The Moth

I am writing from the toilet.

There is a moth that has now been in my bathroom for at least two days. It may have been here longer but I cannot say for sure. Since I first acknowledged its presence, it has remained in the same place: In a corner of the shower, just below the ceiling. It's not particularly light there nor is there any type of food. Yet there it stays, presumably sedentary in the hours that I am not blogging from my toilet vantage.

But as I sit here, pants pulled to not the ankles but just below the knee- why go all the way to the ankle, it's too low, it's unnecessary- I feel a wave of mortality. Here is this creature that for no seeable reason chooses to live in a corner of my ho hum bathroom, content with never flinching or even facing a new direction.

In this bug, I can see part of me. I can see parts of everyone. I see so many lives that are spent in a manner far too similar to this bug. Unchanging. Uninspired. It makes me want to cry.

Why do we sit in the corner, facing what we know, or what we've chosen to accept, waiting for the day that we die? I am no bug scientist, but I'm pretty sure the average life span of a moth is what- a week? Two weeks tops? The moth in question has squandered a significant chunk of its waking days blending into a vanilla tile. And I hate the moth for that.

The time is now, moth! The moment is upon you. I know you're just a bug and likely won't read this, but you don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. And while you can't know this in your tiny gross brain, there might not be a tomorrow. I might kill you with a towel. But what I really want to say to you is this: leave the corner. Take a chance. Fly towards the light. You'll soon be dead because of me or because of your comically-short natural life cycle. You likely don't care about life experiences because you don't have a Facebook profile to share them on, but as someone who does I implore you to venture. A life staring at the wall is hardly a life at all.

Celebrity Morph by MyHeritage

MyHeritage: Family tree - Genealogy - Celebrity

truck stops on the jazz prairie: Stewart's #415, Route 9, Queensbury

a triumph. read derek dupre.


truck stops on the jazz prairie: Stewart's #415, Route 9, Queensbury: "After selling my bike to a demented Gurkha outside the old Archive cafe, I caught the L to 8th avenue and then shot up to Port Authority on ..."

Help, I'm Alive!

Life is hard. I think the problem is that we've passed the age of milestones. Now the milestones we reach are self-described and self-prescribed (I'm a woman! I'm getting married! I lost 50 pounds with Nutrasystems!)
There is no movie fade to black. We gotta wake up and do whatever it is we did yesterday again ad naseum. I mean, we don't HAVE to but unless your the dude I'm currently reading about who lives in a teepee and kills all his own food you do. And even his life is monotonous- wake up, bathe in a freezing river, make some squirrel soup, gets to killin'. Repeat until deers start jumping in front of your bullets.
So I think that's what's catching us up and catching a lot of people up. The cycle. Maybe it's just a reprieve we need- to slip out of the spin dry for a bit, get soggy and see what else might be happening outside of the centrifuge.

This song is surprising apt in this scenario. It just happened to be playing. Look past the dubstep/electro-everything. The title I guess is what got me- "Help, I'm Alive!"

http://hypem.com/#/track/1236601/Metric+-+Help+I+m+Alive+Krusha+Remix+

Truly New Anti-Social

For the better part of my life, I've been tethered to a computer. The addiction really went into full swing during college. With the inception of that damned facebook, I was hooked. This newly acquired digital diet did two things.

What do you want first, the good news or the bad news?

Let's start light (I love leading with the positive and then cleaning up with a depressing bit of language. I feel that it makes for a surprisingly savory slice of sadness that I have such an appetite for). With the computer came creativity. I have always been someone who is compelled to create. Maybe it's because I lack the basic attention span to sit and learn. I find the act of reading incredibly pleasurable, I just wish it wasn't so damn boring. I make things because it validates me. I think that's why we all make things- to validate our existence. It's not always for other people- sometimes it is- but we create so we can step back and have a visual representation of our time spent. And as I'm not about to save anyones life as a doctor or find a loophole in court legistlation, I need to use the tools I got. Amongst those tools is the computer. With it, you can literally create anything- drawings, scripts, movies, websites, ideas. It is a piece of technology that without it, I don't know I would be the person I am today. I have a hunger to learn and to explore because of it.

