Captain Kidd & the UFOs

I just watched a bit of a program, on the Discovery or History Channel or somesuch, which documented the efforts of some researchers to uncover the wreck of the dread pirate Captain Kidd's ship.

At first, I found something charming in the zeal these men (and they were all men) brought to their hunt. Deploying expensive equipment and workingwith a largish team, I felt they must pour every cent into this wild endeavor. They must live and breathe pirate hunting at the expense of their wealth, credibility, and popularity with women. Their quest carries with it an air of childish innocence; of boyish fantasies somehow turned into reality.

But the longer I watched, the more I felt unease. There was something dishonest about the enterprise. Intellectually dishonest. The problem was that these men purported to be researchers, but went in with a predetermined result. When they found evidence on the sea floor, they immediately fit it to their preconception. Gold coins became an occasion for a hypothesis that the pirates perhaps needed to leave the ship quickly and were not able to save all their loot. There was no real evidence for this. They were looking for reasons the wreck could have been Captain Kidd's as opposed to reasons it could not. I could see the strain in the pirate-hunter's brain as he forced the find into his worldview.

Why would they operate in so counterproductive a manner? It could easily lead to incorrect labeling of the ship as Kidd's wreck. It makes better TV, for one. And for two, it is only human to want to be a part of something great. For them, greatness seems wrapped up in the romantic pirate, and their part of this greatness would be a great discovery, which would bring them renown and publicity.

I for one would be damned proud to be part of such a discovery. But I am not delusional, as these poor chaps appear dangerously close to being. I have some experience with delusional individuals, and while I can't make a positive diagnosis, I can offer this advice: be wary of anyone with an abnormal fascination with UFOs, conspiracies, or pirates.

I imagine anyone still reading at this point is thinking "But why should this bother you so much? Why take so much effort with a trivial TV show?"

I don't know. I understand others somehow tune the crap out. It's not something I can do. Commercials, for instance have a way of really upsetting me. They really piss me off. I become livid at the blatant manipulations and deceptions employed. The attacks on my self constantly flowing from the TV get way under my skin. I complain. I criticize. I rant. And I irritate anyone who happens to be watching with me far more than the commercials ever could. Most people are able to hit a mental "mute" button. It's a gift I was not given.

On second thought, go on and hunt pirate booty all ye want, ye wild-eyed romantics. As long as you're not scheming in the conference rooms of some ad agency, plotting to foist on me moisturizer and beer, I salute you. Argh.

Rising Dread in a 767

It's like getting a pen knife driven into the small of your back. Like having a gnome in your chest cavity, grinding your guts to dust. A piece of elastic around your head, slowly contracting, inching and crawling its way upward, infinitely, never snapping.

It means never again focusing your eyes tightly.
Never thinking rightly.
Never touching the moment of completion.

What's wrong with death in small doses? One might build up an immunity. Death is an event one should practice. It is epochal. One must prepare for it.

I can only hope the minute death of the cigarette drag is representative of the real thing.

Dumb Stupid Idiot

I say it over and over. You dummy. You dummy. You dummy.

I hope repeating it will have some effect and things will change finally.

One night I said it for three or four hours. Hundreds of times. I say it out loud, sometimes really loud at home. When I'm out somewhere, I say it kind of under my breath, so it's not just thinking; so it means something, but quiet enough so other people won't look at me.

So far, I still feel pretty dumb, but I know that if you try hard enough you can change. And if I try hard enough, I can change. I do want to change. I don't want to be like this forever. All stupid and ugly. I can't change how I look, but I can stop screwing stuff up so much. I might not actually get smarter, but I can stop making dumb mistakes.

The register was $22.52 short tonight, so I had to make up the difference. I'm sure I messed up the math somehow. That means if I go out this weekend, I won't be able to buy any drinks.

You dummy.

! 

Smoke

A cigarette right now would be delicious. There's an especially gnarled knot midway down my back, center-right, that pleads for it. I can almost feel the black air filling my lungs. They expand to accept the mixed blessing of the inhalation. Blood vessels dilating, even my eyes seem to relax as the rush warms over me. I feel like passing out or perhaps flying away. Little cylinder jammed between my fingers. Aura of smoke cocoons me. I lean. And then I take another drag.

And then another until I finish it, throw it on the ground, and think about when I can have another cigarette. At times, I've actually thought about the next cigarette while I'm still smoking one.

Films. Strangers on the street. Friends. Old pictures of me. All demand of me why I don't smoke anymore. By their own love of the things. By their disbelief that I, of all people, have quit.

Oh, Jesus, would I love to start again. I long to.

But I wouldn't die for one. Not now. That's the point.

And this moment of agony will pass as have the countless others I've endured since I quit months ago.

DanceDanceDance

I love to dance. The past and future both melt away under the heat of the beat. I just lose it out there on the floor. The bass is thumping, and my hips are humping! Ha!

I work on my moves at home, and then, come Saturday night, I take a shower, I put on the Brut, I put some gel in my hair, and I go over to RickRaff's in Murphysboro.

