Friday, November 01, 2002
Thoughts unbidden.
I need a tape recorder, damn it all to hell - but wait, perhaps you should allow me to explain myself. Hmm.
There was a time in the not-too-distant past when the moments betwixt work and play were of a different sort than they are now. Sandwiched as they are between the necessities of responsibility and the easy refuge of home, these are minutes & seconds spent alone with the mind, lost in the self. Whether cast as a manic, rushing morning-in-motion or an unfettered afternoon upon the city, theirs is the unequivocally American story of the commute.
Time was that I could be left alone with my thoughts, rushing upon the streets & tunnels of a different city - I was a child of mass transit, and my time was spent in motion. My thoughts were scattered and gloriously clear, and I spent them frivolously, as a rich man - foolishly unaware as I was of the value of thrift. Ideas and compositions both tiny and grand rushed about, and I would harvest them at my leisure - unconcerned about those lost as I hurtled underground.
It is a different time, and I am in a different city. The structure of my days and the minutiae of my travels upon the world have taken on a new character. I have become one of the
as the Police described,
and such has become of these moments, spent as they are upon the freeways of LA. I have lost possession of these private, fleeting glimpses into creation's seething maw - the very heart and soul of the writer's trade, the philosopher's stone of literary effort.What was inspiration has given way to defensive driving.
Yet, all is not lost. There is a glimmer of chance that I - that we all - may survive this post-industrial metamorphosis, undeserved as it is. We must move with these plastic times, matching step-for-step society's march into oblivion. If we are doomed to "slouch towards Gomorrah," as someone once put it pithily, then we shall be there to at least capture the spectacle on paper. I will use technology against technology, the movement that tries to blunt our sharp edges and pave them into an eight-lane highway; I will beat this plowshare back into a sword, and I will cut deep.
I will buy a tape recorder.
I need a tape recorder, damn it all to hell - but wait, perhaps you should allow me to explain myself. Hmm.
There was a time in the not-too-distant past when the moments betwixt work and play were of a different sort than they are now. Sandwiched as they are between the necessities of responsibility and the easy refuge of home, these are minutes & seconds spent alone with the mind, lost in the self. Whether cast as a manic, rushing morning-in-motion or an unfettered afternoon upon the city, theirs is the unequivocally American story of the commute.
Time was that I could be left alone with my thoughts, rushing upon the streets & tunnels of a different city - I was a child of mass transit, and my time was spent in motion. My thoughts were scattered and gloriously clear, and I spent them frivolously, as a rich man - foolishly unaware as I was of the value of thrift. Ideas and compositions both tiny and grand rushed about, and I would harvest them at my leisure - unconcerned about those lost as I hurtled underground.
It is a different time, and I am in a different city. The structure of my days and the minutiae of my travels upon the world have taken on a new character. I have become one of the
"...contestants in a suicidal race,"
as the Police described,
"...packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes,"
and such has become of these moments, spent as they are upon the freeways of LA. I have lost possession of these private, fleeting glimpses into creation's seething maw - the very heart and soul of the writer's trade, the philosopher's stone of literary effort.What was inspiration has given way to defensive driving.
Yet, all is not lost. There is a glimmer of chance that I - that we all - may survive this post-industrial metamorphosis, undeserved as it is. We must move with these plastic times, matching step-for-step society's march into oblivion. If we are doomed to "slouch towards Gomorrah," as someone once put it pithily, then we shall be there to at least capture the spectacle on paper. I will use technology against technology, the movement that tries to blunt our sharp edges and pave them into an eight-lane highway; I will beat this plowshare back into a sword, and I will cut deep.
I will buy a tape recorder.
[presses record] note to self: do not forget another thought; take dictation when memory just isn't enough anymore. Oh, and don't write any more high-handed blogs.
[presses stop]
[presses stop]
Beware the spirits of...heavy traffic?
Okay, so last night was All Hallows Eve. It's a very old spiritual occasion - did anyone know that? No, of course they didn't - it was Halloween, you big ninny, the night that people all over this great country get hopped up on sugar products begged from willing panhandlees whilst indulging themselves in the grand corporate marketing scheme to clothe everyone in the most expensive faux-vinyl recreation of the latest Hollywood superhero.