Now for the down side.

The more and more we explore the human results of interacting in "social networks" the more it becomes obvious that we are no more social than before. Rather, we're detached. The majority of my closest relationships happen in the keystrokes. Dusty memories remain top-of-mind because I will occasionally receive a status update. I spend a startlingly large portion of my life living through my computer rather than living in the breathing, unplugged world. And it's sad. I don't want to feel pangs of remorse for my past relationships. I don't want to see people through the window of a screen. I don't want to be this social creature.

Talking with Grandpa

I called my grandfather the other day. I haven't talked to him in a while. He has Parkinsons and dementia so it's hard for him to talk. And it makes it hard for me to call. It's difficult to hear him in a state he so obviously has no control over. Sometimes when we talk, he's pretty good, meaning he is lucid and tells me about his surroundings, the dog, the weather. But if I call later in the day, he's usually set sail into another world. Literally. I think when the current state of mind goes, a person drifts back to the time they most cherish. For my grandfather, that was when he was on the sea with his boats.

Our recent conversation went a little something like this:

Me: Hi Grandpa
Grandpa: Oh, hello....
Me: JD, it's JD.
Grandpa: Ok
Me: How are you doing?
Grandpa: Oh, doing fine, about to set sail here pretty soon. We have dinner plans at the next port.
Me: Sounds like a great time. Is the weather right for it?
Grandpa: Should be. The water's calm.
Me: That's great. Just wanted to call to say hello. Got a new job and just started.
Grandpa: Hmmm?
Me: A new job. Just working.
Grandpa: Ok. Well I think Eve will be here soon. There is a group in San Juan we're picking up, docking down there for a week.
Me: That will be a nice trip. It's gorgeous down there.
Grandpa: Yes, what is the name of your lady friend?
Me: Liz
Grandpa: Eh?
Me: Her name is Liz.
Grandpa: Ah, well that's good...
Me: Ok, I'll let you get ready for the trip, Grandpa. Just wanted to say hello. Love you.
Grandpa: Ok, bye for now.

In the conversation, he sways back and forth from reality and foggy memory. I know I shouldn't engage him in the fantasy, but in truth this distant time he travels to sounds like a much better place than where he actually resides. He's essentially bound to his chair, very immobile. A huge man crippled by an illness that has no cure. But in his head, he is the statuesque sailor steering his boat, a full gale filling his sails. Most of my early memories of him are like this; his perfectly-placed white hair keeping its shape as we skirt across offshore swells aboard one of his many boats. He never said much when we were younger, at least not to his grandchildren. On occasion, he'd have us take the wheel of the boat in open water when an error in direction meant nothing. He'd outfit the entire family in dark Yale blue slickers with white zippers- life preservers for the children- and meander up the Connecticut coastline. A scotch in hand, he'd watch the horizon as if it might otherwise vanish without his constant vigilance. Another constant was his mouth, frozen halfway between grit and grin.

Now in the twilight of his life, I think he's back on his boat, manning the helm, heading for that horizon. Maybe he's with his whole family. Maybe he's with his wife, my grandmother, Tabby. Maybe he's by himself. But I'm glad he's back on board, navigating himself, half grit and half grin. I wish I had heard his stories when he was healthy enough to tell them, but I appreciate the chance to catch the flash of memories as he sails along.

If my mind goes, I wonder where I will return to...

Describing what a djembe is, in relation to my djembe

A djembe is an African hand drum which translated means "everyone come together". And it also happens to be what my parents thought I'd most like for my 25th birthday, which in their own way, they were right. I don't much play it as much as I pat it rhythmically. It helps me network this difficult Los Angeles landscape. Just last week I played it in a circle of sweaty bums and drug addled tweakers. They had no business cards but I'm quite sure if I venture towards the boardwalk, I can find their offices under a palm tree. 

Nico Muhly - Fast Twitchy Organs

Nico Muhly - Mothertongue- I. Archive - Abigail Fischer.