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September 30, 2006
shabd
there. i've finally made the time. a few parts luck, a few parts exercise of will.
an hour ago, i was becoming enveloped again in the false security of my apartment. not even home, but my apartment, for i've lacked that sense of home now for a while, and that explains a lot.
there was no run today. i woke at 6:30, and went to coach other runners, a new factor in my life that makes sense, that is one new piece of home for me. i went home afterwards, to clean, to organize a few things, to put together a handful of tasks for the day.
i did a good deal of all that, then i fell asleep in front of the t.v.
not again, not again, not another day. there aren't enough left.
i was feeling inertia again, anchoring me still. i made one movement at a time. feed the cats. get the backpack. iPod. computer. pet cats. door. car.
so there. now i'm here, at whole foods. the sun is getting increasingly warm on my legs as it sinks lower in the windows that portray the day, yes, another day, but i'm here, with a six pack of beer and my notebook computer and the word "shabd" echoing in my head - the sound, the word, before expression.
When we meditate on that light of God and that music, we will find access to God himself. The music we hear in this outer world is the outer expression of that inner music. In the Jap Ji, twenty-seventh stanza, you will find Nanak marveling at God's mansion...he says that in God's house he found all music, so many instruments, so many kinds and types of songs, and so many singers. Then Nanak further explains that all this universe, the Judge and air and fire and everything there is, is going on because of music...Everything is Music. God is also music and he controls everything with music. Singh, Thakar. And You Will Fly Up To God
but, what? i look back over two years of writing, and there is a story here. it's easy to write the pieces, the days, sitting here. see, i do it now. there you go. but i can't write it, because i don't know, and can't seem to say, what will happen next. fiction is easy, truth is hard.
when i wrote the story in the previous post, partial eclipses, ten years ago, it was easy, then it stopped, because while i never stalked a girl through downtown austin, it was still my story, and i didn't know how to end it, because i didn't know how my own true story would end. do i write the story, or does the story write me?
it's an opportunity for optimism and tony robbins-like empowered positivity. "YOU decide what ending you want, and YOU go make it happen, tiger!" but it's not that simple, is it? if it were, we'd all be god, or at least, i guess, tony robbins, which is a horrible, horrible thought.
shabd. everything is music. the universe is music and stories waiting to be sung, played, told. the word, the music, is in here, is out there, waiting to be given expression.
shh... i'm trying to hear.
Posted by Rob at 05:55 PM | Comments (2)
September 29, 2006
partial eclipses
ok, so, I have to make some decisions about the website - pay $99 for another year, or try to move everything to blogger, which is free, or just ditch this altogether.
someone also just asked what i write, and not liking what i've written recently, i went back through the blog looking for samples.
i also discovered that there's some stuff that hasn't ever been posted. so, there will be some more regular posts, a mix of the recycled and the new.
unless they shut me down for non-payment.
partial eclipses
Closed his eyes, pressed them with his fingers, watching the colors dance. He opened them, and the colors resolved into the bustle of students hurrying to and from class, some stopping to chat and squint at the skies. It was the day of a partial solar eclipse, and people of all sorts gathered around the industrious few who had bothered to make a wide variety of devices with which to view the event. His own was a simple device he remembered first seeing in some children’s magazine long ago -- a pinhole through a piece of cardboard (specifically one of the dozens of pieces of religious literature stuffed into his hands daily) and a white sheet of paper.
The shadow creeped, unsuccessfully trying to edge out the sun. He glanced up, and in the eerie midday almost-twilight he saw her, crouched herself before a white piece of paper, watching the shadow move across the light. And in that moment, he did not know, but only felt; did not think, but only saw.
Past the hand that held the hair from her eyes, he saw her smile slightly, smiling alone in recognition of this odd combat in the heavens. The smile was knowing, of genuine appreciation awash in an undoubtable sadness. She hefted her bag higher on her shoulder, stood, and began to walk away.
Something spoke in him. He shoved the paper and pinholed word of God in his pack, glanced quickly up at the waning sun, and followed her.
He fell into the mass of students crossing the street, wary eyes kept to the skies as if something primitive in their hearts prodded at them to do so. He himself did not look, but saw the shadows soften as he watched her, felt the growing coolness in the air, and remembered the first time he had felt this pull, the first time he had had the vision and was frightened that it would disappear forever.
