only on the internets

I found the following video after I discovered the 8-bit version of "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea."

Don't ask questions, just listen. Those in the know will know.

wow

Last night Phish for the first time played a Neutral Milk Hotel tune, the beautiful "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea." It's not a perfect cover, but this is easily the best attempt I've heard. Can't wait to see the guys in August.



This might be the greatest cover. Points for originality.

i've been waiting for this moment/for all my life

Today is officially my last day as an employee of and driver for Bloomington's public transit outfit. I've been waiting for this day for years -- literally. The forces of the cosmos have found it appropriate to fuck me over for the last couple of weeks, and today is no different. I've been given an eleven-hour shift today -- the last day I will ever work for this goddamn company and it's an eleven-hour shift.

xx

fml (again)

So, this evening I was scheduled to take a four-hour CPR certification class in Greencastle, which is a 70-minute drive from my place (I'm still in Bloomington for a few more days). I make the drive only to find that no one is there -- literally, no one this there, including the "instructor." On the door is a sign that states "if door is locked 30 minutes before scheduled class time, please call 866-611-6745 x100." It's 5:55PM and the class is supposed to begin in five minutes, so I call the number, dial the extension and receive not a live person, but a prerecorded voice-mail message. I leave a message. I wait ten minutes; receiving no phone call from the instructor, I dial again, this time leaving no message. It's now 6:25, getting no call back, I call again and leave a, um, polite message describing my situation. I leave and make the 70-minute drive back to Bloomington. At 6:40 I receive an e-mail stating that my $42 had been refunded, but I didn't receive an explanation about the no-show instructor. Why does this kind of shit always happen to me?

See, as part of a pre-entry requirement to the nusring program, I must receive American Heart Association CPR certification by July 6, so after tonight's fuck-me fest, I'm unsure of my next move.

Oh, and this morning I spent FIVE MOTHERFUCKING HOURS at Meineke getting an oil change and two new tires. Besides costing me 300 minutes of my life, my credit card received a hefty charge of $250.

F My motherfucking Life.

xx

great interview with mr. ed o'brien (yes, THAT ed o'brien)

Ed20-6-2010 by a952424

(Found via Consequence of Sound.)

The bullet points from the interview:

- Radiohead right now is "in the heart of the record."

- "The finishing line" for the new album is "in touching distance" and could be completed in a "matter of weeks."

- "I feel like this is the best record... we've ever made. It's genuinely exciting. It's very different from what we did last time."

- "It'd be great if [the new album] came out sometime this year. It's got to."

Bullet points aside, this is an interview all Radiohead fans will find fascinating. Ed discusses the current state of the band and retraces its history all the way back to Pablo Honey. Definitely check it out.

xx

nice end

At least this shitty week ends on a nice note: today I got my acceptance letter to ______'s RN program!

xx

a great piece of american journalism

I recently watched the classic "All the President's Men," a film that centers around journalists Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein -- the two men who uncovered the scandal that would bring down the presidency of Richard Milhous Nixon. Reading the following piece, by Dan Barry of the New York Times, reminded me that even in this day and age of fast-read summaries and millisecond sound bites, good journalism still has a place in the lexicon on American news.

June 17, 2010

Looking for Answers, Finding One

By DAN BARRY

WASHINGTON — On the 58th day, an outraged nation summoned the man it holds responsible for one of the worst environmental disasters in American history. He walked through the oversize wooden doors, shed the protective cocoon of his dark-suited entourage and took his place at a long table.

Sitting there, alone, with a microphone pointed at his face like a long finger of accusation, the oil titan looked so small — diminished, it seemed, by the immensity of the environmental, economic and social damage done.

“I am deeply sorry,” he said.

“Devastated,” he said.

“I’m not a cement engineer, I’m afraid,” he said.

“I was not part of that decision-making process,” he said.

This was Tony Hayward, the British chief executive for BP, called by Congress to answer for the explosion of a rig on April 20th that killed 11 workers and unleashed an as-yet-unstoppable sea of oil. The disaster has fundamentally altered many parts of American life.

And on Thursday, Mr. Hayward had to play his part in an American ritual that often follows catastrophe: a Congressional hearing, in which blustering politicians demand, stammering witnesses dodge, and the people living beyond those large wooden doors are given the sense that someone is being held accountable — even publicly shamed.

In that respect, Mr. Hayward performed his role well.

