question, I had accomplished nothing. Or so I thought. I called back once more, resolved to get things taken care of, only to find out that my friendly Bank of America attendee had put a lock on my account so that the only way it could be reopened would be to physically go into a Bank somewhere. Thanks a lot, dude.

Coney Island Boardwalk (near "Shoot the Freak")

Again, we were in Coney Island and my friend was just visiting. I think there may have been a bank somewhere nearby but I didn't want to waste Mia's time so I just decided to go to the one in Williamsburg when I got home. We spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon exploring, taking photos and counting the trash cans and crazy people (seriously, there are innumerable amounts of them both) and then headed back to the Burg around 3. We got home at 4 and I headed immediately to the BofA on Graham Ave expecting I had plenty of time, but sure enough, blammo, the office had closed at 4 and I was fucked, immediately, and for the next 17 hours.

Since not just one but all of my accounts were locked, I had literally no access to funds (note to anyone: here's one good reason to use multiple banks for different accounts). This wasn't inherently the end of the world, as I could certainly borrow dollars from Mia, but the next day was Friday and we planned to be gone the entire day visiting Storm King upstate and had plans again early Saturday morning--meaning that if I wanted any funds before Monday, I would need to get into a Bank of America the next morning before heading to Storm King.

Unfortunately, the lone bus to Storm King leaves each day at 10am...meaning that we needed to be there by 9:40 to ensure we would have enough time to get a ticket and make it onto the bus.... leaving us but 25 or so minutes to "make it happen" at Bank of America and then rush from the location on 44 St & 7 Av to the Port Authority bus terminal.

We woke up earlyish the next morning and began getting our stuff together before finally leaving the house (late) at 8:45. We got out of the train at 42 & 7 at 9:15 and I almost ran fullspeed to Bank of America from there. Upon entering, I quickly grabbed the attention of salesperson and relayed to her my plight.

"Ok, come with me Sir. I can help you," she said, leading me into an office. I walked in and "handed" my identification to her (which was admittedly more of a "forced my identification on her"). "Ok, great, I can help you," she said, repeating herself, "Just have a seat and let me get a representative on the phone to help you with your issue."

Scrrrrrreeeeecchhhhh! [insert phonograph needle skating across vinyl]

"Umm...," I said, "Why do you need to get someone on the phone? They told me I had to come in here so you could unlock the account and then it would be fine."

"I'm sorry sir, but actually, I'm only able to verify your identity for a representative who can help you with your issue."

At this precise moment I was torn between my rapidly increasing need to get out of the bank and over to Port Authority to catch our bus and my urge to pick up the now dialing telephone and throw it as hard as possible at the glass window behind me. Probably the intense confusion of feeling at this moment actually saved me, because rather than barking at the in-store attendant and causing her to stop what she was doing, I simply sat there, too stunned to move or say anything until the voice of yet another Bank of America phone operator cut the silence.

"Hi, thank you for calling Bank of America. I look forward to helping you today."

I then had to for the fourth time explain my situation, whereby the skeptical sounding woman then requested to speak with a BofA rep who could attest to my identity claims. I then called another attendant in, who verified I was indeed Me, and I thought it was finally over but then I heard the woman on the phone ask him for some kind of special authorization code. "Seriously?" he said, "Can't I just give my employee ID#?" No. The man left the room and was gone for a bit before finally returning a few minutes later during which time my anxiety-stricken brain began to assume that there was no way that the call wouldn't somehow be dropped and we'd have to start all over again. GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

But instead he gave her the code, handed me back the phone and we proceeded.

"Ok, Sir," the woman said, "Now I can begin to help you with your issue." Duh-what?????

"We're all set now, right?" I asked hurriedly, adding, "I'm late for a bus and need to get going."

"Sir, I need in order to assist you with this fraud-related issue I need to ask you a few security questions about your account." Stunned silence from me, followed by, "... Uh. [sigh] Ok."

"First can you please verify the following transaction..." and she proceeded to ask me about the Coney Island ATM withdrawal which I'd already verified twice to the automated teller, twice to a human on the phone, and once to the in-store bank attendant. Umm. O. ... K. ...

"Ok. Now can you please tell me what were the last three purchases made on the card and the exact amounts they were for."

.... !!!! ... !!!!

There do not exist words or punctuation to describe my feeling at that very moment. Only the knowledge that I could potentially drop the call and have to start all over again prevented me from slamming the phone repeatedly onto the table and my own face.

I drew a deep breath and spoke slowly:

"Ma'am. Wow. I honestly have NO IDEA what my last three purchases were on this card, and I definitely have no idea what the amounts were. The account has been locked for over 24 hours now and moreover, I'm not sitting in front of a computer screen where I might be able to review this information and share it with you***. In fact, I'm currently in an actual Bank of America where I was told I could come in and show my identification to prove that I am who I say I am and get this all taken care of. I'm pretty sure that I made two purchases at Duane Reade, for amounts totaling less than $20 in each purchase. But I couldn't tell you what the dollar figures were, or what the third transaction was. Please, please, stop asking me questions and let me get my money so I can go try and catch a bus that your bank seems hellbent on making me miss."