If I sound bitter, it's not unusual. Ask anyone, for this is my standard operating procedure. I was also stuck in Halloween traffic for two hours last night, wrestling with my manual transmission in the under-10mph flow. In my boredom, I was kept awake mainly by a seething anger, knowing that most of my time lost on the highway was being spent by someone else in a masquerade ball in Hollywood - the same someone who had, with their ilk, caused the traffic in the first place.
Did I mention that "Hollywood" sounds very much like "Halloween"? Well it does, more and more each year. What happened to All Hallows? You know, communing with nature, living among the spirits of the earth...spending time with the past instead of spending money on someone else's version of the present. Am I getting through to you people? Of course not; you don't read weblogs.
You watch TV.
This blog is dedicated to a faithful reader, plagued as she is by nursery rhymes. Hope this rant helps, and as always, thanks for reading. I will, heretofore, attempt to turn over a new leaf - no matter how I may be inspired to complain about "other things to do," at work, etc.; I will blog first, and ask questions later. After all, it's only a job - this is life.
Okay, so last night was All Hallows Eve. It's a very old spiritual occasion - did anyone know that? No, of course they didn't - it was Halloween, you big ninny, the night that people all over this great country get hopped up on sugar products begged from willing panhandlees whilst indulging themselves in the grand corporate marketing scheme to clothe everyone in the most expensive faux-vinyl recreation of the latest Hollywood superhero.
If I sound bitter, it's not unusual. Ask anyone, for this is my standard operating procedure. I was also stuck in Halloween traffic for two hours last night, wrestling with my manual transmission in the under-10mph flow. In my boredom, I was kept awake mainly by a seething anger, knowing that most of my time lost on the highway was being spent by someone else in a masquerade ball in Hollywood - the same someone who had, with their ilk, caused the traffic in the first place.
Did I mention that "Hollywood" sounds very much like "Halloween"? Well it does, more and more each year. What happened to All Hallows? You know, communing with nature, living among the spirits of the earth...spending time with the past instead of spending money on someone else's version of the present. Am I getting through to you people? Of course not; you don't read weblogs.
You watch TV.
This blog is dedicated to a faithful reader, plagued as she is by nursery rhymes. Hope this rant helps, and as always, thanks for reading. I will, heretofore, attempt to turn over a new leaf - no matter how I may be inspired to complain about "other things to do," at work, etc.; I will blog first, and ask questions later. After all, it's only a job - this is life.
Monday, October 28, 2002
Last night I had the strangest dream.
Fueled as it was by a late-afternoon encore presentation of "Footloose", one can imagine why it was filled with music. And, what music - not only high-fidelity reproductions of common favorites, faithful to the last note; this subconscious reverie also included original compositions, never before heard by the ear. Does this happen to everyone? Very, very strange - and not a drop of it left in my waking memory. Damn.
But there was something else - many such somethings, in fact. There were people, lots of them; some I knew, some I didn't, but they were not mere extras in this production - they were all players, with full and complete personalities. These people met in strange juxtapositions of place and time: past & present, and possibly future, as some persons were unmistakably - and tantalizingly - unknown to me as yet. Most curious.
One wonders what messages were lost during waking from such a prescient experience. Damn the early sunrise!
Fueled as it was by a late-afternoon encore presentation of "Footloose", one can imagine why it was filled with music. And, what music - not only high-fidelity reproductions of common favorites, faithful to the last note; this subconscious reverie also included original compositions, never before heard by the ear. Does this happen to everyone? Very, very strange - and not a drop of it left in my waking memory. Damn.
But there was something else - many such somethings, in fact. There were people, lots of them; some I knew, some I didn't, but they were not mere extras in this production - they were all players, with full and complete personalities. These people met in strange juxtapositions of place and time: past & present, and possibly future, as some persons were unmistakably - and tantalizingly - unknown to me as yet. Most curious.
One wonders what messages were lost during waking from such a prescient experience. Damn the early sunrise!