For much of the morning, the Capitol Hill dock awaited its guest. Then, shortly before 10, an unnerving hush announced Mr. Hayward’s arrival, a hush interrupted only by waves of repetitive camera clicks. All for a man of 53 who seems almost boyish, with his tousled dark hair, rosy cheeks and eyebrows forever arched, conveying a look somewhere between earnestness and amusement.

Mr. Hayward walked over to the one chair, reserved for him, then realized that he would have to wait. He turned his back on the shuttering cameras and stood with several aides in awkward silence, waiting. One aide whispered to another, “I told him not to come in so early.”

Here, then, was a moment to study the man. He has dedicated more than half his life to BP, working his way up as a geologist, exploration manager, and inner-circle executive. Though an American ear might hear aristocracy in his voice, his accent “reveals modest roots,” according to The Independent, a British newspaper. He is married, with children.

Yet when we see an oil-drenched gull, a docked shrimp boat, or the live-camera feed of oil spilling from the ocean floor, we think of Tony Hayward. Who wants his life back. Who thought this spill a drop in a vast ocean. Who is so tone deaf at times that it seems the oil-rig explosion affected his hearing.

The devastating spill, his spill, has sent clumps of oil washing onto shores from Louisiana to Capitol Hill. This week alone, several oil company chairmen stood in the Congressional dock; President Obama dedicated his first speech from the Oval Office to the disaster; and BP announced that it would create a $20 billion fund to cover claims arising from the spill, following a private meeting at the White House between a frustrated Mr. Obama and several BP officials, including Mr. Hayward.

Now Mr. Hayward was back, this time in a wide, red-carpeted room offering nowhere to hide. He took his seat, and, for several hours, sidestepped direct answers to pointed questions with a politeness that bordered on being impolite.

Representative Henry A. Waxman, the Democrat from California who is chairman of the House Committee on Energy and Commerce, set the mood. He first thanked Mr. Hayward for his appearance, then scored him for being an oblivious chief executive officer.

Mr. Waxman cited a subcommittee investigation that concluded that BP took shortcuts in constructing the fatal well “to save a million dollars here and a few hours or days there,” and added there was no evidence that Mr. Hayward “paid even the slightest attention to the dangers at this well.”

In other words, Mr. Hayward: Welcome. And there is a pitcher of ice water in front of you, should your throat feel dry.

For the next hour, a Greek chorus of Democrats and Republican used their opening statements to express the anger of a nation. The elected officials recalled that BP has a troubled safety record, responsible for other disasters: a deadly refinery explosion in 2005; an oil spill in Alaska in 2006. One representative questioned the depth of Mr. Hayward’s sorrow. Another told him he had violated the public trust. Yet another wondered whether it was time for him to resign.

After being sworn in, Mr. Hayward began to read a written statement, only to be interrupted by a woman — a shrimper, it was said — who raised her oil-stained hands and shouted, “You need to be charged with a crime!” As officers wrestled her out, she repeated her assessment of the witness.

Mr. Hayward, who did not turn to watch the eruption, continued with his apology, advised that “it was simply too early to say what caused the incident” — and spent the next five hours saying little beyond that.

No matter how hard Mr. Waxman pushed him, or how sharply the subcommittee chairman, Representative Bart Stupak, the Michigan Democrat, spoke to him, or how many documents were cited to suggest that BP put profit before safety at the Deepwater Horizon rig, Mr. Hayward essentially provided one answer:

“I was not part of that decision-making process.”

Throughout, Mr. Hayward maintained that look of amused earnestness. He moved his cup of water an inch. He jotted an occasional note. Sometimes his gaze seemed not directed at the speaker but somewhere in the wood-paneled distance — as though the repeated suggestions that he resign might not be such a bad idea.

Well after 5 p.m., the gavel came down with an angry: enough! Mr. Hayward’s dark-suited entourage ushered their small, boyish boss to an awaiting S.U.V. In the seven hours since the hearing began, as many as 735,000 gallons of oil leaked into the gulf.