Years ago, before Her, he was unanchored on a vast expanse of loneliness, the confusion of late youth and early adulthood compounded and exaggerated by emptiness, the apparent isolation. He took solace in the music he listened to so intently and in the only talent he felt he really had -- he could write. It always came easy, the paper soaking the pain from him, holding it in its fibers so that someday someone else might understand, might know what he felt. And then, at least, he would not be so alone.
A love that only his soul knew, a miracle yet to be, found a voice and a ready, if uncertain prophet in his pen on those days. For when his eyes closed and the world fell silent and destiny spoke, it was waves of dark hair he saw, a warm, soft darkness that he did not fear. She was never the tawdry, tawny-skinned idols of beer-commercial adolescence, not a woman beautiful by the reflected radiance of the day, but a woman that glowed from within, all things to him even as he watched her sleep in the hours of a more significant dawn -- the dawn of happiness, of love, of dreams realised, of a newfound communion with God.
When he opened his eyes, he would look at what he had written. Even through awkward lines, it still held a strange power, the eloquence and realism of unknowing certainty.
It was not until years later that that dawn had come, casting light across Her dark hair and sleeping face, across his heart. In a world that seemed filled with so much meaninglessness, Her eyes held the promise of at least one truth strong enough to rise above it all. And in love, he finally found faith in himself and the world.
And there was something more. He remembered his grandmother’s last days, after the stroke, eyes staring sadly without recognition, fear the only other emotion fighting its way to expression. Sitting beside her, he could not help but wonder if he, too, would one day feel so alone, and it was in those times that he realized what She meant to him. When all the things that weighed so heavily on him now finally revealed themselves to be so trivial, when the cold began to creep into his mind, he wanted to know that at some time, somewhere, his soul had not gone to waste. That even for a split second of his life, another soul had brushed against his, had recognized him, understood and knew who he was. It was the only way he knew of not to die alone.
They were blocks from campus now, moving to the heart of the city. Stopped at a corner, they waited, awash in the music, the dull throbs and the chorus of voices from the cars that creeped before them, a few resolving themselves more clearly as the procession was halted by the traffic light. Whether in his mind or through the air, one found its way through all the others, and he heard the guitar and voice once again, the notes subtly bent, the words a simple declaration of love and appreciation, cutting through all the noise as if nothing could silence it. He looked at her, and though her eyes were closed, he could see the music moving through her as well, and then she smiled.
Clapton played, and She smiled. Sometimes, with the car full of people, with Her so far away from him in the back seat, he would pop the tape in, play “Wonderful Tonight,” and She would be there in the rear view mirror, smiling at him, smiling “Yes, I know; yes I remember; yes, I do, too.”
Sometimes he would play it when he drove Her home at night, and they would ride in silence, letting this man they did not know and his guitar speak volumes of their love as he spoke of his own. He could always feel Her there next to him, could sometimes hear Her voice singing faintly, weaving gently through the music. He could remember driving home late at night, with Her curled up in the seat beside him, how he would drive so slowly and carefully, afraid to disturb Her, wishing that he could drive through every light and intersection, down some smoother highway to some place where they could fall asleep together and never awake.
They never got there. There was an ever after, unhappily, bringing a new and harsher emptiness, the universe seemingly uncreated around him, despite his efforts to deny it with other women and nights he couldn’t quite remember.
And all that time, he was conscious that failure was taking over his life, like a man falling from thousands of feet up, hearing the growing roar of wind, wondering if he would hear the thud when he hit, if he would feel his bones pulverize, if he would, in that final nanosecond, be able to reach out and feel the cool comforting familiarity of the earth before it crushed the life out of him.
Time had not healed, only numbed. No rage anymore, no longing, no bitterness, no more of the self-inflicted desire to be, finally, alone. Just a waiting. And the hint of resignation tugging at the corners of his pride, quietly mocking the voice that had always said he would never change, that he would hold tight to those visions no matter what he had to face. But the four years had been so much. Rage and fear and sorrow had torn at his heart, pounded at his soul so that now, he staggered dazed like an aging prize fighter, not ready to fall, not trapped on the ropes, but becoming less and less able to fend off the blows. He just waited, either for his second wind, or maybe just for the bell.