All the way over, it's like the car's filling with anticipation. I play the same mix every time, so I feel like I'm in the perfect mood. When I walk in that door, and pay my ten dollars, it's like the whole week at the gas station has been worth it for this one night. I can hear the music from the hall, I can see girls all over the place and I'm just drooling. I smell their perfume and their sweat.

Then I break out the moves and grooves I've been working on all week. Everyone usually gives me lots of space to work, and I need it, because I am out of control. I usually don't even drink because I have to drive and I want to beon the lookout in case any of the ladies in the place need a ride.

It hasn't happened yet, but if I keep it up. Keep going over to RickRaff's Big Saturday Night Breakdown, someone will go home with me.

It's bound to happen eventually, right?

To Sever Man

I've been stuck in a quagmire lately. Whether to politicize and socially engage myself, or whether to take a more distanced stance toward society.

As an artist, I am forced to question the relevance of the work I do. If only a small cadre of likeminded individuals are exposed to my work, is it of great enough value? Furthermore, my focus is sort of a fringe of a fringe. My opinions are iconoclastic, my aesthetic not shared by the masses.

And in order to do this work that is seen by few and scorned by many, I must work in a soul-sucking ad agency forty hours a week as a freelancer. If this is the life of the artist, I am not sure I want it. I can struggle forward for the next couple of decades, and slowly establish myself, and maybe, maybe if I'm lucky I'll be able to squeeze by on income from my art.

Do I love my art? Yes. The question is whether I love it enough to sacrifice giant slabs of my life to supporting it while not actually doing it. If I'm too drained for art by the time I get home, why not just sell out and get it over with already? I'm slowly becoming the average drone I've always dreaded becoming.

It's clear. It's time to leave my day job. The sad fact is that I've accrued plenty of debt on artistic missions of various sorts. And the money here is good. It's hard to turn down the money. But I must. I will...in a few months for sure.

Add to my day job dissatisfaction my nagging feeling that I could be doing more every day to make a difference. When I was growing up, I always thought I was going to be someone who would make a difference, but I'm currently on a path to becoming increasingly shallow and self-reflective. An easy thing to do in this image-insane city. And with a blog.

The problem with engaging politically is you have to deal with assholes like Tucker Carlson. People who have no interest in logic and reasoning except as a tool to serve their party masters. People who take positions and then muster their rhetorical skills to back them up. And of course, there is the great mass of people who just don't give a crap. The hate, contempt, and stupidity that courses through every public discussion is so revolting that I want to sneak off to the woods and smear portraits of the Virgin Mary with dung.

But I'm not willing to give in. It's time for a change. So I find myself contemplating the opposite of artistry: law school. Why? Because at least I would have a shot of going to work every day to do something I really cared about and believed in. I don't know how much longer I can stand waking up and hating to get out of bed.

Touch

It's been a long time. I keep a record. I can tell you it has been well over a year now. Ideally, I'd like a loving partner to hold me through the night. That's what I think about when I hug my pillow as I fall asleep. A friend. But that's ideally. I also know how unrealistic the ideal can be. How unrealistic it is. It's not like I've given up, but at this point, I'm a few stages away from that kind of fulfillment.

There hasn't been a hug. There has rarely been a close encounter in which my personal space is lightly brushed. I savor these moments as if they were deep embraces. There's no point in lying: I've never been lucky in the way of people wanting to touch me. It's the stink. My mother didn't want to touch me, though my sister was not above it from time to time.

The last time I had what I would call contact--real, undeniable, intentional contact--was last year. A Ford Escort rolled in smoking from under the hood. An older guy got out, and he looked really scared. He was kind of shaking a little bit, and his eyes were bigger than normal. I figured he must have been driving that thing a mile up the hill to the station here, with smoke pouring out of it, waiting for it to explode at any second. He got out and walked away from it as fast as his age and stature permitted, and then he just stood there, looking at it. Wearing a suit in the middle of summer, with all the excitement, he was sweating like crazy, just staring at the car, smoking away.

So I walked over, turned off the engine and popped the hood. The oil cap wasn't on and there was oil everywhere, burning up like crazy. With every crank of the pistons, the oil had been spurting all over the engine. I didn't have a cap for the guy and it was Sunday, so I filled the engine up, and duct taped over the hole, leaving a little space for pressure to escape.

The little man looked so relieved, I was sure he thought he was going to die. I don't think he could believe that I had fixed it. Before he got back into the Escort and drove away, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a green bill, puting it in my right hand. Then, keeping his hand pressed against mine, he covered the back of my hand as well, giving my hand a warm, grateful shake.

That was the last time. Sometimes, I relive that moment. I imagine the look of respect and gratefulness on his face, and I press one hand against the other.

It's maybe not the same, but I do what I can.

Fantasy Dogs

People are really weird when it comes to dogs and cats. They seem to think their pets are dolls, people, or, worse, actors in some hypercheesy fantasy world.

I would post a picture from Jean's Dog Shop's fantasy gallery , but you really should see it for yourself.