My not-real zine friends are making music recommendations so I have made a playlist.
Lucero from a girl in Reno who writes about moments. Alex Wrekk and her Lemuria, The Kills, Sleater Kinney and Jarvis Cocker recommendations.
A loose community I pretend to be a cog in, the ghost on the porch nestled among of their stories, in their street dance parties, drinking the same dreb on 4:00am porches in my own realm, a naked 40 watt bulb shining through me. Not even a shadow. A voyeur.
Tape Songs makes me wish I was at the Domino Room slapping my hair against my cheeks, pretending I am made of pure bone, wearing unnecessary bracelets. Being a teenager, I suppose.
These stories. What do they mean to me?
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Vol de Nuit
Ride your bike down a certain street on a warm night.
It's the smell. The late evening early late night smell of domestic activity and the air will make your brain pop in a million places. Pop like vertebrae when you sit up straight.
Neurology specialists attest the sense of smell to be the closest to our memory. Not sure of the science of the matter I find the connection more of a concept than a science. Sights, feelings, and touch take over our lives and memory in an overwhelming abundance; imagine filing cabinets in some FBI basement chock full of photos and reports. Smell and taste preserved from this motley, remain exclusive -- time capsules being not the most groundbreaking of memories preserved in smell but little pockets of insight making a smell map chronicling the most primal of memory (ever take a bite of baby food?)
Sometimes I put sunscreen on in the winter.
Coast the long way home from Pilot Butte after a sunset and take your time to get to Franklin. Midnight black road of 15th where there are no street lights, right at Bear Creek, forget where you are and swerve into neighborhoods. Watch cats hypnotize themselves watching moths flurry in the street lamp and take one long inhale. Pass the swimming pool for the waft of chlorine surfacing the child who first choked at the first jump into the "deep" end.
Popcorn, laundry, lingering barb-b-ques, sprinklers crisping the air with a hiss of water: a flood of experiences rush in, as if flipping through a photo album where the images are in no specific order.
Cigarettes make me think of Kevin.
Pipe tobacco makes me think of Tonia.
The smells hang in cloud pockets, waft in invisible orbs.
Carry your head through them and never exhale, open your mouth to taste the night on the back of your tongue.
It's the smell. The late evening early late night smell of domestic activity and the air will make your brain pop in a million places. Pop like vertebrae when you sit up straight.
Neurology specialists attest the sense of smell to be the closest to our memory. Not sure of the science of the matter I find the connection more of a concept than a science. Sights, feelings, and touch take over our lives and memory in an overwhelming abundance; imagine filing cabinets in some FBI basement chock full of photos and reports. Smell and taste preserved from this motley, remain exclusive -- time capsules being not the most groundbreaking of memories preserved in smell but little pockets of insight making a smell map chronicling the most primal of memory (ever take a bite of baby food?)
Sometimes I put sunscreen on in the winter.
Coast the long way home from Pilot Butte after a sunset and take your time to get to Franklin. Midnight black road of 15th where there are no street lights, right at Bear Creek, forget where you are and swerve into neighborhoods. Watch cats hypnotize themselves watching moths flurry in the street lamp and take one long inhale. Pass the swimming pool for the waft of chlorine surfacing the child who first choked at the first jump into the "deep" end.
Popcorn, laundry, lingering barb-b-ques, sprinklers crisping the air with a hiss of water: a flood of experiences rush in, as if flipping through a photo album where the images are in no specific order.
Cigarettes make me think of Kevin.
Pipe tobacco makes me think of Tonia.
The smells hang in cloud pockets, waft in invisible orbs.
Carry your head through them and never exhale, open your mouth to taste the night on the back of your tongue.
Jay Rowan
It has become difficult to find pictures of him online.
At first it was easy, before 2006.
Jessica and I printed off pictures of him just to look at, paste in our journals like a mid-90's Rider Strong or Devon Sawa. A popular one among us was a photo of him winning a set of speakers from a tech store. The internet fulfilled a desire a real relationship would have if we'd had the courage.
When you look for him his name is everywhere but always in regard with swimming events partaken in his honor.
After he graduated and moved away, Jessica and I would call his house
"is Jay Rowan there?" we asked every time to his frustrated father.
"He's IN COLLEGE," Jay's father would state and hang up.
Funny how the temptation to call remained after he drowned. It almost seems he's still in college. Doing amazing things.
In the grieving process I never got passed the denial phase.
Still, knowing Jay is not out there getting old and doing the spectacular things makes me restless.