A clock flashed the time, and he realized he had followed her for the better part of an hour, watching the way she moved, wondering what she saw in the world around her. The crowd had thickened, and he realized the distance between them had grown. He tried at first to be polite, but found himself becoming frantic as she slipped further away, people flowing in between them, and this he seemed to remember. He could not call to her, and this he seemed to remember. He felt the fear, and this, too, he seemed to remember.
And suddenly, he became aware that perhaps it was not Her that he had always seen, but something else. But just as quickly as the seeming revelation returned the doubt -- how many times can the love of a lifetime come along? How many matches for a single soul? He had wanted so badly to feel it all again, to feel something in his world beyond simple cause and effect -- was it just resignation prodding him to desperation, to be with anyone in the fear of simply being alone?. Suddenly, the faith in his vision, his feelings for Her, and his intuition all changed inflections, becoming questions. His beliefs shattered, he could trust nothing anymore.
He felt the pressure of the present and future demanding he try, demanding release, but felt also the pressure of the past telling him, No, this cannot be.
But if not this, then what? If not now, then when?
She reached the corner just as the bus did, and he stepped out of the last of the crowd into the opening between them. He hesitated.
To live, to sleep, to dream, to love. The choices were so simple, but so clouded by logic and voices and doubt, that it was too hard to know what was right anymore, so hard to trust his heart, or, for that matter, his mind.
She turned, as if hearing him. Vague recollection seemed to sweep across her, and she shifted her weight uneasily, still gripping the door of the bus.
He heard the driver, polite, cutting across the brief, insistent current, the connection that seemed to hum in his mind, louder than all else; the cars, a distant siren, the rhythm of leather-soled purposeful steps around him, all fading out one by one.
She waited. Somewhere she knew, but in this world, she wasn't sure. Here there was only that curious twinge that sometimes drives us to step across a crowded room, to clear our throats with uncertainty, to reach out timidly to touch a shoulder, driven by souls that know, not wanting to waste this now, to say Here I am.
He began to move, to call out. His hand moved uselessly, his lips sought to mouth a name he did not know. His soul was straining against its bonds, straining to exist in this time, in this life, for him, for her.
He needed her.
He wanted her.
He wanted....
He wanted Her.
The bus driver again, more insistent. She shook her head as if to clear it, and whatever it was that had passed between them fell away as she turned and stepped aboard the bus.
A hiss and a groan, and the bus rolled on, carrying her away.
He swallowed, thought for a moment he felt once again the warm intrusion of tears. He watched the bus fade over the next hill. He looked down at the sidewalk, his eyes closed. He saw the faint afterimage of the bus rolling away, revealing the impression of Her that lingered yet. Then, She, too, was gone, and he felt himself pulling away, his soul spiraling upward, towards no heaven, but rather towards the hell of perspective, seeing himself, and ten more people, and a hundred, a thousand, a city, a land, a world, teeming with life that winked on and off, some blessed with flames that ever burned, bright even in the full strength of the noonday light.
But in himself, there was only the cold, and the darkness of the deepest shadow from an unforgiving, unobscured sun.
Posted by Rob at 10:07 AM | Comments (1)
September 27, 2006
an amalgam of idiots
this is even less amusing and enjoyable if you haven't read "a confederacy of dunces," by some dude named o'toole, who, unlike terrell, succeeded in killing himself.
he heaved his ponderous bulk across the sidewalk in the stifling morning heat. his bulk had grown less ponderous in the months of his unemployment and accelerated athletic exertions, but he was still afflicted, as he would always be, with a curious propensity for perspiration. he remembered a favorite author saying that "humidity feels like hundreds of strangers touching me." it was the only line he recalled from the tome, largely because it resonated so completely with him - he certainly hated the humidity, and he hated being touched, by all but a select few members of the species. actually, he preferred being touched by some members of the genus, of the family, even, to members of his actual species.
he heard the bus roar along behind him, and wondered if it would stop for him this morning.
the driver on the 8:47am route had few eccentricities and joys allowed to him in his life, as a driver of one of the free commuter buses in austin, texas. unlike drivers of paid fare buses, he was a slave to the whims of passengers, who, spanning the gamut from tourist to genuine commuter to stench-ridden and delusional homeless person could board the bus at any corner for free, then simply pull a cord and demand that he let them off at the next stop.
he was very conscious that his work neither raised revenue for the city nor demanded respect of his passengers, and it galled the heart that beat beneath the festive shirt issued to him by the local metropolitan transit authority. the shirt portrayed happy buses rolling through a caricatured, flawless downtown area, and failed to betray the hatred that lay underneath it's 60/40 cotton/polyester surface.
