One must be pitiless about this matter of “mood.” In a sense, the writing will create the mood. If art is, as I believe it to be, a genuinely transcendental function—a means by which we rise out of limited, parochial states of mind—then it should not matter very much what states of mind or emotion we are in. Generally I’ve found this to be true: I have forced myself to begin writing when I’ve been utterly exhausted, when I’ve felt my soul as thin as a playing card, when nothing has seemed worth enduring for another five minutes … and somehow the activity of writing changes everything. Or appears to do so. Joyce said of the underlying structure of Ulysses—the Odyssean parallel and parody—that he really didn’t care whether it was plausible so long as it served as a bridge to get his “soldiers” across. Once they were across, what does it matter if the bridge collapses? One might say the same thing about the use of one’s self as a means for the writing to get written. Once the soldiers are across the stream …

Attention: Today, July 6, 2004, I hereby declare and put into writing a Life Plan. All life plans are subject to change and are for the purpose of setting forth happy daydreams of the future; not creating stressful bylaws or structure for the life in question:

[portion edited for content]

5. Move to Savannah, GA with J——, A——, B———-, J——, etc. pending availability: large house, country air, art classes at the Savannah College of Art & Design, sweet tea, beaches, “To Kill a Mockingbird,” no shoes or television, violin playing, bicycle riding, pet, general picturesque home-y and hippie living: compost and bluegrass. 

6. Move up to NYC, starve (fortunately will have salvation in excess fat on person due to large intake of delicious Southern Cuisine) and work way up as future world-saving Production Designer or such.

7. Save $ to purchase several bright yellow or camoflauge print Hummers to aid in the quick destruction of natural oil reserves, thus quickening the arrival of the pending Oil Apocalyps, whcih I want to be alive & well to witness, safe in my Hummer village where I am peacefully living as a hunter-gatherer.

8. Stop using the word “like”

On the last day of school I passed under a cloud of gnats,

they were glittering in the street lamp light

thrown like silver confetti or

bouncing like a disco ball

I walked down the hill

straight through a long strand of web,

breaking through like a finish line finish

taking part of it with me on my chin

12 weeks

2 books / week ≈ 24 books

air conditioning, hot sun, bathtub, desk chair, porch

to do my best, to get started, to get a taste, to savor, to stop when I’m not absorbed, to sample, to enjoy, to learn, to put aside for later reference (dog-ear, pencil-mark, post-it) to copy for sentence structure, to borrow, to buy.

to grossly overestimate myself:

1. Why Did I Ever by Mary Robison
2. The Balloonists by Eula Biss
3. Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto by Chuck Klosterman
4. Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
5. The Rich And The Rest Of Us: A Poverty Manifesto by Tavis Smiley & Cornel West
6. The Grey Album: Music, Shadows, Lies by Kevin Young
7. “Why Are All The Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?”: A Psychologist Explains the Development of Racial Identity by Beverly Daniel Tatum
8. Random Family by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc
9. Bossypants by Tina Fey
10. On Michael Jackson by Margo Jefferson
11. Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin
12. Living My Life by Emma Goldman
13. The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner (OR SOMETHING BY HIM)
14. Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov (finish, finally, the second half)
15. Confessions of a Pretty Lady: Stories True and Otherwise by Sandra Bernhard
16. Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned by Wells Tower
17. De Profundis by Oscar Wilde
18. Racism 101 by Nikki Giovanni
19. Ways of Staying by Kevin Bloom
20. Black Looks: Race and Representation by bell hooks

As you can see, I’m making up for some holes in my undergraduate education. As you might be able to gather, I’m reading up on race and identity. And Tina Fey. It’s summer. 

Suggestions? Want to join my book club?