There are so many people out there doing stupid things; being phony and messing things up for everyone. To recognize one of the equalizers are gone can make one crazy. It makes me want to do better. Make up for the loss in the world.
You ever see the movie "Always" with Richard Dreyfuss and John Goodman? Richard Dreyfuss is a firefighter pilot who dies and comes back as a ghost to be a mentor for another young pilot. "Pete" (Dreyfuss) hovers over the shoulder of his student making telepathic suggestions of what to do, when to drop water, blah blah blah. This is what I imagine Jay doing. A made-up mentor, a Bodhisattva, a ghost who can talk to me through the channel of Whoppie Goldberg (but I will not make love to Whoopie Goldberg even if Jay Rowan has possessed her).
I don't know what the hell I am writing here. I miss him.
At first it was easy, before 2006.Jessica and I printed off pictures of him just to look at, paste in our journals like a mid-90's Rider Strong or Devon Sawa. A popular one among us was a photo of him winning a set of speakers from a tech store. The internet fulfilled a desire a real relationship would have if we'd had the courage.
When you look for him his name is everywhere but always in regard with swimming events partaken in his honor.
After he graduated and moved away, Jessica and I would call his house
"is Jay Rowan there?" we asked every time to his frustrated father.
"He's IN COLLEGE," Jay's father would state and hang up.
Funny how the temptation to call remained after he drowned. It almost seems he's still in college. Doing amazing things.
In the grieving process I never got passed the denial phase.
Still, knowing Jay is not out there getting old and doing the spectacular things makes me restless.
There are so many people out there doing stupid things; being phony and messing things up for everyone. To recognize one of the equalizers are gone can make one crazy. It makes me want to do better. Make up for the loss in the world.
You ever see the movie "Always" with Richard Dreyfuss and John Goodman? Richard Dreyfuss is a firefighter pilot who dies and comes back as a ghost to be a mentor for another young pilot. "Pete" (Dreyfuss) hovers over the shoulder of his student making telepathic suggestions of what to do, when to drop water, blah blah blah. This is what I imagine Jay doing. A made-up mentor, a Bodhisattva, a ghost who can talk to me through the channel of Whoppie Goldberg (but I will not make love to Whoopie Goldberg even if Jay Rowan has possessed her).
I don't know what the hell I am writing here. I miss him.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Practicing for Winter-time?
My eyes are blurry again, the way they were in the wintertime when all day was devoted to avoiding the cold, all was a distraction from the elements which only caused death. Sylvia Plath had an interesting take on winter in her poem Spinster which my friend Patrick says is misandrist. She writes:
How she longed for winter then! --
Scrupulously austere in its order
Of white and black
Ice and rock; each sentiment within border,
And heart's frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.
These bleary eyes as testament -- winter is not longed for.
There was the line in Fight Club dealing with Sylvia Plath which never made a great deal of sense:
"In the Tibetan philosophy, Sylvia Plath sense of the word, we're all dying." Did Sylvia Plath ever say this or feel this? Her journal and her life conveyed a sense of extreme depression but death was the outcome of her sadness. Her biographers bite and spit over interpreting her life making unlikely a person of my two-bit informed nature an expert interpreter on the subject.
But Chuck Palahniuk got it wrong like he got the Greek gods confused in another one of his novels (he overestimated Zues's loyalty to Hera - perhaps the Disney Hercules edition of Greek mythology).
Camus equated life as the only thing really important (if there is no afterlife life is all there is) and spelled out an equation for an acceptable suicide if the pain of living is greater than dying (and consequently worth giving the greatest of possessions).
The details of this information have been not much less than completely forgotten...
This article is crap.
How she longed for winter then! --
Scrupulously austere in its order
Of white and black
Ice and rock; each sentiment within border,
And heart's frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.
These bleary eyes as testament -- winter is not longed for.
There was the line in Fight Club dealing with Sylvia Plath which never made a great deal of sense:
"In the Tibetan philosophy, Sylvia Plath sense of the word, we're all dying." Did Sylvia Plath ever say this or feel this? Her journal and her life conveyed a sense of extreme depression but death was the outcome of her sadness. Her biographers bite and spit over interpreting her life making unlikely a person of my two-bit informed nature an expert interpreter on the subject.
But Chuck Palahniuk got it wrong like he got the Greek gods confused in another one of his novels (he overestimated Zues's loyalty to Hera - perhaps the Disney Hercules edition of Greek mythology).
Camus equated life as the only thing really important (if there is no afterlife life is all there is) and spelled out an equation for an acceptable suicide if the pain of living is greater than dying (and consequently worth giving the greatest of possessions).