occasionally, he would spy a putative passenger begin to rise from the bus stop bench, and he would quietly determine that the effort shown failed to clearly merit a stop on his route.
earl had several times failed to show enough verve to stop this particular driver, and on those occasions, his patience was rewarded
with the warm rush of exhaust, carrying dirt from the road in its wake and distributing it across the bus stop. he would curse loudly, more particularly if other people were waiting at the stop, and when he pronounced the more sibilant consonants, he felt the grit between his teeth.
but on this morning, earl looked back frequently and made knowing little nods and waves to the oncoming driver, such that both came to a stop with a heavy blended huff of taxed lungs and airbrakes. earl then boarded, sorted through the daily menagerie of itinerant domestic help, hipsters, and homeless people talking loudly to themselves about the varied merits of red vs. blue aluminum cans, and settled warily into a bench seat.
he looped his left arm through the strap of his duffle bag for security, both against the prying arms and sly hands of the other passengers, and the swaying and lurching of the cursed mechanical abomination that he braved on a daily basis to reach his latest place of employment.
he had, however, discovered that the motion-related nausea that had plagued him for much of his adult life had regressed to its manageable childhood levels, so he rummaged in his duffle to pull out the borrowed copy of a confederacy of dunces.
to be continued... hey, it's a start.
Posted by Rob at 11:52 PM | Comments (1)
September 24, 2006
no
8:46
9:04
i stopped, stood, watched people stream in and out of the hula hut parking lot on a wednesday night. the two-mile mark was right at the crosswalk in front of the restaurant.
a couple walked by, holding hands, and i watched, and i wished, and i despaired.
after a couple of minutes, i turned and tried again, running back the way i came rather than run the other two miles of the "enfield four" course, with its hills that would further tweak the occasional pain from my left hamstring.
i don't know what happened after the first mile. i was trying the bold new plan, trying to run each of the four miles at the 8:43 half marathon goal pace. i knew it didn't make sense, but it was all that i had, it was all that gave me a reason to run it at all.
the first mile started down by the austin high school track, by a headless stainless steel galvanized pole that at one point must have told people what to or not to do. the route ran up veterans' boulevard, up the medium-lenth hill to lake austin boulevard. i kept time up the hill, up into the long straight, until i saw the first mile marked out on the street in white spray paint. that was my 8:46.
i figured i could back off a bit, that i must have hit a harder pace to compensate for the hill. i pounded through, still believing in my new mission. lacking the motivation to meet the requirements of my existing marathon goal, i had upped the goal, hoping that the dramatic lure of doing something improbable would finally drive me. it did, but the motivational lure of the improbable goal was illusory, at best.
i took advantage of the stoplight, not a hundred yards down the road, stopped the watch for it. another hundred yards or so, in front of the university's married student housing, i stopped, and walked.
it was already gone, the two days' worth of newfound motivation. i couldn't do it, couldn't maintain the higher pace, couldn't even maintain the pace tht physiology and the pace calculator had dictated for me.
i tried to run again, but the voices were getting loud again, and i couldn't balance the movement and the breathing and the noise in my head, all the voices with different things to say, most of them negative, most of them reminding me of the past, and how the present was just a repetition, and how the future was just the same past waiting to happen.
i tried, i fucking tried. i thought of friends, thought of victory, thought of dramatic sprints to the finish, thought of pre, thought of the people i coach, and it wasn't enough. i ran, i stopped, i ran, i stopped, and each time, the running got shorter, and i began to see the relationship, began to recognize the familiar feel of the pattern of my life, of jobs and dreams and love, playing themselves out in cycles of foolish dreams and failure.
and now, i couldn't even win this one battle in my own mind. my body felt ok. the new, more upright running form, with a quicker turnover in stride that i'd been working at for the last month, felt like it was in place. but my heart and mind failed me.
all my life, it had been the other way around - my body couldn't do, but i was strong in my heart and mind, and i could gut through things, in the name of winning some battle that would help me win a war that would prove that i was worthwhile in this life. there was always a goal in sight, and there was a time that i never doubted that winning that goal would get me closer to meaning something, to
being someone worthwhile.
i kept looking at the watch. it was stuck on "split" mode rather than "lap" mode, which meant the time so far for the past mile was tiny and difficult to see in the failing daylight. i finally made it out a coupel of times, and thought maybe i was still on track, maybe i could get there and be on pace, maybe i hadn't lost yet, even as the failure to have the watch in the right mode added new voices in my head, more screaming, more noise to get through to see the goal, to see what was right.