And Friday is the 59th day.

reflection

I have had over twenty-four hours to contemplate sister’s future for the following 9-18 months, and I remain convinced that the prison sentence is the best possible thing that could have happened. On this blog I have written literally hundreds, probably thousands, of words regarding my sister’s battle with addiction. I haven’t written so much about my actual sister as I have about her addiction, because when a person transmutes into an addict, she loses her identity, her personality – she becomes a ghost surrounded by the living. It is a terrifying experience to watch a loved one, especially a younger sibling, lose herself to the hell of addiction. And keep in mind that my experience has been somewhat muted due to the physical distance between me and my sister. Regardless of the degree of exposure, the experience is indeed horrifying, and I mean that literally: I was physically afraid of seeing my sister, sharing a room with her, even a phone conversation was an anxiety-ridden ordeal. It’s troubling because this person, this young woman who I can faintly recall as a newborn, is no longer recognizable. Her speech, her appearance, her actions—it’s no longer her. It’s a stranger, a disturbed stranger, and, to a certain degree, a real-life monster.

But I feel an unending pity for my sister. I want to love her again. I want her to come home. I want to hug you and know that it is you I am hugging and not some demented spirit.

But I’m angry at my sister. She was given the opportunity of drug court (an opportunity that not every drug offender is given, which is unfortunate and, in my opinion, immoral, but the “war on drugs” must continue, right?), and not three months later, destroyed her progress by leaving the scene of an accident. But my sister is a victim – a victim of her own circumstance, no doubt, but a victim nonetheless. Despite the haze that envelops an addict, they, occasionally, do experience moments of clarity, and during those brief breaths they recognize and detest what they have become. No one, regardless of his or her background, willingly becomes an addict. The addiction chooses them.

Tonight, my sister, and mother of a 3 ½ year-old boy, sits in jail, waiting, presumably, to be transported to a state prison. She’s surrounded by other criminals, but she sits in jail alone. And I know that as she sits there, the cold reality of her situation is becoming increasingly evident. “How did it get like this?” she must surely ask herself. Did she seek the chemical comfort of drugs because, as she once claimed, she was sexually molested by a childhood neighbor? Did that really happen? Who would fabricate such a horrible event? But sister, how do I, how can I separate fact from the avalanche of lies you have designed?

In the weeks leading up to her sentencing yesterday, my sister discovered and began regularly using crack. Yes, crack. Will prison be the “rock-bottom moment” she needs to shake herself clean? Or is she gone, forever? Is the damage irreversible?

I want my old sister to come back home. I want to hug her again. I want all of this to end. I want a new beginning.

xx

72

The past 72 hours have been strange and strangled with anxiety.

Friday: I gave my two weeks notice to my employer. I’ve been a bus driver for Bloomington’s public transit system for nearly seven years, and although submitting my resignation was a glorious act, it was also slightly difficult. Leaving any place or person after seven years is difficult – not because you necessarily love that thing or person, but because that object (even if we’re discussing a person, after seven years that person becomes an object, an object of psychological dependence) becomes routine, and because we are all creatures of habit, its absence is felt, often in strange ways. Make no mistake: I'm happy to be moving on, I just don't know where I'm going, which is a rich source of anxiety for me.

I’m disappointed that I’ve spent the past seven years behind the wheel of a bus, or, more accurately, I hate the fact that I have wasted the past seven years doing practically nothing and, in the process, gone nowhere. I’ve met some interesting people and seen some unforgettable things, but it’s time for me to move on – my intelligence can be better spent in other roles; moreover, I desire a job that allows me to make an important and lasting impact on people’s lives, which is why I’m drawn to nursing, especially hospice nursing.

When I informed my supervisor that I would be leaving in two weeks, I also informed him of my near-future plans, which includes a career in hospice care. My supervisor, unbeknownst to me, has had three experiences with hospice care, most recently last fall, when he lost his brother to cancer. He was so touched by his experience that he literally couldn’t speak about it – he didn’t want to fall apart. So, instead, he wrote me a touching letter, a letter that reaffirmed my passion to pursue a career in hospice.

Sunday: PB and I braved a virtual monsoon of rain and ventured to The Bishop in Bloomington to see Damien Jurado perform. And what a performance it was. With full band he performed his latest album, the morose masterpiece Saint Bartlett, in its entirety. He then, solo, played “The Killer” and “Ohio.” It was possibly the most personal performance I’ve ever witnessed – he played every song with a passion and intensity that’s rarely seen on stage. I’d never seen him live before, but now that I have, listening to his music is a different experience than before: I feel like someone who has discovered an unlocked diary – you have some reservations about reading its contents, but inside those handwritten words a story is told, and it’s a tale full of dark spaces, places where people who attempt to love others are cut for their efforts, places where the loser is celebrated. You know it’s wrong to pry into such personal places, especially of a stranger’s, but you justify the invasion because those experiences make you feel less alone. His songs are medicine for the walking wounded. Jurado is a rare talent and shouldn’t be missed; check out Saint Bartlett and his tour schedule. (Also, don’t miss the opener, Kay Kay and His Weathered Underground. Definitely recommended for Elephant 6 fans, especially those who loved Beulah’s When Your Heartstrings Break. Sousaphone, French horn, trombone and more, Kay Kay rocked it Sunday night.)