Pause.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but I need you to answer these questions in order to remove the fraud security lock from your account. Can you please tell me the amounts of these purchases?"

At this point I shouted "Hold on, one second" and then raced out of the room to the attendant standing in the hallway.

"Please, dear god," I said, "Tell this woman on the phone that I am who I say I am. I have no idea what my recent transactions were. I only know that I have done everything that should be necessary to prove my identity and that I am on the verge of missing a bus that will ruin one day out of my friend and I's vacation. Please, please help me."

The attendant then followed me into the office and put the receiver on speakerphone.

"Ma'am, this is [name], [title] of the Times Square Bank of America branch again. Mr. Beaumont has provided enough evidence to remove the fraud lock from his account. Let's please wrap this up."

It's 9:48am.

"Ok, I am just making sure that we have answered all the necessary questions. We are all set now and you may use your account immediate--- [CLICK]" I threw the phone back on the receiver and dashed out the door, grabbing Mia by the shoulder and saying, "Run!" She handed me a cigarette she'd rolled for me and we raced off toward Port Authority, whispering, "I have donuts and a New York Times" in my ear.

Ten Morals Of The Story (WITH CONVENIENT BOOKEND POINTS):
1) Fuck you Bank of America.
2) CONSIDER USING A BANK OTHER THAN BANK OF AMERICA
3) I am deprariously lackadaisical when it comes to doing things promptly or carefully, and could have easily avoided a lot of this absurdity by being on top of my shit a little more.
4) We are near the endpoint in our civilization when humans serve no purpose but to annoy each other and make babies.
5) There is already almost no way to avoid these kind of braincrushing commercial interactions.

6) For every action, there is an opposite and actual reaction.

7) Coney Island is more fun to take a visitor in the fall on a weekend when all the action is open.

8) Banks are destined to grow more and more powerful.

9) If my skin were made out of money, I could avoid these kinds of issues by shaving dead layers off into people's hands in the form of currency.
10) FUCK YOU BANK OF AMERICA. THANKS.

PART II: Storm King, After I Found You, You Provided Me With Rich Excitement And Assuaged My Feelings Of Weltschmerz

Epilogue:
After arriving at Port Authority, we tore up the stairs frantically looking for the ticket booth, and upon finding it, I attempted to bribe the woman in front of the line with a fiver to cut her (she demurred and let us pass gratis). We bought our tickets (the ticketeer had no smiles to give) and rushed over to the departure gate. When we got there the gate attendent was gone already and so we burst through the exit, just to see the bus closing its doors. I ran to the bus and banged once before the driver opened and let us on. Exhale--until two seconds later my heart dropped as I saw that every seat on the bus was taken except for two singles in the back; for a moment it suddenly occurred to me that after all this malarkey we'd have to spend a 90 minute bus ride sitting apart from each other. These fears were almost immediately allayed, however, as Mia quickly offered gummi bears (gummibärchen!) to one of the singles in exchange for his seat. Phew. Yes. Of course.

Bus booths, Newburgh Bus Terminal parking lot

Fairly Tangential Epi-epilogue:
After all of this craziness Mia and I were so relieved that we rather depariously somehow failed to exit the bus when it reached Storm King. Despite seeing a location that looked very much like what I had imagined Storm King to be, we didn't hear the driver announce anything [he was apparently using his throat and vocal cords rather than amplified microphone to broadcast his voice??] and so we didn't get off until about 15 minutes later Mia said, "Umm.... did we miss the Storm King?" We had, in fact, missed it (I'd thought since it only went there once a day that Storm King was actually the end of the line and that we wouldn't be able to miss it). The driver let us off at the Newburgh Bus Terminal, which my iPhone told me was 8.9 miles away from Storm King, and found out almost immediately from a near-laughing ticketeer that there was no "next bus to Storm King".

I burst into maniacal laughter and wandered outside for a cigarette, wondering how much a cab driver would gouge me to take us there, and how I might go about finding one. I crossed my fingers it would be less than $50. But much to my delight, upon exiting, I heard two middle-aged women on a nearby bench talking say the words "Storm" and "Museum". I wandered over to them and asked if they were by chance going to Storm King. To our luck, they were. Meaning... !!!!!! (this did not in reality merit four exclamation points). They immediately asked if I wanted to split the cab and I pumped my fist unnecessarily and sat down to enjoy my cigarette.

10-15 minutes later a yellow minivan pulls up with reggaeton BLASTING out the windows. I attempt four times to open the side door before the driver finally reaches over and throws it open.

Mia and I quickly climbed into the back and the cabbie looked at the two women as the entered and barked, "Hola. Que tal? Donde vamos?" Seriously.

He also had not turned the music down, so they looked at each other and then began shouting in English to him.

"Que Uds dicen?" he asked$. I began to see steam coming out of their ears and began attempting to communicate in pidgin Spanish, which was enough to get the car moving (but not the music lowered). For whatever reason, after everything that had happened, this situation seemed not remotely annoying but instead entirely hilarious.