9:54
i stopped. that was it. there was nothing left.
it took me 40-something minutes to walk through the last mile and back to whole foods, where i had parked.
it was dark, and the friday evening traffic rushed at and past me down sixth street, but it couldn't begin to overcome what was going on in my head, the sheer noise of it all, the thoughts, from every angle of reason and irrationality, peaking, the cumulative noise so great it distorted like a tape recorded with the input levels too high.
and the thing that kept recurring to me was that this was not just about running - this was the pattern of my life. i move along until the reality, the discomfort and banality of what i'm doing outweighs the sense of meaning i was able to give to it. and then, failure, and then, the floundering to find some new motivation to make the discomfort and banality worthwhile.
each time, the cycle is shorter, every time, the failure sharper and more complete.
i got to the store, went in to pick up some things, and returned a couple of calls. the first friend i talked to basically told me she thinks i was chosen to be laid off from my last job because of what i had written here about that job.
this did not exactly help the situation. that voice was hardly distinguishable from the ones in my head.
i next talked to my friend fagan. fagan is also running the chicago marathon. he's a fast runner and a good athlete overall, with a particularly strong and aggressive competitive streak in him.
even he, though, understood the loss of motivation, and he told me about his own issues, and his own perspective on how to deal with it - sometimes, it's ok not to run, if you're not in some way loving what you're doing.
i got enough back in me. saturday morning was our last long run of the training program, a 22-mile run from the RunTex Store for Psychotic Running People at the gateway shopping center up north, to the RunTex Store for Psychotic Running People at south first and riverside, with enough winding and meandering to get all the miles in.
regardless, i committed to showing up to give melissa and fagan a ride up to the starting point, and said i'd decide at that point whether to actually run or not.
the morning came, i got up with less tiredness than usual. i ate, prepared, all the time thinking about the run, through the run, gauging how i felt, and it simply wasn't there. i've been too tired for runs, dreaded them, feared them, but this was different - it simply wasn't worth it to me.
still, i picked my friends up, drove them north to where everyone was assembling in the lights in front of the darkened north store. friendly, well-intentioned, and correct peer pressure prodded me into running.
i started well, maybe a little fast. my body felt good, actually, but my mind did not. most of the runners talked to each other in the first few miles, but some of the other runners were loud, even running at 5:45am past darkened houses.
the noise, the rudeness, the noise... again, the noise was building in my own head, enough that it felt like physical pressure, compounded by my effort, compounded by the voices of the people around me.
i kept running away from people, a couple of times with my hands just enough over my ears that my breathing and the sound of impact drowned out the external voices, but it still wasn't enough.
35 minutes in, i stopped, and sat on a curb for a while. the rest of the runners passed, and i watched them, blessedly heard their voices and footfalls abate into the remains of the night.
i walked back. i missed a turn, and it took me near an hour to get back to my car. i didn't run at all. there was no point. eventually, the skies lightened, and at a certain point, the light was just like more noise, and i just wanted to cover my eyes and ears and crawl under something.
the voices and noise i'm familiar with, but the photosensitivity is new. it only reinforced the awareness that aside from the very real situations and assessments of my life, there is something else at work in my mind, something very wrong.
i got home and made a cave of the living room, as dark as possible except for the television. i slept for most of the day, and got what comfort i could from familiar faces on the t.v. i called a friend about getting something to eat, and she eventually called me back, but they were going someplace that i saw as full of people and light and sound, and i couldn't do it.
and that's it. sunday has come and gone, and nothing has really changed. i will try to run tomorrow - i am still ok running the shorter distances, and i hope that i can rebuild my psyche and my desire over the next four weeks before the marathon. aside from a handful of friends, i have my group of half-marathoners that i've begun coaching, and that does have meaning to me. i'm a good coach, and i feel needed, so that is my crutch right now, maybe it's everything right now.
i have given serious thought to discontinuing the website - there'll be the annual payment due this month, and it would be an opportune time to just stop. i'm tired of people reacting negatively to it, and i'm tired of them not reacting at all, sometimes.
i don't know. i don't know what there is. i just know i need for it to get quiet within and without. and i know that once again, i need a reason for this here and this now, and for tomorrow.
