---

We reached the final page of the final chapter and thought, It wasn't supposed to end this way.

xx

quitting

Today was Joe's memorial service. Approximately 100 people attended the touching service and several of his close friends spoke. All of them expressed the same sentiment: Joe was a man of extraordinary kindness and his zany personality will never be forgotten.
After the service I came home to find a message from Mom -- Sister's wedding is off. (In previous weeks both had expressed some doubts about the wedding but eventually decided to make the giant leap into marriage.) Last night, Sister's fiance, in a drunken rage, shoved her. Mom relayed other details of the altercation, but I can't recall them. It's just another anecdote from suffering Sister's life. The incidents, the stories, and the lies have metastasized forming a giant, indistinguishable tumor, leaving her family numb, puzzled, and lacking direction.
I've begun to wean myself off my psychiatric medications. I have little doubt that my lack of creativity is directly related to the chemical changes in my brain. I've noticed other subtle changes in my personality: Months ago I purchased Chuck Palahniuk's latest novel and The Basic Writings of Existentialism, yet I have no interest to read them (or anything else, for that matter); I spend too much time watching television.
Every day has become a routine of nothingness, and motivation is a dead ghost.
Before I began taking the medications, I wondered if the substances would impact me creatively, and, while I can't prove it, I believe they have shortened my creative neurons, leaving me uninspired and frustrated. Is it possible I have manifested this fear subconsciously? Perhaps. But I was (and still am) very skeptical of the psychiatric field, especially psychiatric medications, long before my first visit with Dr. F.
When Dr. F. wrote my first prescription, I asked her if the medications were a temporary solution or a lifelong sentence; she said the latter. I refuse to accept a permanent condemnation to mind altering substances.

mc

a bloomington music revival?

Aside from the aforementioned David Bazan and Casiontone for the Painfully Alone show on 10 September, Bloomington will host some very good acts in the coming weeks. Here is a calendar of shows provided by local indie music store Landlocked Music.

23 August - Magnolia Electric Co. @ Bluebird
31 August - Papercuts @ Bear's Place
5 September - Jennifer Gentle (with The Dodos) @ Bear's Place
6 September - Heartless Bastards (Wow -- listen to "Into the Open") @ Bluebird
10 September - David Bazan with Casiotone for the Painfully Alone @ Waldron Arts Center
20 September - Nomo (I saw this ensemble perform at WIUX's Culture Shock and they lit the stage on fire!) @ Uncle Fester's
5 October - Old Time Relijun (I love how "Daemon Meeting" ends with the existentialist's eternal question "What does it mean to be human?") @ Bear's Place
23 October - Jens Lekman @ Jake's

mc

a sequence of time

Joe's memorial service will be on 26 August. It's going to be a rather odd experience considering he passed away on 20 July. Most of my co-workers have accepted his death and a sense of normalcy has settled in at my workplace; however, every time I pass his now empty office I'm reminded of the huge vacancy he's left behind.
It's strange -- whenever I approach a red Honda Civic (the type of car he owned) on the road I glance at the driver, as if I expect to see Joe behind the wheel.
In other work-related news, I'm one of two candidates to replace the training supervisor who will retire in a year. This is a salaried position and that means a big pay increase, added benefits, and many other perks. It's a position that will also allow me to demonstrate my instructing abilities among other attributes that I can't exhibit when I'm behind the wheel of a bus. I've always been able to connect with diverse people, which is why I've been a training assistant for nearly four years.
In other news, my part-time eBay business is doing exceptionally well. I recently treated myself to a Canon A570 IS 7.1 megapixel camera with 4X optical zoom lens so expect to see more pics here at T.S.Tv.S.
Also, Ry and I will see the best dressed band in rock and roll Interpol for the third time this year at the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago on 11 October; The Liars are the opening band, so it should be a wonderful show.
L and I are no longer speaking. (Insert Interpol's "Wrecking Ball" here.) We broke up several weeks ago but maintained a friendship until a week or two ago. She stopped responding to my text messages and that's that.
Sister's wedding will be on 8 September. I had a lengthy conversation with her last weekend, and she seems to be doing well. I constantly feel like my sister's well-being is precariously balancing on a tight rope, and at this point, I can't ever see that not being the case.
And me? I'm doing fine. I haven't written anything creative for several weeks, which is very upsetting. Inspiration has been lacking. I need rain, thunderstorms -- not this oppressive heat. I need a change of seasons. I'm begging for Autumn; I'm pleading for Mother Winter.
Last Friday, I saw MKF driving on Bloomfield Road. I hope she and child (has it been eight months since we last spoke?) are doing well.

mc

i recalled her black dress and she said goodbye

"I Recalled Her Black Dress and She Said Goodbye" photo by mc
(click to enlarge)

casiotone for the painfully alone returns to bloomington!