Monday: Earlier today, sister was sentenced 9-18 months in prison for a DUI charge from a year ago. The judge, who, apparently, was expected to give her a mere probation sentence, called her a "menace to society" (yes, a direct quote). Sad to say, but at this point in sister’s story, a stay in prison is the best possible thing that could have happened. I guess. I don’t know…

xx

when you're finished raping his corpse, let me know

TMZ has and never will be synonymous with dignity, but this is just sad. Very sad.

you know you're old when...

You know you're old and out of the loop when you just discovered kick-ass Pandora.com -- via a Time magazine article!

xx

phish in the stove

To chase away the shadows, I compulsively cleaned a stove – a stove I’ll no longer be using in two weeks because I’ll be away from this place(!) – and listened to Phish’s December four-night run in Miami from ’09. I can’t wait to see the guys for two nights in August at Verizon in Indy. I haven’t been to a Phish show in close to a decade, but listening to their ’09 live sets brings it all back home. Some people get Phish. Most don’t. And that’s OK. But for those who do, experiencing a Phish event is always remarkable. Temporarily inhabiting a small town of 20,000 while five guys soak the atmosphere with improvisational jams is a rare occurrence. When you’re absorbed by a jam (I know I’m sounding like a complete stoner here, but fuck you, it’s great), you reach an ultimate point of realization: you look around and find 20,000 people entranced by one thing, music, and it’s a communal, almost religious experience. Can’t wait to get back.

xx

yorke speaks the obvious

The following article appeared on Spinner.com, which is owned by AOL (yes, that AOL), which was once owned by media giant Time Warner, so I don't mind copping the text and sharing it here.

Thom Yorke Warns the Music Business ‘Will Fold in Months’

In a rare interview, Radiohead frontman
Thom Yorke has warned young musicians
not to tie themselves to the “sinking ship”
of the music industry, suggesting it will
soon collapse. The singer said it is “only a
matter of time — months rather than years
— before the music business establishment
completely folds,” he said in an interview
for a school textbook.

He advises musicians to self-release music
rather than yearn for a major label contract,
suggesting the loss of the mainstream
music industry will be “no great loss to the
world.”

His group, who were previously signed to
EMI, shook the industry after offering a
‘pay what you want’ system for the digital
release of ‘In Rainbows’ in 2007. The model
has since become a common option for
groups selling their music online with
stores such as BandCamp.com.

Although the concept of the whole music
establishment folding may seem implausible,
it could be agreed that the annual deluge
of music graduates often find they have
few full-time prospects. The RIAA report
that music piracy is now costing 71,060 US
jobs and $2.7 billion (£1.86 billion) in
workers’ earnings every year. However,
hard times have encouraged some of the
most prolific music movements in history.
The modern affordability of recording
equipment and global distribution could be
the factors that prove Thom Yorke right.

The interview was for a new school textbook,
The Rax Active Citizen Toolkit, which
aims to engage young people with political
issues, and also features interviews with Ms
Dynamite and newsreader Jon Snow.

Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon knocked Radiohead for its pay-what-you-want download of In Rainbows, saying that Radiohead's decision will ultimately hurt smaller, poorer bands. Ironic, because in the new Internet-music age, those smaller bands have distinct advantages over label-signed bands, because those poor bands' decisions aren't guided by contracts or licensing agreements. Regardless of what Ms. Gordon or the industry heads say, the pay-what-you-want format is the future of music. Case in point: a couple of months ago ZAZA tweeted about Kordan's (at the time, an unknown band to me) fantastic darkwave debut The Longing, which I highly recommend (don't know why I haven't blogged about it; it's great for late nights soaked in rain). Intrigued, I Googled Kordan, found the band's site and discovered their EP, which I could stream in its entirety. I liked what I heard, and through the aforementioned bandcamp.com (stitched into the Kordan site), downloaded the EP. I paid $5.