Posted by Rob at 07:04 PM | Comments (3)
September 22, 2006
3:59:59
finally.
the boardroom i've worked in for the past couple of weeks is almost empty. people tend to work extra hours earlier in the week, so they can leave early on friday, many of them commuting back to houston or dallas for the weekend, so the usual staff of 15 is down to four of us.
i feel like i've been burning the past couple of weeks, combusting from the inside out with emotions, and then also with the unmet need to create, to do something worthwhile in words, and music.
lately, it's like i've been moving, forcefully and swiftly, but towards nothing i cared about. i work a temporary job. i run, but the motivation and drive hasn't been there in a long time, and the runs haven't been satisfying. and when i think of writing in the time left in a given day, i once again think of the job searching i should be doing, and of the need to get to bed so i can either get up for work, which means i run after work, or get up to run before work. and there's the need to just sit and relax and shut down for a while.
but, i think it's time for a surge.
the chicago marathon is october 22, but it hasn't been enough of a goal in and of itself to drive me through the runs, or at times, to even run at all. and for the past month or so, a painful hamstring has, well, hamstrung me, altering my gait, slowing and shortening my left leg's motion.
but i have a new plan, one that flies in the face of almost all logic and reason.
earlier in the training, we ran two two-mile time trials, and plugged those times into the frighteningly-accurate mcmillan pace calculator. both were horrible running efforts on my part, but the better result projects me with a marathon time of 4:10 and change. the same calculator projected a 4:28 for me last february, but i trained poorly and had a rough day, and ran a 4:54.
so, here's the thing - i've struggled with a lot of my runs, and gotten unnecessarily crabby and despondent at times. but on as many workouts, where we were supposed to run at a pace dictated by the calculator, i was able to push a faster pace, so the ability is in there somewhere. now, whether it's available for 26.2 miles is the obviously critical issue, but i was thinking the other day that a 4:05 should be a reasonable, achievable goal for me.
it occurred to me again, though, that if i could run a 4:05, then why not run in under four hours? those hour marks are huge for a lot of runners - they're the biggest landmarks on the quest for improvement.
here's the difference in per-mile pace:
4:10 - 9:33/mile
4:05 - 9:22/mile
3:59:59 - 9:10/mile
:23 seconds faster per mile than a pace I've never held for more than seven or either miles is more than it sounds like, but then it's not entirely improbable, either.
for a couple of days, now, i feel energized again, even though part of me knows this is a truly silly plan. but a few days ago, i didn't even want to run the thing at all, couldn't see doing well, or even getting through the 26.2 miles without a complete failure of will.
and today still dragged, i still felt a lot of the things i've been feeling, but once again, finally, i had something to distract me, an event and a goal big enough to feel meaningful. now, i can't wait for my run tonight, six miles, four of it at my new half marathon goal pace of 8:42 per mile. it's been a while.
so, crazy's better, right?
Posted by Rob at 03:19 PM | Comments (1)
September 20, 2006
acl 2006 - day three
muse - the best show i saw this weekend (as much as i love aimee mann), one of my all time acl best, up there with the roots in 2004, and one of the better rock shows i think i've ever seen... it was just what i needed, finally, some real f-cking rock.
Posted by Rob at 12:03 AM | Comments (4)
September 18, 2006
acl 2006, day two
never mind - no words.
the sacred and the profane
Posted by Rob at 11:02 PM | Comments (9)
acl 2006, day one
this weekend, on saturday, the blog turned two. a dubious anniversary for some, it rather poetically was marked by the same event with which it began, the austin city limits musical festival.
friday, i rode my bike to work, bided my time in the job that has grabbed the number one spot on the all time worst job charts, changed into my bright red shoes, running shorts, and a peter gabriel tshirt. i had my little red backpack whose small size and poor construction would render it useless, did it not also conceal a .7 liter camelback water bladder in it. in it, i packed an extra shirt, a towel (as the hitchhiker's guide would dictate), phone, wet wipes, wallet, good old film camera, and notebook...
