Little Known Fact:

I wrote this song. Unfortunately (or maybe not), Jeff Tweedy and the gang had already recorded it, wouldn't ya know. But I'd have to say they did a pretty bang up job with it.

Ghost (Fox) in the Machine

Do you ever have that thing happen where you experience something purely only that first time, even though you encounter it again and again at different moments of existence, but always uniquely, as a different completely different creature than that first time you experienced it? Every subsequent encounter is different because you are different, but you still have the memory of that first time, and you bring that to your second experience of it, and memories are layered one upon the other until you have constructed an understanding that you don’t recognize, and that first experience and the fresh flavor it left in your mouth are gone, but you still think of it as its own separate meeting, apart from any of those subsequent, so much so that you begin to doubt you have experienced that something more than once at all because in your mind, there is only that one time. The first time is the most important because it is brand new. And something that is brand new can never be as good the second time around.

Jacquie had made dinner that night, and Ashley had come over to join us. Because she doesn’t drink, Jacquie and I had the bottle of wine to ourselves. I had already finished a glass when I recalled that I’d given blood the day before. “Oh, well,” I sputtered out between incessant fits of giggles. I tried to keep them in so that Ashley wouldn’t feel uncomfortable, but there were times I couldn’t help myself. After dinner, Ashley returned to the art building to finish one project or another, and I let Jacquie convince me that a walk down the street for ice cream was both a good idea and absolutely necessary at that moment.

Returning to the apartment with a slightly sick stomach, realizing I must be a glutton for punishment, but without dwelling on that too much, I went to my room, and with the lights out and the windows open, I lay back on the floor with my legs up on my bed and listened to the still then fairly-new-to-me Fleet Foxes album. Between the wine and the nearly-Spring breeze meandering through the open windows, I slipped into a euphoria, and the music played on without me. But somewhere around the middle of the record, I returned to my senses by a sharp pull, tied at one end to a particular song. I couldn't remember ever hearing it before that very moment, but once I was aware of its presence, it crashed into me, aiming straight at my chest. I started to feel slightly panicked but mostly excited; it was such a strange sensation to be intertwined with an intangible entity. I was overcome.

I can't remember what happened after that. Maybe I passed out, but I doubt that because it's not something that happens to me ever, the same as getting sick--I just don't really. Even so, the proceeding minutes and potentially hours did not leave an impression on my memory. But if I had to guess, I would say that I had laid there on my bedroom floor for a while trying to remember the song that had paralyzed me (rather like I do in the morning when I lay in bed and try to remember a pleasant dream from the night before, while still giving that dream room to breathe and not pressuring it, in case this would have the reverse effect and cause it to scatter). Then maybe after a few minutes I fell asleep and upon waking thought that all of it had been a dream after all...

The memory of that experience didn't leave me feverish for long, though. I went about my days as I'd always done and will always continue to do. I kept an ear out for the song the next time I listened to Fleet Foxes, but I never did hear what I'd heard that first night, never felt those sensations that I had. I’ve since convinced myself that the song that so overtook me was “Your Protector,” but there are times when the little part of me that had been there that night on my bedroom floor, the part that was at the same time frozen in place and on fire with excitement, would taunt me, saying, “Nope. That was something altogether different, and you will never hear it again.”

An Hour in the Life

There is far too much fluffy "chick-lit" at this particular O'Fallon public library. And the offenders aren't hard to spot. An absurd number of spines are covered with little pictures of cats, martini glasses, cartoon men's faces (in all their 1990's-hunk glory), engagement rings, stilettos, and baby pacifiers. The books are flashy and neon colored, like stupid billboards or the strings of plastic flags at used-car lots trying to attract as many customers as possible. I don't know why I bother, but I walk through each row and scan each shelf for something worthwhile. I even keep an eye out for Ulysses (not that I would have picked it up, but still); it's of no use. If ever I really want something with substance, I have to go to another branch. It seems sad, that a public library would feed the ambitions of the demographic that is so well-represented here, that of the stay-at-home MOM, the one who dreams of hot sex on the beach with one of the aforementioned cartoon hunks because she sure as hell isn't having any here in O'Fallon.

While I'm scanning the shelves, I make a mental note as to what not to name my book when the time comes; I'm always embarrassed for authors with overly-dramatic or cliché titles to their books. Then I think, "Why am I supposedly writing a book anyway?" I haven't been able to write anything over 22 pages before in my life. I get too damn bored, and stuck. My hands can't keep up with my thoughts, and when my mind's made up, forget it, I'm finished, the thought is gone. This place, man...what the hell? I was raised here? I remember trying to "research" different projects in grade school at this library and getting frustrated at how limited I was by what they had. Even then, I knew there had to be more...somewhere. So, why is it, that, when I see a new employee being dictated her duties, herself probably about 16, I feel a tinge of jealousy (I could do a better job) and consider inquiring as to whether or not they're hiring?

