bob dylan pandora radio station

I am (as I often am) frustrated with my writing. With what though? The verbs? The nouns? Or, gad, the little commas, all in cooperation and coup with each other to break my self-delusions about what my hands should do and my brain wired toward.

But this is all just a long introduction to tell you that I have things for you to read. Finally.

A news brief about a very complicated issue, very little of which finds its way into the actual article simply because there is no space in (a) the average human heart and (b) the newspaper itself. I will express a frustration now: that when I say They are building Yet Another industrial plant in a poor area (inhabited mostly by Hispanics and the sort of white people we categorize as whhhhhhhhhite people), Some People give me that set of mouth that tells me, "Don't be ridiculous."

Here's another piece. For the gift guide. It's about yarn. I believe every word, but (I may have mentioned) I'm having troubles with words so the writing disappoints me. It's boring. Predictable. It is what it will be and I will be something else tomorrow.

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OTHER NEWS:

Life is the busy beast it has grown to be and will never stop being until someone dies.

I am

...working on three final art projects. A book project. A construction project. A drawing.

...writing book reviews. Poetry. Essays. Anthologies. Novels. I need three more days. I have one.

...seeing friends I don't see much anymore and wondering if it will become even less often. Because, you see, I might be moving farther north than usual, but I'm not sure yet and I don't know when or how or even if.

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Read this and tell me what you think.

roller derby girls

My greatest frustration in these evil times is not having any way to edit photos. Natural light just isn't cutting it like it used to.

museum day

The Louvre. What does it mean to you? Loooooooooooooo-v-ruh? The loo-f?

L. and I lost in the Greeks, than the wretched Dutch masters. Pan and close up: that lady and her smile. Da Vinci. Oath of the Horatii stretching upwards about one hundred feet--by which I mean 165 inches. L. and I shunted along one white ceiling wood floor gaping hall after another and people with cameras instead of faces flashing left and right and above and below. The point of a museum is not to see, but to prove that you have seen, that you have been, in hopes that by being and by seeing you have appreciated and are now become the sort of person who Understands These Aesthetics and Ideas In General. Cock a finger against your chin and frown. We all know now.

The single greatest semi-secret crime I might have ever committed was to spend only one hour (or was it an hour and a half?) in the Louvre. My eyes did skim and my heart did breathe in the drifting molecules of the old masters. This was (goodness) five years ago.

Outside, French police patrolled on roller blades when they weren't leaning against fences and staring at French girls.

Move ahead two years: New York (New YORK!) and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Shall-we-call-him-Sheldon-just-for-the-fun-of-it and I, frozen to our wrist bones, inadequately coated for a winter day complete with sleet, suffering and being lost on the subway system. But we found the museum. Passed ourselves as students--not so hard, since that's what we were, but it was a small accomplishment in a strange town.

I recall a rapid progress of chairs and stumbling over some basement repository of assorted pottery. Madame X or Z or Y? Anyway, in black with red hair. And there was the J.Pollock taking up an entire wall before which I stood entranced for ten full minutes until I was made to move on.

(While we're on the subject of Jackson Pollock, go to THIS WEBSITE, but don't watch the video--unless you want to, it's god awful boring--just enter the site. Drag around and stuff and then click to get a different color. Hours of amusement!)

Two more years and we are somewhere outside of Portland--which, pause, reminds me that we should stay in Portland long enough to remark on the Ancient Egpyt exhibit that passed through and also the giant golden dandelion found on the apocalyptic modern art floor. This floor may or may not actually exist. We have never found it, nor its death camp oven elevators again.

But leaving Portland, heading south, we come to Today and the museum I walked to.

What little I know of art seems to point to the need for space, time, and integrity. Space: the art is not crowded, the day is not cramped, you are not bogged down with bags, cameras or other people. The need to compete in intensity of pretended interest might prove too strong, or the pressure to move on MOVE ON. Time: a few hours, at the least, so you can sit and watch the piece and (oh liberal hippie that I fear I am becoming) so the art can watch you and make you uncomfortable. Not that discomfort is necessary, but it is interesting. Integrity: the conscious concentration, the leaving aside of ego and boredom and most other distractions. Research might be necessary. Focus is also a part of integrity. Perhaps a scholarly mind only less soap-like.

This is not what I did. I hurried through. My excuse: I was so hungry. So perhaps along with time, space and integrity, we should add Sandwich Hidden in Coat Pocket.

fan mail

The day I found out that Jack White was the last rock star, I was sitting at my parents' kitchen table, a pot of English breakfast tea in a white and blue tea pot and buttered toast on a plate. Revolutions often begin in a field and revelations hang around at doorways waiting for someone to trip over the propped up feet. I imagine trains were moving especially slow back in Eugene. People waited while coffee cooled. In Portland, we were a long morning with nothing going on except a piano to play and a bathroom to clean, and the newspaper said:

He (Jack White) was bigger than the room, and gave every impression of always being bigger than every room. Because Jack White is a rock star, and not just a rock star, but possibly the last rock star.

Rock star, according to this article, means: strut-strut-strutting like you own the place and once impregnated the landlord's daughter, charmed his wife with a smile, and left town on your own terms, everyone shaking their heads a little but loving you the whole time. Furthermore, you have replaced Metallica. It is implied that this is something you are to be proud of. You are a finite resource, like fossil fuels. In a world of oil, you are the rumor of a new field in sub-Saharan Africa.

As the last rock star, your duties include (here the article is vague) being Jack White, whatever Jack White happens to be. Nowhere and everywhere mostly.

The burden of being the last rock star is heavy. Un-sleeping are the eyes that wear the crown; the grave diggers are on duty from 12 am to 12 am. Once you are the last, you are doomed to die be you gold fish, child, dog or Mohican. As long as we pretend and flirt behind closed hands, death is a poem and most poetry is printed on paper. Paper doesn't do much except biodegrade. It is when poetry is spoken with throat, breath, spit, and teeth that you need to worry. So perhaps Jack White should be worried. Shovels clank. The diggers don't realize. They're marking time with marks in the dirt, milling and humming, telling dirty jokes. As the last rock star, you face a horde of over-educated, yet incredibly dumb indie kids on the one side and on the other side are the haters of the human spine who want to thrash and throw themselves around like dog toys. In the empty spaces live everyone else. In a crowd, everyone becomes a single face and personal taste is like specialty organic tea in an over-mountain town: unheard of and unnecessary.

As the last rock star, there are expectations of extraordinary living. There are rules and shoes, both dictating an interest in night and cocaine when night becomes tedious. Five women or a controversial wife. You must live in a perpetual state of breakdown without actual full-out insanity. If you get tired, crash a motorcycle. It worked for Bob Dylan.

The day I found that Jack White was the last rock star was the happiest day of my life. The waiting is over. The time is come. Prepare the torches, the pitchforks and the black flag. Run those colors. No doubt the feeling is similar to Jerusalem's Jews upon meeting the Messiah. However, they were doomed to disappointment. God came to die and rock stars "sell out." But like perfection, selling out is primarily a matter of perspective. I think when people say "Sell out" what they really mean is that they are bored or confused, two human emotions already prevalent in every other aspect of our lives and life is too short. So I will stand in different corners and sometimes the middle of the room.

It is with great relief that I pass on this information to you, reveal to you, remind you, petition, bribe, and imply: Jack White is the last rock star.

Unless, of course, Meg White is.