The details of this information have been not much less than completely forgotten...
This article is crap.
Olestra and bleeding butts
When I was about ten the mail lady dropped off this package that was a sample of these fat-free chips they were testing on consumers before hitting the shelves. The chips were potato I believe and they were a totally weird new thing where the brand (Lays?) used some fat substitute agent lacking in actual fat. What the package asked myself, ten-year-old Rachel Lee-Carman, to do was try the chips, report back and tell said company whether the chips were good or not or whatever.
One stipend in regards to these new chips warned anal bleeding, stomach cramping, etc. were some possible outcomes of eating these chips.
I remember biting carefully into the chips - really chewing them up and rolling the mash in my mouth for probably a full minute, eating one chip at a time conceding that the moment my butt began to bleed I would hasten my guilt-free snacking. Being the snack happy child I was this product was a manifestation of my loftiest fantasies.
However, the chips never made my butt bleed and I never saw the chips at the grocery store...
For those dealing with Olestra addiction please read:
http://www.salon.com/health/feature/1999/08/16/olestra/
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Que Sera Sera
Rich came over earlier to borrow my I Like Killing Flies dvd. I saw him at the back door before he knocked and he made a buzzing sound while pretending to press the nonexistant intercom/buzzer button.
"Is the what they do in them cities?" I said.
Tonight is too many skeeter bites.
Yesterday I think I told Kevin I loved him but it might've been some other day.
I went to the gym for over three hours.
"Is the what they do in them cities?" I said.
Tonight is too many skeeter bites.
Yesterday I think I told Kevin I loved him but it might've been some other day.
I went to the gym for over three hours.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
My sister and I got in a fight
My sister and I got in a fight the other day.
I am writing this because I neglect writing as an act of therapy. A thing it has always been for me in the past.
The fight was quick, which I regret.
I dream of my fights lasting long, like in soap operas, where they often span several episodes and usually end with some great climax of passionate forgiveness or murder.
Mine started with:
"Stop telling me I'm a grandma,"
and ended with
"Shut the fuck up."
It lasted, literally, no time at all. The walk up the hill at Columbia park where the park reaches the river. Ten seconds.
I dream of fights lasting a long time because during a fight there is always more to say. When you get to a fight it never is about one thing, it's about a culmination of events warehoused in a scrum of old laundry.
There really was a lot more to say.
I wish you would let me live my own life without shaming my into doing things you wan to do.
I wish your activities were something I wanted to do.
I feel angry when you tell me I'm not fun.
I feel angry when you constantly tease me for what you feel is being boring.
I wish we had more in common or I wish we could find something we both could do.
I wish you wouldn't give me the stink eye.
I also wish you would sometimes shut the fuck up.
Erica and I went to Columbia park to jump off the bridge. I didn't plan on jumping off the bridge. I wanted to be in the water but I didn't want to jump off the bridge.
"Not my style," I had told Erica as she hung off the edge, beckoning me to climb over.
There are a lot of things I'm scared of and a lot of things I'm not scared of. One of the things I don't like to do is jump off bridges.
Once, at Cove Palisades my whole family jumped off the huge bridge lolling over Lake Billy Chinook. It was high. I could see rocks. I didn't jump. Maybe I wanted to practice how to not commit suicide which in this light makes me the most sane in the family. I climbed down a rock embankment decorated with beer bottle jewels in flimsy flip-flops. A thing I handle particularly well is ninjas. Also: ghosts, roller coasters, panic scenarios like bank heists, heat waves, car accidents and the end of the world.
So. She kept nagging me, and she always does this. Erica is president of an organization called D4AE; down for anything and everything. Our family has teasingly called it Down for Anything Erica wants to do.
For this reason she heckles someone who doesn't do something spontaneous. Taking preparation time is abhorrent to her policies.
Now, this is all very partisan and I didn't want this. I want to be sound and objective. For this reason I take a moment and give the many virtues of being D4AE.
Truth is, when you are D4AE you have more fun. It's like a permanent game of dare.
When one member wants to have a craft night everyone must have a craft night. If a member wants to take ballroom dancing classes everyone takes ballroom dancing. It's a community where everyone is enriched my others ideas as well as having an automatic network for their own specific needs. It is really really fun when you just play along and allow yourself to get caught up in the flow of impromptu activity.
But. It's not for me. Not right now anyway. Plus it often costs money and involves driving places which are my least favorite things.
We actually like the same things; late night bike rides, drinking beer, being with people, going on hikes and having adventures in new places. But it's all different. The nature of bike excursions are different, the beer is different, the people are different, so are the hikes and interpretation of the word adventure.