friday
i rode down to zilker park, and felt a little free, in a way, on my old bike in the middle of the afternoon, but the anxiety that's persistently shadowed me, and even overtaken me, was there with me, still. the thoughts have been racing again, a constant maelstrom of often contradictory images and feelings and ideas. i just wanted them to quiet down. i looked forward to the music, and to our 12-mile progressive-pace run saturday morning, where every mile, you gather speed in 15 second chunks. i needed to feel that, feel the gathering of confidence and momentum as i gathered speed.
i saw the stars, a band out of canada that i had seen at stubbs late last year with my friend amber. i like them, but still haven't bouight any of their albums - there's something weirdly cheesey about them. the man that splits the singing duties with a female bandmate often looks like he's singing educational songs to a class of first graders.
already, the crowds seem bigger than before, and it's hard to feel close, a part of the music.
i move down to see gnarls barkley, the enigmatic group that is one of the most ballyhooed shows of the festival.
it immediately grabs me - everyone comes out in white lab coats - the principals dj danger mouse and rapper/singer cee-lo, three backup singers, and three or four women playing electric stringed instruments provocatively. they immediately launch into thomas dolby's "she blinded me with science," and they have my attention.
they quickly lose it. cee-lo doesn't know the lyrics, and mumbles through them. he has a passable voice. the sound is a mess. the songs are riff-heavy and have nice vocal melodies, but no structure to give them substance.
i don't get very close. i walk up one of two major pathways through the crowd to the stage, then pull off into a vacant spot to watch and listen. a group of people in their mid-twenties, led by a couple of large frat-boy types come by, and one of them stops in the middle of the aisle and says (i shit you not), "seriously, dude, let's just sit here. fuck everyone else."
some of his companions look uncomfortable, but he keeps arguing the inarguable logic and moral imperative of "fuck them, let's sit," so they do.
i wander off to meet up with shannon and brian.
next up is cat power, who i missed a couple of years ago at acl. she's got a whole old-style country rhythm section backing her up, and she's fantastic. she's got an easy and casual way with the music and the crowd that still commands attention. she sings the heavily country-inflected songs from her latest album, songs that patsy cline could have sung, except with slightly sharper lyrics. she slinks through a version of "satisfaction". at one point, she even asks if anyone else had seen gnarls barkley, and she starts singing "crazy," and as she did with "satisfaction", she makes it work, gives it something new.
thievery corporation (one of three bands over the weekend featured on the garden state soundtrack), was playing at the gargantuan at&t stage, which is generally attended by a two or three-hundred yard long throng of people. i listened from a distance, and once again, just couldn't feel the music.
i went to see about getting some food, and found the lines were easily 40-50 yards long.
i stopped at the "general store" and picked out some sort of small fruit and nut bar. $5. i declined, and went to the stage where john mayer would be playing in half an hour...
friday, 7:48pmso, maybe this is it for me and outdoor music festivals.
i know what you're thinking - what a wuss. ok, probably a worse word.
but here's the thing, or rather, the things. no, wait, it really is just the one thing - it's the people, all the damned people.
i could split this problem into two things, i guess: the sheer quantity of people being one, and the fairly consistent tendency of most of those people to act, as a friend points out, just like people.
i doesn't help that i've been in this sort of winnowing process lately. my life has been separating before my eyes, like substances in a chemistry experiment, into the meaningful and the meaningless. it's also happening with the people around me. i've become a lot more aware of how disappointing people can be. i've attributed some with more meaning in my life than they deserved. and, to be fair, i've disappointed more people lately than i think i ever have. so, there's that.
so, do i really want to wait 15 more minutes for john mayer? i've seen him twice, and he was great - in fact, he was one of the best guitar players i've seen, and i've seen stevie, clapton, guy, moore, cray, and some of the other blues greats. but that feeling, that sad anger, is back. it's risen again and again tonight, to the point that every slight by another person, real or perceived, makes me want to hurt the person, or to get hurt by the person. it doesn't matter. i just want something to happen, and i want an end.
yeah, i love john mayer, but i can't do it tonight. and amidst the flood of random thoughts and emotions, there's still one odd question that floats through: why, why god why, did john mayer date jessica simpson?
i'm going home. and i don't know that i'll come back.