Woman in beige leather jacket and purple lipstick, spotted one block west of natural foods store. Carrying one plastic bag full of children’s cereal, a half-dozen eggs, and strawberries in her left hand. Walking at a moderately steady pace, the ICPD suspects she could be as far as one mile away by now. Report called in by group of four undergraduate men, anonymous, though one could be heard calling another “bro” in the background. There is a woman at the corner of Gilbert and Washington taking her damn time in the crosswalk. ”We dont have all day!” one yelled out the open window of his four-door sedan, banging the metal side of the door with his fist. “Don’t bang your car at me,” the suspect thought, and all the parts of her body covered in the beige leather jacket swelled up with rage. “Can’t a woman cross the street at a regular pace these days?” and stopped walking mid-cross-walk, directing her gaze of pure evil at the driver, though her eyes were covered by a particularly fashionable vintage pair of black sunglasses. When the men continued to shout, she gave an inspired twirl, arms stretched, bag of natural foods picking up momentum. The strawberries clung to each other in fear. Anyone at the corner of Washington Street and South Gilbert street who witnessed the brief criminal performance, please contact the authorities at once. 

I’d only stopped blogging about it. But summer is nigh, and I made a wonderful salad last night, the desire creeps back, clutching at my fingers and forcing me to the keyboard.

Fennel, Orange & Anchovy Salad

French Lentils with Buttered Mushrooms & Soft Boiled Eggs

Sally and I watched The Last Waltz at least once a year in the five years we lived together. We watched it for its cinematic qualities; I am a fan of Martin Scorsese. We watched it for the music—of course! But most of all, we watched it for the men. In a sort of annual reaffirmation of our heterosexuality, we would turn off the lights and turn on the tube and settle into a comfortable sort of longing.

At a time when all the boys our age were imitating these men—threadbare plaid shirts, licks of hair peeking out from carefully chosen felt hats—it was just so nice to visit the original. Every year it was like a game: who would you pick?  The fantasy including, I suppose, the idea of this earlier, freer, more guaranteed sexual era. Robbie—so handsome with his sculpted cheeks and perfectly gapped front teeth. But too confident. Also never Google image search him as an older man. Take my advice. Rick—too heartbroken as he sings ‘Stagefright.’ Admittedly, something in me is attracted to the Muppet quality in Richard Manuel—especially in the bit where he imagines alternate band names (Chocolate Subway, Marshmallow Overcoat). Of course if you Google him you will discover his cocaine addiction (who didn’t) or his Grand Marnier consumption (eight bottles per day) or his eventual suicide. Of course this is part of it. It is the dark undercurrent of the film, of the time period—but the surface glitters, as do the rhinestones on Van Morrison’s velveteen jumpsuit. 

No one ever picks Garth Hudson, though the way his comb-over floats above his head indicates some larger spiritual awareness which is certainly attractive. My point is, I always choose Levon. For the blonde tendrils, for the earnest way his neck tendons express themselves under the strain of a particular harmony. For the delicate attention to each beat—shoulders shrugging as if to say: yep. Yessir. A gentleman, maybe.

Reading news obituaries online I see the word “authentic” tossed around. I mean, the man is from a place called Turkey Scratch, Arkansas. But authenticity isn’t about place or origin. It’s about attention. 

I don’t often love a concert, which is why I’m glad to have one on DVD for easy access—I can sit here in my scrunchie and watch history, I can scrutinize the faces of people in the throes of performance without leaving my couch, without breathing in the smell of someone else’s hair. If those people needed cocaine, then I need the internet. Anyway, I made it to see Sharon van Etten last month. When she sings, she hangs her head down over her guitar, focusing. Her hair hangs loose over her face like a shroud. She is a great performer. The motions reminded me of Neil Young. If it used to be called authenticity, then today we might call it “awkward.” Meaning we identify with something real in a person, meaning ‘cute.’ But awkward also implies self-consciousness, and you can’t be self-conscious to make real music. You’re not in yourself—or of yourself—when you’re really playing.

I know this for sure because I was never able to do it myself. I was always thinking of my fingers on the bow; was my pinky down? Was my elbow up? Was my chin fat squishing out over the chin rest? Were my eyes flickering at the right beat, from the score to the conductor? That’s not Beethoven. That’s not Handel. That’s not The Band.