This is difficult for Erica. It's difficult because I don't call her. I don't ever want to do anything with her.
This is neglect. I am a neglectful sister.
'You're different," she accuses me. "You don't have fun anymore, you just want to clean your house."
Yes. This is true. All I like to do is clean my house and listen to This American Life. I love doing the dishes to Terry Gross interviews. I love vacuuming between the cushions in the coach while listening to a new Julie Sabatier, DIY in Portland bit. I dream of clean house nirvana paired with provoking radio.
I often fail to see the problem with this though Erica never fails to point it out every time we get together.
Apologies. I'm being biased again.
Listen. I didn't want to jump off the bridge, she wanted me to. She heckled me. I told her to shut the fuck up, which she did.
There is this comic aspect regarding fights which end in a bike ride. The person who labels themselves the victim, Erica (since I had the last words), who is allowed to trail behind the perpetrator and has the privilege to mope all the way home. Erica rode on the wrong side of the road.
Failing to obey bike laws makes me crazy, so when she started doing it, it actually made me laugh inside a little. How spiteful! She knows how much I respect the road! And on my own bike nonetheless! TSK!
When we got to my house I apologized. I normally don't yell. I made an exception this one little time because otherwise I would of just never called her again like I do most people. She deserved better than that. She's my little sister.
Now we're not talking and for the most part I'm okay with it. She's stressful. Lots of accusing and shame-mongering and I had been avoiding it for too long.
As of now, a day later, I don't know what I am going to do. It's not like we run into one another a lot. All of our "hang-outs" were primarily initiated in the sparse free-time either of us had for one another and most consisted of an activity one of us was forced to do. One enjoyable activity was hiking the butte during dusk.
For the bit of time I will contemplate what it is I want from her and redefine what it is that causes conflict. Brainstorm how we can share time without the stress. That's what a good sister would do I guess.
For now, I'm glad she knows my anger is out there. Typically my cards are played very close but I made an exception and just threw them all on the table. I let her know. I never do this.
I know I'm rambling now, groping for a way to tie this into a neat package.
There is this children's show; Dora the Explorer. There is a fox called Sniper. When Sniper wants to steal something Dora chants, "SNIPER NO SNIPING! SNIPER NO SNIPING!" over and over until he stops doing what he's doing and leaves. Sometimes he doesn't leave and gets what he wants. Dora's magical charm doesn't always work, it seems to be telling kids, sometimes the bitches still get the goods.
But the lesson there is be perseverant and not aggressive. Be assertive, repetitious, a little bit crazy for believing repeating a command will manifest real results.
Maybe it can.
If it can we should do it during hostage situations.
I think; what if I did that to Erica instead of being so direct and vicious, instead of going straight to the vein and biting.
"ERICA NO NAGGING! ERICA NO NAGGING!" is what I would say when she's pointing out what a loser I am in her book. It's not the best solution, maybe the point wouldn't be reached how much I hate being harassed whenever we're together.
But, like Sniper, maybe she would just stop. Put down Backpack and trail back into the woods. Or at least stop. At least not be crushed.
I am writing this because I neglect writing as an act of therapy. A thing it has always been for me in the past.
The fight was quick, which I regret.
I dream of my fights lasting long, like in soap operas, where they often span several episodes and usually end with some great climax of passionate forgiveness or murder.
Mine started with:
"Stop telling me I'm a grandma,"
and ended with
"Shut the fuck up."
It lasted, literally, no time at all. The walk up the hill at Columbia park where the park reaches the river. Ten seconds.
I dream of fights lasting a long time because during a fight there is always more to say. When you get to a fight it never is about one thing, it's about a culmination of events warehoused in a scrum of old laundry.
There really was a lot more to say.
I wish you would let me live my own life without shaming my into doing things you wan to do.
I wish your activities were something I wanted to do.
I feel angry when you tell me I'm not fun.
I feel angry when you constantly tease me for what you feel is being boring.
I wish we had more in common or I wish we could find something we both could do.
I wish you wouldn't give me the stink eye.
I also wish you would sometimes shut the fuck up.
Erica and I went to Columbia park to jump off the bridge. I didn't plan on jumping off the bridge. I wanted to be in the water but I didn't want to jump off the bridge.
"Not my style," I had told Erica as she hung off the edge, beckoning me to climb over.
There are a lot of things I'm scared of and a lot of things I'm not scared of. One of the things I don't like to do is jump off bridges.