Posted by Rob at 10:04 PM | Comments (3)
limbo
so, i've actually been writing quite a bit, but nights have been busy, then there was the ACL music festival this weekend.
the other problem is this new job. more about it later, but i'm in a room with 15-16 people. most are around a large boardroom table, but i work on a row of four facing one wall. there are about 12-18 inches between elbows, here. people look on your screen at what you're doing. there is no privacy, and we're not even supposed to be able to check our email accounts. i do anyway, because it helps forestall the day i wrap my hands around the throat of the guy next to me when he leans in front of me to talk to the guy on the other side of me.
tonight, hopefully, i'll get something put up. a lot of it will be about how much i hate most people these days, so you should really look forward to that.
Posted by Rob at 10:10 AM | Comments (2)
September 13, 2006
how much longer?
how long do you try? how long do you think you're going to change, when you never do, at least not enough to change your life?
i'm sorry. i don't think i have it in me. it's just another unfinished story, where the author simply lacked the will to keep writing, to make the difficult choices out of a sense of faith that the story would unfold as it should.
i'm here wanting to write the end of this story, an ending that is not an ending, or maybe a beginning, or a middle, since it never had a middle, did it? just a promising beginning that trailed off and became uninteresting, at best.
i just want to sleep, and to stay asleep. no more waking up with foolish hopes, daring intention, blind resolve. i just want to stay asleep.
Posted by Rob at 11:33 PM | Comments (0)
September 11, 2006
six miles
at 7:45 this morning, i closed the door behind me, and didn't lock it. i've tried in the past to be a morning runner, without any successful consistency, but recently, cooler mornings beckoned and busier evenings pressed.
i was a bit disappointed to find it was still somewhat warm, and definitely as humid as ever, but i went down the stairs and started to run. traffic moved, but it was quiet. it struck me that i was lucky to not have to be at work at eight in the morning. i've been lucky like that before...
five years and one minute earlier, i was as oblivious as anyone as to how the world was about to change. it's become cliche to talk about how the world changed, and maybe there's something purely sentimentalist to think that much changed, in the long, big scheme of things.
but we all know better. life moved on, but something in our minds had changed, for a multitude of reasons, but paramount among them, for the mere shock, the impact of something very large and very real happening.
by 9:02 this morning, i had covered almost a couple of miles, and was moving down past the school, towards zilker park. a couple on bikes nodded as they passed me, pedaling slowly and sedately. an older man in suspenders and a hat watched approvingly as sprinklers gently showered his lawn.
five years earlier, my then-girlfriend chandra yelled. i was in another room of her townhome, waiting to drive us to work. the t.v. was on in the bedroom, and she was standing there, staring.
i came in, moments before 8:03am, 9:03 at tower two, and along with the rest of the world, i saw the horrible punctuation mark at the end of the pre-9/11 world punctuated again.
i ran down barton springs road this morning, past the traffic stacking up to go to work and school, and i thought about how real it had all felt that morning, but yet how unreal it felt later, when we began to realize why it had happened. the reality of death and pain had sprung from things that man has created, artificial things - politics, money, religion that parodies and defiles spirituality, governments and policies that with agendas other than peace and the betterment of humanity.
i got through three miles, and turned south onto lamar boulevard, for the last two miles of my run, a long, uphill grind. i slowed to a walk for a few seconds, then gathered myself and began to run again, metering my breaths, timing them with the cadence of my footfalls.
politics, war, business, most of our jobs for that matter... they're only real because we've made them things that characterize our existence, but they're not essentially or necessarily part of who we are - they're constructs humanity has made up to meet other ends, and often to poorly fill sad little holes in our existence.
running, though, is real. it was there at our beginning, out of need, but i have to imagine that even early humans enjoyed how it felt to move quickly across the earth, maybe to race their friends, or maybe just for the hell of it.
one of my coaches was unabashedly sentimental today, saying he was going to toast all of us tonight, "in honor of our way of life and thanks that we are able to be free to do what we love - run."
i finished the run, went to work, and all day i was reminded of how unreal so much of our world is. business mangles language to create the salable illusion of meaning. our legal system is not about justice, but more a parody of itself, too often a tool better wielded by the powerful than the just.
too many of us, too often, are children, playing at make-believe with monopoly money and making up magic words, while what's real in ourselves, and the world around us, languishes, sometimes dies.
after work, i went to happy hour with my running friends. we toasted those who had raced over the weekend, whether they won, or simply competed. the meaningless portion of my day was bookended by my friends, and by my own footsteps in the morning, and today, it all meant even more to me than before.
Posted by Rob at 10:47 PM | Comments (3)