Casiotone for the Painfully Alone returns to Bloomington on 10 September 2007! He'll be supporting the amazing David Bazan (previously known as the front man of the now defunct Pedro the Lion) during a 14 date tour. Bazan has recently received praise for his amazing cover of Radiohead's "Let Down," which you'll find below in my imeem media player.
I saw Casiotone for the Painfully Alone a few months ago at Bloomington's Landlocked Records, and he delivered a spectacular performance. His cover of Bruce Springsteen's "Philadelphia" sent chills up my spine.
Casiotone for the Painfully Alone and David Bazan on the same bill is a can't miss show. They'll perform at the Waldron Arts Center.

mc

tonight (pt. II)!

Tonight!
Indianapolis's Egyptian Room!
Interpol!

simplicity

I believe I've cleared the final hurdle and accepted Joe's death. Unlike last week, the past two days have been free of tears. I feel something inside, a peacefulness, a silence, that I haven't felt since the news of his passing. Because of unalterable circumstances, particularly with Joe's brother, the memorial service won't be held until August 26th. I found this bit of news shocking considering Joe passed away July 20.
So where is Joe? Is he in heaven? Hell? Is he atoning for his "sins" in purgatory? No, no, and no. Has he been reincarnated? No. Has he transcended our reality and entered another dimension that human minds cannot fathom? No.
He's simply become one of the vanished and unborn.
I type this with as much conviction and knowledge as a theologian.
We live and then we die, but our consciousness struggles to grasp the simplicity of our existence, the terrifying monotony of our lives, and the ultimate, frightening end -- death.
I am not afraid to die, and to those who are, I ask, Are you afraid of the raising sun? Does the night sky, dotted with glimmering stars, horrify you? A man who lets the inevitabilities of life perturb him is a senseless and absurd fool. Again, I type this with as much conviction and knowledge as a theologian.
Close your eyes and ponder those living and dying at this exact moment across the globe. People are disappearing all of the time.

mc

postcards from the vanished

Yesterday, two haunting postcards arrived at my workplace. Both postcards were from Australia. Both postcards were from JL.
















(G'Day Office Staff, Things here on the island are beyond description. I could get used to this. Saw a koala on a walk the other day -- got pictures. Joe)


















(G'Day Drivers, Maintenance, and all! Australia is beautiful. Koalas, wallabies, and kangaroos are around everywhere. Take the bus here on the island since we don't have a car. Two to three dollars a trip depending where on the island you're going. Back to Sydney late next week then back to the U.S. on Tues. the 31st. See you soon. Joe)
We'll all be waiting for your return, Joe.

Many co-workers have shared their pictures of Joe, but I believe this one truly captures his wacky and joyous spirit, which was alive literally every day he was at work. I know it's a cliche, but Joe was a one of a kind in every sense of the phrase.

mc

"We're always losing the moment; it's always vanishing." Stephen Koch

awe and shock

After witnessing amazing performances by Calla and Interpol at Cleveland's House of Blues and driving more than 700 miles I arrived home at 7AM this morning. My body and mind were aching for sleep, but before I retired to bed I checked my e-mail. One particular e-mail caught my attention; the distressing subject line read "Some Very Bad News." JL, my direct supervisor at work and, more importantly, a great man and good friend, had passed away last Friday while vacationing in Australia, apparently of a massive heart attack. Two med-school students happened to be with him and he was across the street from a health clinic, so he received almost immediate medical attention but nothing could be done. He was 57 years old.
I've never met a nicer man and as a supervisor he was the best.
Although I didn't work today, I stopped by my workplace to truly grasp the magnitude of the situation and just talk with a co-worker or two. A makeshift memorial was set up with CDs by The Beatles, and The Grateful Dead, a picture of Elvis Presley (he loved Elvis and every time he left work he would say, "Elvis has left the building!"), a hockey puck (he was a local youth hockey coach), and other mementos of JL.
The loss is immense, and his jovial demeanor, joyful laugh, and gentle nature will never be forgotten by those who were fortunate to know him.

mc

tonight!

