Thirty-One Days in March (Part 1)

I’m sure you are all aware of Project 365 or some variant of by now.  The premise is to take a single photograph everyday for a year so as to gain a better insight into who you really are.  I’m guessing I don’t have the attention span to keep this self-indulgent nonsense up for even a month much less a whole year, but I’m going to try a month.  (This would be the side project I mentioned in the last blog.) It’s an interesting idea and I’m never one to shy away from a self-discovery proposition.  Plus, as observant as I like to think I am, I’m not sure what it is that I actually do see everyday.  I’ve certainly managed to somehow not see a whole helluva lot of what was right in front of my eyes at times.  Maybe I’ve only seen what I wanted to.  Maybe I haven't seen anything at all.  It’s hard to say at this point.  Not really sure what I hope to realize, if anything, by doing this but I think it's a worthwhile exercise.  Besides, I think I've come to rely on the written word far too heavily as of late.  Without further ado, thirty-one days in March:

Friday – 01 March 2013    

This is at the on-ramp to I-85 from MLK.  I see it every morning of every day of every week.  There’s a structured smoothness to it that soothes me before I jump into my day.

Saturday – 02 March 2013

  

Vickery Creek slips through the hollow behind my office silent most days.  Today it was rolling, as usual after a heavy rain.  I’m still not sure why I went into the office today.  This pic is about all I got out of it but that's okay I guess.

Sunday – 03 March 2013

There is nothing in this world that makes my sweet Belle happier than chasing that dirty old ball.  Today was cold but sunny in the afternoon, so we both got some much needed outside time.  She's dedicated and devoted to that thing in a way that I don't fully understand.  I think I could learn a thing or two from that dog.  

Monday – 04 March 2013

I snapped this pic between sets at The Tabernacle.  Dropkick Murphys were incredible and there was an epic pit (that I witnessed safely from the balcony!).  I've never seen a bad show here and tonight was no different.  Old Man Markley, the bluegrass punk opener deserves some more attention as well.  

Tuesday – 05 March 2013

Night (2) at The Tabernacle afforded me a glimpse into a couple of bands I wasn't overly familiar with: Between The Buried and Me and Coheed and Cambria.  I've been a casual Coheed fan for a while but have never seen them live.  It was awesome: angst, guitars, crowd surfing.  Well aware of my age and propensity to freak out in enclosed spaces I again witnessed this phenomenon safely from the balcony.  I left in a haze.  Today was my birthday but I've obsessed about that enough lately.

Wednesday – 06 March 2013

After the last two high-energy shows, I was exhausted.  Tristan Prettyman at Terminal West was (should have been) the perfect antidote to unfunk me.  Super-chill, intimate setting, great show.  In spite of all that I was all twisted up inside after.  Go figure.

Thursday – 07 March 2013

I took the rest of the week off after my birthday.  I made a bit of art, but I made more of a mess than anything.  Most of my time off thus far has been spent wondering why I've taken the time off in the first place as I wander around the city.  I happened upon the Krog Street tunnel today – what an exceptional piece of community art.  I took this awkward (at best) photo today and it doesn't begin to capture the feeling I have when I'm in this space.  The best part is that the art changes almost daily it seems. It's constantly evolving, but guerrilla art at it's finest is always on display at this Atlanta institution.  I forget sometimes how the random can inform my everyday.

Friday – 08 March 2013

The High Museum is my safe place.  If I'm off-center in anyway, nothing helps right my mental ship like spending a couple hours with my buddies on the 3rd floor; Katz, Richter, Rauschenberg, Rothko et al.  There is a great exhibition here now of Frida Khalo and Diego Rivera's work.  Not really my style, but theirs is a fascinating story and the extent of the work shown is huge.  I highly recommend a visit.  One programming note – Friday is apparently school field trip day so avoid at all costs. What's worse than a gallery filled with (300) raucous kids who don't understand and / or care about art?  Nothing.

Saturday – 09 March 2013

I love my neighborhood! There was a Living Walls event in the village today. Living Walls is an Atlanta-based non-profit that "seeks to promote, educate, and change perspectives toward public space in our communities via street art"...basically to give credence to the often frowned upon incredible beauty of graffiti. I've seen all the new pieces so today was honestly little more than an excuse to hang out with good friends, check out the new bar (and a few old ones), be irresponsible in the sunshine and forget about the night previous.  That's what Saturdays are for, right?  Not the best course of action as it turns out.