It was all so very 21st century: a band I like tweets about an unkown band; I Google the band; I find the band's site, where I can stream its music and pay what I want for it. The entire process was seamless and convenient -- it's also, I believe, the only process the music "industry" can employ to sustain itself.

In this day and age, thieves will steal music regardless of the laws, or, here's a refreshing reminder, the ethical/moral consequences, prohibiting it. If the band or record label offers its music directly via the Net AND allows the consumer to set the price, what are they losing? Everyday example: Joe Blow loves the Crystal Castles and wants to pick up the band's latest offering. He can A) go to iTunes or eMusic and pay the industry-set price (the album's probably already been leaked, I might add), B) go to his local indie record store (if it's still open, of course), C), which currently isn't an option for CC's fans, go directly to its site, stream it, download it, and pay what they want, or D) go to thepiratebay.com and get it within seconds and pay nothing. If a band's "fans" are going to steal its music regardless, why not let them steal it from the source? It's less morally troubling to steal money from a monster-mega bank, but it isn't so easy stealing dough from your parents.

Love it or hate it, In Rainbows was the first example of a band taking a pro-active dive into the choppy waters of the new music "industry," which, soon, won't be an industry at all, but a vast network of opportunistic bands.

xx

you knew this would happen

(Click to see full size 1600x1100)

numbers

(Click to view full size 1600x1200)

right

good news bad news

I turned thirty-two on Sunday. Wasn’t much of a celebration. Panda Bear got me David Cross's latest album, a gift certificate for the Phish Dry Goods store, and then treated me to a French toast dinner at IHOP (I’m obviously not a hard man to please). For a parting gift, I, with assistance from P.B., pocketed an IHOP logo-emblazoned coffee cup. We then enjoyed the cool evening in the spacious backyard of our apartment by tossing the Frisbee. Simple pleasures are the most satisfying.

I don’t think it’s related to my birthday, but the last several days have been emotionally turbulent. Just an unexplained sadness. Sometimes this sadness transforms into a blind loathing for everyone, everything. Days like these, suicide is a fascinating option. Sometimes it feels like the inevitable conclusion of everything that I am.

I did receive some good news, however. Yesterday I received notice from the ____ campus that I have been accepted into its Registered Nursing Program. When I submitted my application many weeks ago, I felt very confident about making it in, but I had no idea just how competitive the field was. My application score was 212 out of 223 (95%); the cutoff was a remarkably high 208. The Nursing Coordinator at _____ said she was surprised by the number of high scores (last year the cutoff score was 202).

All this is good news, of course. But it isn’t great. I’m moving to ____ in a couple weeks, and the ____ _____ letters have yet to be sent. I have until June 18 to inform the Bloomington campus of my intent, so I’m hoping to receive word from ____ soon. ____ is about an 80-minute drive from Bloomington, and that isn’t a drive I want to make several days a week, but I will if I have to. I’m assuming (and hoping) that if my 212 was good enough for Bloomington, it’s good enough for ____. From what I have gathered, the Bloomington scores were among the highest in the state, so I’m still optimistic, but I’m not as confident as I once was.

I just want to move on from all this shit.

xx

gotta love southern indiana, ya'll

From Bloomington's Herald-Times Twitter feed:

People were taken to the hospital after a fight Sat. night at Lake Monroe, where 5 people tried to run each other over with pickup trucks.34 minutes ago via webRetweeted by 1 person

• Reply
• Retweet

theheraldtimes

The Herald-Times

details

another one

[POST DELETED]

busy

maybe-but-probably-not goodbye, readers

I really don't think this will happen, but if it does, I want to leave this:

I didn't mean for this to happen, so if I die in my sleep, it was an accident (honestly). And I'm sorry. I had a few drinks and took some pills so that I could sleep (being the joyful citizen of a capitalist theocracy, I must awake at 5AM tomorrow for work -- and I rarely see that time of morning).

If I do pass, however, I'll be at peace. This country-- more accurately its citizens (well, most of them) and government -- is so fucked at this point that we've reached the D.N.R. phase. Do Not Resuscitate because we are beyond the point of saving, and there is little-- no, there is nothing that I or an army of me could do to jolt this nation's citizenry from its collective slumber of apathy.

Most of you don't care about the atrocities -- US government-supported atrocities (Obama still supports off-shore drilling) -- occurring in the Gulf RIGHT NOW.