The driver then began speaking muy rápidamente into his radio, asking for directions and saying something to the effect of "What the fuck is Storm King and where the fuck is it?" The women in front of us began alternating between feelings anger over the loud volume of the music and concern over the fact that the driver appeared to have absolutely no idea where he was going.

After turning around for the second time, I busted out my iPhone and pulled up directions from its Google Maps GPS%%%. I then started shouting directions while simultaneously assuring the ladies that everything would be fine and we'd be there shortly.

When we finally got there--which honestly was only about 10-15 minutes later--we got out of the car and the driver said, "Ok sí, $10, gracias."

We all looked at each other in disbelief--$10! For a nine mile trip! In NYC that would have cost a minimum of $25, and I was just expecting it would be more here. Nope. Topping it off, the women stunned me by then speaking in Spanish with the driver to arrange for him to pick them up again in the same spot at 5pm.

And then I looked ahead, and there we were, finally: Storm King. And the rest is history.

Andrew Goldsworthy Wall, Storm King Art Center

All photos by Jeffrey Beaumont (flickr.com/jeffreybeaumont)

LISTEN:

Cut Copy - "Autobahn Music", from Bright Like Neon Love

NOTES:
***-- Ok, ok. Yes, Mom, to be fair, if I balanced my checkbook like old people do, I probably could have pulled it out of my briefcase and recited the figures back to her and avoided a lot of these troubles. But it's 2009, and I feel like I don't want that to be the lesson of this whole thing. I guess I would hope it wouldn't have to come to that by now. And anyway, sheesh.
$$$--Or something like that. Paraphrasing, obviously, because I don't remember and I don't really speak Spanish.
%%%--Aside: yes, a world without cell phones would be great, but also, really: fuck that, right? Bring on the future!

Labels: BEAUMONT, deprarious, FAIL, fucktactics, JB screeds, lolgore, mp3, OLD PEOPLE MAKE IT HARD NOT TO SIGH SOMETIMES, thoughts

Labels: baseball, case studies, statistics, thoughts

Labels: BEAUMONT, biking, quickthoughts, Spoon, thoughts

Labels: quickthoughts, thoughts

Labels: books, case studies, heroes, thoughts

"I do not like the idea of happiness--it is too momentary. I would say that I was always busy and interested in something--interest has more meaning to me than the idea of happiness."

--Georgia O'Keefe

Labels: interest, quickthoughts, thoughts

Labels: bad ideas, disappointment, IMs, music, re-appraisals, thoughts

Labels: BEAUMONT, late arrivals, memories, old flames, quicksnaps, thoughts

[The following is a feat of patience wonder, since I am forced to

I am in suburban Boston now, on the South Shore visiting my
grandparents in the home in which my grandmother has spent her entire
life.

My grandparents have always been so youthful in spirit, but now they
seem to have finally grown old, and my grandfather in particular seems
to be showing his age. This is why I've come here now, and, frankly,
it's been far too long. I have so few regrets in life but among them
are that I spent far too long as a moody, self-absorbed teenager who
didn't spend enough time with his family. I can't undo the past and I
guess there's no reason to want to, but I do know that I need to try
going forward to open up more and get in better touch with the roots
of existence.

---

The first thing that hits me everytime I return to Holbrook, the town
where they live, is the deep emotional impact of my grandparents' home.

These are modest folk and their house is small and quaint. But, as is
the case with any home lived in for so long, it is filled with many
old strange things: oddities, delights, and useless curios of the
past, having been given no reason to cease taking up time and space in
the present.

Now though, so many years down, it is something else. At this point,
this house and everything in it is more "of age" than not, and it's
merely the smattered speckling of new dotting the dominating landscape
of old. Every molding, every piece of wood, every dish and knick knack
on the shelves covered in the moist layer of dust that speaks of
eternal solidification. As if, were time to stop right now, everything
would already be located in it's precise final resting place.

Also among the still ghosts of the home are the dead souls of the
yard--an old vacuum cleaner, a net for a now non-extant pool, metallic
items so old and rusted as to no longer be anything more than that.
And though I have no idea how it got here, there is even a shopping
cart, filled with matted-down leaves of who knows how many seasons.

I know that for some people even into old age there is an important
desire to clean, purge and refresh, so that even if nothing is new
there is still active circulation of old. In the homes of my family
though, we buy and we build and we use, and then we find the spot to
live eternally, a resting place for evermore. I don't think it's
because we like to dwell on the past so much as that we have little
interest in participating in ceremonial goodbyes. And so, instead, our
homes are tumoric growths, building around the past as if a tree were
growing through the living room floor.

---

Of course, lest my eyes get caught up witnessing lives poured over and
frozen in place by amber resin, my conversations here are rarely
anything short of self-aware and, lately, the macabre.

When discussing a young fuck-up in the family last night, I said that,
"I am sure that in 15 years he will seem like a very different person
and none of you will be worrying about him." To which my grandfather
responded, "Well, you'll have to figure out how to telegraph it to me
in the beyond" and my grandmother immediately chimed in, "Yes, maybe
you can have a séance to tell him!" chortling with laughter as the
words escaped her lips.

This is life, I guess, always moving forward. Laughing or not.

Labels: BEAUMONT, family, memories, old flames, thoughts