Near to where I'm sitting, a lady Googling area daycare centers is also loudly announcing the affairs of her personal life. She's on the phone with whom I'd imagine is her current husband, asking which of his exes is asking for money this time. Then she brings up her ex-husband in Texas, saying he's trying to spoil Kevin by bringing him down to Texas because he wants to have custody of him once the boy is of age. (I'm sorry for you, Kevin.) I try to block her out, but I can't when I hear, "Oh yeah, he drinks like a fish. He drives drunk all the time.... Ha! He had sex when he was 10!" Surely I'm imagining this whole thing. I look up to see if anyone else had heard that one. Sure enough, the tall boy standing with his mother at the reference desk had also been privy. We made incredulous eyes at each other and I felt myself smile for the second time today, the first happening on the way to the library, as I'd passed the Little Caesar's Pizza mascot advertising in earnest on the sidewalk outside the store, in the dreadful fog and haze.

(I felt a third smile appear on my face as I drove home an hour later, having passed the same mascot, this time going the opposite direction on Main Street. The things high schoolers will do for a little change.)

D

I know a lot of very fascinating and, well, just plain cool, people, one of whom is a first cousin. I've been trying out different approaches to talking about him, running through various sketches in my head, but nothing seems to work, to really portray the person he is. I'm still not entirely convinced that the fashion in which I will now proceed is the most ideal, and I'm sure it will not be the last I write about him. Nevertheless, here is a list of random facts and fables about my cousin Darren.

D:
-plays a mean guitar, and I grew up thinking he sang like Eddie Vedder.
-prefers traveling by bike or on foot in the interest of Mother Earth.
-keeps a composition notebook in his back pocket for recording ideas, etc.
-bakes a cake for himself about once a week.
-got his degree in English and now works professionally at Planet Sub in Kansas City.
-has a map of the world hanging in his bathroom, courtesy of Doctors Without Borders.
-speaks more softly than I do.
-was once accused of plagiarism by a college professor because an essay he wrote was just that good; rather than fighting him, D turned in a different essay, proving that the best revenge is to live on and prove yourself.
-prefers texting to phone conversations and always remembers to text me on my birthday (or on the one-time occasion of my college graduation).
-sacrificed booze, cigarettes, and a fairly large number of friends during college to better himself on the soccer field (but was back in full force beginning with our shared high school/college graduation party at our Mudd family farm).
-is always modest about all of his talents and doesn't like being the center of attention.
-drinks green tea brewed with loose leaves.
-walks like our grandpa used to.
-tries not to grumble too much when another one of his high school friends gets engaged.
-has a wicked and unassuming sense of humor.
-lives in Kansas City with his older and preppier brother, Chris.
-consistently made appearances at any Red Water Revival shows in Kansas City, and "Rattlesnake Babies/Seafoam Earphones" was his favorite song.
-always outplays our cousin David on the ping pong table at family gatherings; the ease with which he does drives David crazy.
-once gave some money to a homeless man and then agreed to drive him across town (when he still drove).
-has Ani DiFranco and Pearl Jam posters on his bedroom walls and works by Jack Kerouac and Hermann Hesse on his bookshelf.
-self-educates himself in literature and, at least at one point, in Spanish.
-prefers driving long distances in the middle of the night, setting out around 2 AM typically.
-types his poems and stories on a typewriter and travels with a tweed suitcase, both courtesy of the flea market.
-is someone I will always feel slightly intimidated to be around while also being someone I will always admire.

photo courtesy of Stacy and Zac Mansker

Skit Scat

I am a fine gin and

an apartment overlooking the

lake (ocean?). Take a

rifle to the bathtub and

cozy up to homemade drugs

(alcohol?), a vibrator and

a pin cushion (a vibration

in a pin cushion?).

My hat on your mantle and

your checkers in my oven

tell the tale of days

spent in the cow pasture.

Tell your grandmother I'll be

late for Christmas dinner but

I'll come dressed in my

Sunday best. Rearrange the

flower arrangement on my

grave and set out a

plate of pancakes for the

postman, an orange for the

milkman. Borrow my

grandfather's pilot's hat,

but cover your

eyes at takeoff.