Tonight!
Cleveland's House of Blues!
Interpol!

first show: seven days

In exactly one week Ry and I will be at the intimate House of Blues in Cleveland watching Interpol. I'm so eager for this show I can barely contain my excitement.
I have officially fallen in love with Our Love to Admire. Damn the critics (particularly the Americans ). Damn the Interpol "fans" who have said the band isn't the same since they moved to a major record label. Damn you all to hell!
Which song is my favorite? I don't have one. Unlike the ADD "music fans" that fester in this digital age, I appreciate a band's album as a whole; I don't treat their work as a collection of individual songs tossed together with no rhyme or reason.
If you appreciate art, regardless of the medium, you find beauty in the "ugly" or "unsettling" parts of that artist's work. One of art's redeeming qualities is its ability to challenge the observer, the listener, or the reader. The challenge is to find merit in the disarranged. This, of course, leads to the timeless question, What is art?
I've strayed from the original purpose of this post, but I know there are many owners (I hope they actually purchased the album) of Our Love to Admire who hopscotch through the album as if they were channel surfing at 2 AM on a Tuesday morning.
Appreciate art. Don't steal music.
And I cannot wait until next Monday!

mc

it's a grower

Interpol's third release and major label debut, Our Love to Admire, was released today -- and it's a grower. Upon first listening to the album I had mixed feelings; the experience was somewhat anticlimactic.
Fans expecting nuggets of the band's two previous efforts, Turn on the Bright Lights and Antics, might be disappointed. Antics was released nearly three years ago, and, contrary to the wishes of some, bands don't live in bubbles. They evolve (hopefully). They change. They're not immune from time's wretched ways. In "No I in Threesome" Paul Banks sings, "You feel the sweet breath of time/It's whispering its truth, not mine."
The band has retained its fingerprint but donned a disguise. After listening to the album a couple of times, the patient listener will slowly peel off the mask and discover a different Interpol, an Interpol whose love is certainly worthy of admiration.
And love is always beautiful.

mc

ground level

Another night.
Another glass of whiskey and coke.
Another cigarette.
And time continues to descend through the cosmos.
Recent weeks have been enveloped in blackness. Creativity has been an empty well. Inspiration, nonexistent.
I made a vain attempt to maintain communication with L but two text messages buried any hope of a friendship. "Fuck off and go away... I don't want to be friends with you!"
I've damaged her, and in doing so, damaged myself. I'm certainly no stranger to self-inflicted pain, and despite the number of scars -- physical and emotional -- it hurts every time.
Like a beautiful cathedral from some foreign land I think of L every day. I'm riddled with guilt and remorse for what I've done because I've had my heart and hopes dashed countless times. Now, the blood is on my hands.
Last Sunday, I walked along the same trail we had wandered several weeks ago. As I walked alone, I could clearly recall some of the things we discussed when we walked together. And when I drive around town or as I lie in bed her ghost slips inside my mind and a memory as fresh as yesterday floods my heart, and for a brief moment I have to remind myself that she's gone, despite the realness of the memory.

I haven't spoken to Mother in a week, two weeks, I don't know. Any conversation would ultimately lead to the train wreck that is Sister, and I don't need to hear about her problems/lies, not now. What difference would it make if we were to discuss Sister? She is just another human being roaming the face of the Earth. Whatever meaning Mother or I try to attach to her life is fruitless. Human beings create the meanings, or lack thereof, to our lives (see: existentialism).
I believe we all have self-perceived holes in our identities. Some choose to fill these holes with god or some higher force. Others choose drugs, legal or illegal (ultimately, what's the difference between the two?). Others search for love. Others find sex as their opiate, the plug for their hole. But what if there is no real remedy for the cavity in ourselves? What if our consciousness is always conscious of something -- and that something is simply our existence, our beating heart?
The hour is late, but, in future posts, I plan to expand on some of the concepts expressed in this entry.

Good night and good luck.

mc

gay flamingos, a good junkie, and gravity in heaven

The hilarious David Cross at Bonnaroo 2007 (in two parts):

Part One


Part Two