Most of you don't care about the human rights violations occurring right now in Gaza. Again, violations that receive the full backing (funds and military machinery) by the US government, including the killing of nine aid workers, one of them being an American who was shot point-blank four times in the head and one in the chest.

THESE ARE NOT CONSPIRACIES, BY THE WAY. STOP GOOGLING FOR FUNNY KITTEN VIDEOS AND PORN AND RESEARCH THE STORIES REPORTED ONLY BY THE UNDERGROUND MEDIA. You should follow @ggreenwald --Salon writer Glenn Greenwald-- on Twitter, who writes and retweets reputable stories you won't find in the cesspool of mainstream media.

And earlier this evening on Marketplace from American Public Media (jump to 3:39), David Lienhard discussed the flawed ability of people to make proper cost-benefit analyses, by "underestimating the odds of something unlikely, but that brings huge costs, like an oil rig blowing up, or the collapse of the housing industry; yet, paradoxically, we overestimate the odds of something rarely happening, like plane crashes. We believe they are more common than they really are, yet we react more to them then to car crashes, which occur much more frequently and are much more deadly to plane crashes." What he failed to mention was how this human and very flawed logic occurs when faced with the "horrific" and "large" group al-Queada terrorists and like-minded groups seething to kill innocent Americans. You're more likely to die on the motorway than dying from an Islamist's suicide belt. The terrorist threat was used as a fear tool by the GW Bush White House, which led to the passage of The Patriot Act. That same Act and similar tactics are being used by the Obama White House, unfortunately.

You need to watch all three of these BBC documentaries (for free, I might add): Power of Nighmares. The films will open your eyes to DOCUMENTED lies and embellishments that furthered American-Capitalist dominance over its country's people and millions throughout the world. It's a must watch and covers decades of shady tactics used by our government

I have now come to realize that Orwell's 1984 is the most terrifying book I've ever read, because, as I age, I see more and more, especially with the implementation of the Internet, which wasn't a device in 1984, of that fictional novel tearing into the real-life world of nonfiction, the purest form of nonfiction: no pages needed -- this is your actual REALITY. And it is being intruded upon through streams of data.

In a recent Nylon magazine interview, M.I.A. (tweeted by The Decemberists' Colin Meloy as the "Glenn Beck of the Left"), offered an intriguing theory: Facebook and Google were CIA projects. Far reaching, I know; but just how close are we to Orwell's 1984? If we are closer than we believe, M.I.A.'s theories don't seem so extreme. Just saying.

But seriously, watch The Power of Nightmares. Intriguing. And terrifying.

I hope a breath from my sleeping lips will not be the last. If so, in the immortal words of Hunter S. Thompson, "Don't take any guff from these fucking swine."

xx

(I love you, Panda Bear.)

take 10 seconds and do this

pics bp doesn't want you to see

The pics BP doesn't want you to see.

breaking: obama presidency isn't a total failure, but it's close

The President who wants to break our country's addiction to foreign oil STILL supports off-shore drilling, despite BP creating the worst environmental disaster this country has ever suffered. The oil industry has virtually forced this country's hand into adopting a new and progressive energy policy, yet it won't happen. Just wait, the media and Administration will eventually focus their attention elsewhere, and when they do, our President will follow the moniker of "drill, baby, drill." I sincerely wish our President were a democratic socialist, that would be real, positive and encouraging change to believe in.

Oh, and the President still supports the aggressive, brutal, Zionist regime in Israel, despite the defenseless killing of nine civilians, including one American, who was shot four times in the head and once in the chest, on a Turkish aid ship bound for Gaza. The United States has decided to stand with Israel and against the wishes of the United Nations in rejecting calls for an international investigation of the incident.

short: pinned to you

My first crush happened when I was twelve years old. Her name was Julie Richards, and as with most crushes, it was less about love and more about infatuation. I remember the first time her colors splashed across my eyes: it was the first day of 7th grade physical education class, and we were all dressed in heather grey PHYS ED DEPT shirts and those dreadfully short red polyester shorts. Mr. Burris was calling attendance, and when I heard him announce “Richards, Julie,” my head inexplicably turned in her direction.

And it was her shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair, free of curls and free of flaws, straight as the trail of a million raindrops.

And it was her green eyes, open and swallowing the gymnasium’s freshly waxed floor.

And it was her small budding breasts, waiting for the season of teenage menstruation to bust then burst from her bosom.