Once, at Cove Palisades my whole family jumped off the huge bridge lolling over Lake Billy Chinook. It was high. I could see rocks. I didn't jump. Maybe I wanted to practice how to not commit suicide which in this light makes me the most sane in the family. I climbed down a rock embankment decorated with beer bottle jewels in flimsy flip-flops. A thing I handle particularly well is ninjas. Also: ghosts, roller coasters, panic scenarios like bank heists, heat waves, car accidents and the end of the world.
So. She kept nagging me, and she always does this. Erica is president of an organization called D4AE; down for anything and everything. Our family has teasingly called it Down for Anything Erica wants to do.
For this reason she heckles someone who doesn't do something spontaneous. Taking preparation time is abhorrent to her policies.
Now, this is all very partisan and I didn't want this. I want to be sound and objective. For this reason I take a moment and give the many virtues of being D4AE.
Truth is, when you are D4AE you have more fun. It's like a permanent game of dare.
When one member wants to have a craft night everyone must have a craft night. If a member wants to take ballroom dancing classes everyone takes ballroom dancing. It's a community where everyone is enriched my others ideas as well as having an automatic network for their own specific needs. It is really really fun when you just play along and allow yourself to get caught up in the flow of impromptu activity.
But. It's not for me. Not right now anyway. Plus it often costs money and involves driving places which are my least favorite things.
We actually like the same things; late night bike rides, drinking beer, being with people, going on hikes and having adventures in new places. But it's all different. The nature of bike excursions are different, the beer is different, the people are different, so are the hikes and interpretation of the word adventure.
This is difficult for Erica. It's difficult because I don't call her. I don't ever want to do anything with her.
This is neglect. I am a neglectful sister.
'You're different," she accuses me. "You don't have fun anymore, you just want to clean your house."
Yes. This is true. All I like to do is clean my house and listen to This American Life. I love doing the dishes to Terry Gross interviews. I love vacuuming between the cushions in the coach while listening to a new Julie Sabatier, DIY in Portland bit. I dream of clean house nirvana paired with provoking radio.
I often fail to see the problem with this though Erica never fails to point it out every time we get together.
Apologies. I'm being biased again.
Listen. I didn't want to jump off the bridge, she wanted me to. She heckled me. I told her to shut the fuck up, which she did.
There is this comic aspect regarding fights which end in a bike ride. The person who labels themselves the victim, Erica (since I had the last words), who is allowed to trail behind the perpetrator and has the privilege to mope all the way home. Erica rode on the wrong side of the road.
Failing to obey bike laws makes me crazy, so when she started doing it, it actually made me laugh inside a little. How spiteful! She knows how much I respect the road! And on my own bike nonetheless! TSK!
When we got to my house I apologized. I normally don't yell. I made an exception this one little time because otherwise I would of just never called her again like I do most people. She deserved better than that. She's my little sister.
Now we're not talking and for the most part I'm okay with it. She's stressful. Lots of accusing and shame-mongering and I had been avoiding it for too long.
As of now, a day later, I don't know what I am going to do. It's not like we run into one another a lot. All of our "hang-outs" were primarily initiated in the sparse free-time either of us had for one another and most consisted of an activity one of us was forced to do. One enjoyable activity was hiking the butte during dusk.
For the bit of time I will contemplate what it is I want from her and redefine what it is that causes conflict. Brainstorm how we can share time without the stress. That's what a good sister would do I guess.
For now, I'm glad she knows my anger is out there. Typically my cards are played very close but I made an exception and just threw them all on the table. I let her know. I never do this.
I know I'm rambling now, groping for a way to tie this into a neat package.
There is this children's show; Dora the Explorer. There is a fox called Sniper. When Sniper wants to steal something Dora chants, "SNIPER NO SNIPING! SNIPER NO SNIPING!" over and over until he stops doing what he's doing and leaves. Sometimes he doesn't leave and gets what he wants. Dora's magical charm doesn't always work, it seems to be telling kids, sometimes the bitches still get the goods.
But the lesson there is be perseverant and not aggressive. Be assertive, repetitious, a little bit crazy for believing repeating a command will manifest real results.
Maybe it can.
If it can we should do it during hostage situations.
I think; what if I did that to Erica instead of being so direct and vicious, instead of going straight to the vein and biting.
"ERICA NO NAGGING! ERICA NO NAGGING!" is what I would say when she's pointing out what a loser I am in her book. It's not the best solution, maybe the point wouldn't be reached how much I hate being harassed whenever we're together.
But, like Sniper, maybe she would just stop. Put down Backpack and trail back into the woods. Or at least stop. At least not be crushed.
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