Sunday – 10 March 2013

Today was another stunning Chamber of Commerce day in the ATL.  Kinda off kilter for me, it sucked if I'm honest – best part, by far was the sweet tea, brisket and cornbread I had for lunch at Daddy D'z.

Monday – 11 March 2013

Before the rains this afternoon, I had lunch with this little guy.  The conversation stalled when his buddies showed up and the sandwich scraps ran out, but an enjoyable talk nonetheless.  The lesson here I think is to try to find the positive, sunshiney, beauty in every cloudy day.  Moments of clarity like these are fleeting and have too often only been tiny points of light in my dark cloud of cynicism.  At the end of the day I feel better than I have in weeks and the credit for that is not owed to this dumb goose.

Tuesday – 12 March 2013

After the rain yesterday, this was a welcomed, beautiful site this morning.  The state capital really is a stunning building in a perfect morning light.  I'm glad the light was perfect this morning and I'm glad I was there to see it; I'm not sure I've ever really noticed it before, but I think I will from now on.  

Wednesday – 13 March 2013

I was in Denver for a project site visit today.  Construction looks great.  Leaving the site this afternoon a flurry of activity caught my eye.  Prairie dogs!  There were prairie dog towns on every patch of open land everywhere I looked, like hundreds of little blonde Maynards running around the high desert (looking for strippers and cocaine).  It was glorious.  And a perfect distraction from my day.   

Thursday – 14 March 2013

I took this on my second day in Denver from the roof of the building I'm doing.  This pic doesn't capture the breathtaking natural beauty of the Rocky Mountains; you really have to see it.  I can't describe in words how being in the immense expanses of open space in this part of the country makes me feel.  The sky seems so much bigger and bluer. The sun shines brighter.  It's weird.  I like it.

Friday – 15 March 2013

Back at home.  Friday night.  Cold beverage.  Dogs at my feet.  Front porch.  Perfect sunset. Awesome.



I'm not sure that I'm embracing or even understand the true spirit of this endeavor.  But hey, I've made it this far so I don't see any reason to turn back now.  I will reserve my full judgement until I'm finished with the rest of the month, but I think maybe the takeaway will be to stop being a little bitch.  My life doesn't suck.

Stay tuned...

Too Fast On The Downhill

This song Skateboard has been stuck in my head for the last twenty-four hours for some reason.  I looked it up this morning just to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind and it is in fact a song.  I remember it well.  I remember vividly my brother’s faded beige Jefferson Starship cassette that I would steal and listen to again and again.  Hearing it this morning brought back an unexpected flood of memories I had forgotten. 

For a while in the late seventies, my family and I lived in a sleepy little town named Cardwell in the southeastern corner of Missouri, the “boot heel” as it were.  When I say sleepy, I mean it – dirt streets sleepy.  It was probably slightly larger then but as of the 2010 census the population numbered (713) souls.  I’m not sure how long we lived there or how many houses we lived in but I remember at least three.  I remember my dad turning (36) years old there and what a big deal that seemed to be for him at the time.  I learned to read in the second house even though I had told my teacher I would not.  I remember pretending to be sick so I wouldn't have to go to class and how embarrassing it was that I couldn't read.  I remember telling her that she should just go help someone else because "I wasn’t going to need reading" in my life…that’s ridiculous.  

I remember the taste of that red dirt and the way the wind would blow it down the streets and stain the green grass and the white houses.  I remember going to old man Emmet’s hamburger stand and those greasy hamburgers with the diced onions.  To this day, the best burger I’ve ever had.  I remember crossing the St. Francis River and driving into Paragould, Arkansas on rare occasions.  There was a little shack of a house, either on an island or the banks of that river with goats.  The highlight of my day was seeing those stupid goats.

There was a band, or at least members of, that sprang out of this little nowhere that you have forgotten about called The Kentucky Headhunters.  They filmed parts of this video in Cardwell.  I’m fairly certain that my dad baptized the bass player, Doug Phelps, but I might be imagining that.  (He’s the one in the Southland Rebels basketball jersey in the video.)  Sheryl Crow grew up a little north of here up 412 in Kennett. 