And it was her naked legs, those bare legs falling from those red shorts. The fluorescence from the rafters gave her pale thighs the glow of an Old Testament virgin.

But her right thigh was marred perfectly by a birthmark, which resembled a rosebud more than a spot of pigmented skin. I marveled at that mark. It became a strange emblem, a secret mark that, because of its placement on her thigh, showed itself only in gym class, only in those polyester red shorts. Whenever her eyes were away, at the free-throw line or pulling her body heavenward at the curl-up bar, I would gaze at it – the contrast of concentrated color against pale flesh, an island pinned to forever, surrounded by a sea of pale milk.

My crush, that infatuation, was not hatched out of a wicked desire; despite the hormones that were beginning to course through my capillaries, I didn’t want to fracture her shell of virginity. I sought only simple pleasures seeded by pure motives.
I wanted fingertips like feathers
to skim the placid surface
of that pale ocean.
Touching: an exchange of electrical impulses

foreign flesh to foreign flesh

and blood rushes

to the surface

and neurons burn as stars eclipsing death.

Breaking my impossible vision was the squealing of sneakers from the gym floor. Freshly waxed, it glimmered like a vast sliver of quivering water, but the gleam would eventually diminish under the soles of children,
children running
children dodging
children jumping
bodies moving,
eventually erasing the sheen.

Last week Julie Richards, now 29, accepted my Facebook request, but I don’t know why. I don’t even know why I bothered sending the request. I suppose I had the irrational idea of catching up and confessing the foolish feelings that occupied my life that one summer. But as that confession took form, as I plotted its points and outlined its shape, it became more absurd, idiotic. Throughout our school years we never spoke, we maybe exchanged glances in a crowded hall a few times. Our only bond was “class of ’97,” which, perhaps, was also her sole reason for accepting my request.

I didn’t write on her wall, nor did I send her a message. I didn’t want to trespass into her life, even if that intrusion took the form of a disposable electronic message. But I did look through her photo albums. I saw her romantically embracing a tanned, handsome man. A few pages later I saw her wedding photos, the groom being the same tanned man. I also saw sunny vacation photos. And babies who had become children. I saw all the moments she wanted to capture forever. And then I found a picture of Julie, alone, just her face, center frame. The hair, the eyes, the lips – it was Julie, but it’s strange how time impacts the face. The essence remains unchanged, but it’s those subtle nuances that remind you the end is getting closer; it’s taking form in your bones and on your flesh. It’s the eyes and the flesh around them. Something changes. It’s that star eclipsing death.

Lost in the pages of my sophomore yearbook there is a collage of photos. Pictures of cluttered hallways. Pictures of high school dances. There’s a photograph, taken during lunchtime, in which Julie’s face is colored bashful. She appears to be avoiding the camera, but her eyes are staring into it, those giant green eyes swallowing the life on the other side of the lens. And I’m there too. I’m in the back, several tables away, and I’m looking in Julie’s direction, but the camera was too far. My face is a blur, out of focus, barely recognizable. But I’m there.

On the first day of phys ed class the freshly waxed gymnasium floor shined so brilliantly I could nearly see a perfect reflection of my face. But children passed through, people passed over that surface and the shine dulled, the luster lessened, and at the end of the semester I saw nothing of my face when I stared into the floor. It was a blur. Unrecognizable.

The passage of time changes everything, and it fulfills its purpose in doing so. I wanted to write Julie, but not to confess a childhood delusion, but to paint a picture of my perceptions, share that image with her, and determine if the shadows created by my existence – our existence, however disparate – are unique, or shared through some strange chord that resonates under everything.

The forces of age have changed your body, Julie. The spoils of children have displaced the love for your husband, who now works to support a dream that is no longer his own. He crunches numbers and disconnects from conference calls while you toil in fields of daffodils and dandelions. When the moon is high and the children are sleeping, your husband’s putting away his last call, but where are you? What are you?

I remember that rosebud pinned in pigment to your thigh, that strange emblem from nervous youth. Our bodies have changed. Our faces, aged. But we’re still strangers, treading floors that fail to reflect.

xx

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june begins with some totally rad news

You know how earlier I gushed about 2010 album-of-the-year candidate High Violet? Well, the band behind that somber masterpiece, The National, just added Indianapolis to its concert calendar, Saturday October 2 at the Egyptian Room, to be precise. MOKB presale happens this Thursday; public sale begins Saturday.

!!!

xx