 

I remember building the church where my old man preached with the rest of the devoted congregation and hiding from thunderstorms under the carport and walking long rows of cotton and climbing wagons in muddy barn yards and tying my shoes for the first time and John Dudley's hound dog.  I remember going to the “gym” with my mom and all the other moms and those exercise machines with the vibrating belts.  I remember helping my brother and his friends try to build a guillotine for a school project and being the obstacle over which they would jump with their bicycles.  So wanting to hang out with my cooler, older brother was I that I would actually lie down face up on the ground and let them jump over me.  The sight and zing of those spinning wheels right in front of my eyes is forever tattooed in my memory.  I remember falling asleep on the kitchen floor and waking up and watching Saturday Night Live when I should have been in bed.

I wish I could go back there.  Not to visit so much as to start over maybe.  I wish I could go back to those hot steamy summer days sitting under that mimosa tree in Ms. Diggs’ front yard and be a little kid again.  Maybe ride my bike out to Red Devil Ditch and hunt for crawdads or frogs.  I wish I still had that empty ice cream container with the rusty wire handle and I could go collect worms and things. 

I’ve been a little bit out of control lately. Maybe this side project I’ve been working on will put me back in check.  Meantime, I’ve got a block party to attend.  There's supposed to be art.  

“Too fast on the downhill…faster than I can go…”

(41) Candles

I’ve been on this earth as a human life form for (41) years plus a day or two.  I’m likely way past halftime considering the manner in which I chose to occupy this body.  Not much I can do about that now, is there?  The negative fibers that bounce around inside think about the possibility of making a proper wooden box to lay these old bones down in someday.  The realist in me knows that I will never be put in the ground.  Just so that there is a written record of it having been said, I would prefer that my ashes be scattered into the wind or a swiftly moving body of water.  So if there is a box I should make in prep for my passing it should be a little smaller I guess. 

That’s all very morbid, no?  I don’t think I’m going anywhere but it’s a helluva thing to blow out (41) fictitious candles on an imaginary cake that no one baked for you on your birthday.  That’s a bed of my own making, yes; but that doesn’t make it suck less. I suppose it's normal to be somewhat morose around one's birthday after some point.  And yes, there has been a lot of happy in my life but I’m consumed by the void that still exists.  I’m consumed by “what if”.  At this point, I know it’s me and it always has been.  I’ve seemingly always been the one to fuck up the opportunity.  I’ve made a living doing it – hell I’ve created an empire plying my trade.  So am I shocked that at (41) + a few hours I’m alone on a Thursday morning?  Not really, I guess.     

On this night, I know what I’ve got; (2) dogs who love me and a soft bed inside of a house I love that me and the bank own.  There's obviously more to that list, but that's where I am right now.  I warm my hands on the heat of my (41) candles and know that tomorrow is a new day.  A new day and a new opportunity for me to make (41) mean something.

In a Beech on a Monday

Across the street from the Atlanta Rowing Club Boathouse on Azalea, there’s a little park next to the Chattahoochee – it’s little more than a parking lot and a few picnic tables but it will do in a pinch.  Today, as I often do I went there to eat lunch, shake off Monday morning and watch the geese goose about or whatever it is that geese do.  There are several perplexing oddities about what I observe while working in the suburbs. Not the least of which is the inordinate amount of people who seem to have little else to do than to stroll along the banks of a muddy river in wind suits on a cloudy Monday.  If the setting were changed (say to my neighborhood) such a set of humans would be deemed shiftless and ne'er-do-well no doubt.  Perception is all a matter of perspective I suppose.

Speaking of perspective, I’m sure you’ve noticed the magnificent contrast of beige-white Beech fringe against the harsh edge of this winter’s grey coat.  If you haven’t, you should.  You’ll spot them usually along a river, nestled in the low damp earth or clustered against the northern slope of a tall hill and always in the protective shade of a mature tree canopy.  Their apparitional leaves dance decisively among the stark, bitter branches of their less organized neighbors, laughing at the frozen season.  Not all Beech keep their leaves through the winter – only the young and kind of pissed off ones, I think.  I dig that.  Even in nature, attitude can win the day, right?  If you’ve seen them, you know what I mean.  They are the last ones standing so to speak, at least as it pertains to leaf retention.  It’s a big defiant ‘f@&% you’ to winter.  If you listen closely, you can hear them silently scream, “really?”  “they’re mine, I’m keepin’ ‘em…”, with a tilted brim and a nervous branch on the 9 mm (at least in my imagination).  Not sure why I felt the need to force the natural world through a Boyz n the Hood filter, but if you can see past that you can see the deeper metaphor I hope. 

It’s only this time of year that I notice them at all actually.  It’s only when the blistered sky falls such as it has today that I am conscious of their screaming, “look at me!” I don’t recognize how beautiful they are in the early fall when their deep easy dies down to gold and then fades to a soft leathered brass.  That’s really when they are their most stunning; but it’s still too hot to hike comfortably in late October.  There’s still too much green around to appreciate the difference – the distinction between their leafy darkness and the lightness of their silvery smooth barked hosts.

A day like today’s overcast nonsense certainly isn’t the finest venue to understand what I’m trying to say.  But on a day like today if you sit still long enough and put your mind in the right place, you can honestly almost hear Thelonius Monk whisper to John Coltrane…”something really cool…”  as the breeze bangs into and among them.  And still, the best of ever is witnessing these all but dead beauties bathing in the crispness of a cloudless winter sun.  That aforementioned white-beige on a cloudy day becomes a glowing cathedral of torch-lit brilliance in low February sunshine.  Without their willful insolence to hold on to whatever they can until springtime reinforcements return to push their dead away, winter would suck more than it already does.

That “deeper metaphor” that I mentioned earlier?  Every night will pass.  As cold and hoary as winter can be, if your eyes are open you can always perceive the promise of an original spring somewhere around the corner.  You just have to know where to look.  Today I saw it in a Beech on a Monday next to the soft muddy banks of a simple river meandering through a sleepy suburb.

inside white

hands

hover over a frozen keyboard

            fictitious

                        swollen

                                    with anticipatory nonsense about whatever

day it might have been before

            the sun chose to bounce

soundtrack bullshit movies looped

            on the backtrack of

                        the front one in first position            

oscillate between

                        saliva and arctic monkeys backed by a bickering david lee roth                                                frank sinatra disaster

Keys!

held

outside...

            again monday… until…and then

blue stains white canvas on a tuesday to

                        tell tales of a blank and forgotten review of…the day before I

was

a man over there

            with a place or a heart

                        stuffing sacks

with lifetimes of bullshit broken

            tattooed monkeys dancing on my back

pitter patters print patterns

            on dirty kitchen floors

                        and recite long retarded elegies

                                    of doors closed before…

I…

step
        trip 
               fall 
                      forget
why?
        step
               trip
                       fall
                                ....regret
        

...like a smack…

                        my night went black,

                                    and my mind flew back…

            …way back to

                        cracked bats and dope sacks

                                    rebel flags and gun racks

                                                bloodstains on seatbacks

                                                            life sentence, no facts…

to stickball on street blocks,

            shootin’ hoops with my pops,

                        backstage with no props…

                                    my “not yet” to her “stop”…

            to love lit dimly by dashboard lights

                        soft

                                    wet

                                                slow

                                                            deep…

            on warm Southern nights

                        hopes fears and dreams lives

                                    sights unseen

                        and long flights…

                                                and kicks

                                                            and claws

                                                                        and bites…

headstones and heartaches

            stoned blind to see straight

                        fucking death to cheat fate

stayin’ clean for court dates…

free lunch and food stamps

            cold beds ‘neath street lamps

                        road blocks on off-ramps

fist fights with street tramps…

picnics and kool-aid

            mohawks and good grades

                        bad debts that were never paid

first time I got laid…

tattoos and deep scars

            dark nights in slow bars

                        road trips in cheap cars

tall grass

            bright stars

hollywood and sunset

            scrabble games and lost bets

                        first loves and first pets

warm chills

            cold sweats

pigtails and soft skin

            backseats and cold gin

                        open bibles and pure sin…

enemies and best friends

birthdays and beatdowns

            new schools and new towns

                        handcuffs and shakedowns…

brain damage, but no frowns

drafting tables and table saws

            manicured nails and bloodied paws…

                        pomp, circumstance and security flaws

West L.A. streets and North Side malls

sham smiles sustained by strong hand shakes

            soul-selling scams with mile high stakes

                        shadow boxing clients – kings of the fake…

i’m your man, boss – whatever it takes

broken promises, broken homes

            surrounded and still going home alone

                        more david allen coe – less joey ramone

reflections in the mirror i would never condone

this world pits the dogs

            against the cats

tell me who am I

            to blame

the rats

            when what flies for real isn’t good

and what is true

            never was

never could

            give me steel give me hope

                                                   or give me wood

boardrooms

            last rites

silk ties

            lost fights

bright dreams

            brighter lights

blue-collar trapped…

…inside white