“tell me how many froggs do I have to kiss / before I find my prince” @NATASHABDNFIELD I’m right here! 😉
Pogo’s “Wishery” remixes the crap out of Snow White; well done, son! http://ping.fm/teykW
My security blankie
It Doesn’t Get Any Easier the Second Time Around
Posted: October 15, 2010 in WritingTags: Amiford, Brother, Bury, Cat, Death, Feline, Frodo, Fud, Kanji, Kitten, Lady Gaga, Love, Murdoch, Vet
I just finished burying my belovéd cat Kanji beneath one of the great eucalyptus trees in the garden at Edgemont Place. I had to do this once before with the Murdoch family cat, Frodo, in 1997, after I moved him in with my first wife and our four cats Kalvin, Anastasia, Hobbes, and Atari on Sutter Street. Frodo was over 16 years old, a canny outdoors cat with a penchant for rubbing so vigorously on the edge of roofs that he’d almost fall off. He had never been away from the fiefdom on Amiford, but the people who were leasing the house while my parents were in Canada were “allergic to cats” and didn’t want him around. It was only a couple of months later that he quit eating — even hand-shredded warm chicken — and I knew it was time for him to go.
When I took Frodo to a highly impersonal 24 hour clinic to figure out what was wrong with him, the diagnosis was swift and sure: kidney failure. He wouldn’t miraculously heal and start eating and beating the shit out of the younger cats when they wouldn’t leave him alone like he was doing last week. It was clear that it was time, and when I looked into his eyes when I put him down, he was so much wiser and greater than I could ever be; he thanked me with a wink as he slipped over the edge and was no longer there in feline form.
I had no cat carrier at that time, so I took Frodo to the clinic in a paper ream box with a lid. As I took his body home in the same box, driving west on the I8, the clouds poured sunshine through a halo-like hole in the sky over the ocean, and I had to pull over to let the tears course down my face and to scream how unfair it is that I am left behind with all of this grief and a hole in my heart. I went home, got a shovel out of the shed, and drove to Monaco Street near the Amiford residence. I hiked up the drainage ditch I used to play in and around as a child, struck off into the depths of the old acacia bushes, and found a spot under a tree that I thought Frodo would like. And I buried his body there, in the wilderness behind the house where he would disappear for hours and sometimes days, hunting, napping, sunning, and doing whatever it is cats do when they go adventuring. Performing this ceremony made me whole over time: I knew I had done the right thing and done it with power and grace. It is not an easy thing to do.
It doesn’t get any easier the second time around.
The week before this one, on Thursday, I woke up with Kanji curled up between my legs where I had fallen asleep on the couch. What puts this into perspective is that Kanji does not like to come inside the house. She’s always been like this; I am certain her previous owners didn’t allow her inside, and it was hilarious to watch her at Saratoga — where I inherited her — with an open door and a bowl of wet fud just inside enticing her to cross that threshold. When I moved and took her to Panorama, she stayed in my room for two weeks straight, terrified and freaking out that I had moved her from where she had always been. After she ventured outside, she found the spacious basement and spent her time sleeping in the rafters, only emerging to demand fresh kibble and occasionally sprint halfway up a tree when chased by the native cats Brother, Jedi, and Vader. She would continue to sleep at the foot of the bed every so often; a pleasant morning surprise keeping my feet warm and blinking her big blue eyes at me as I would be sleepily slapping the nightstand for the snooze button. At Edgemont, Kanji quickly took up residence under the house a
gain when I let her outside and removed an anti-rodent mesh from the sub-basement. Over time, she found many hidey-holes, but spent most of her time curled up snoozing in the beat-up garage, sometimes on top of my carpeted DJ coffins or speakers. She did get used to coming in the house in order to feed and water, though, so I got used to her occasionally showing up inside, although she much preferred to enter via the window rather than crossing a doorjamb. So it was unusual to have Kanji curled up next to me, rubbing blood and pus all over my comforter from her ruined nose and ear because she just couldn’t quit being a kitten and, well, she wanted to communicate with me that she needed me.
I spent the last week with Kanji as an indoor cat. She had gotten skinny — skin and bones, really, so I plied her with wet fud and booted Brother out of the house so she could eat in peace. Lots of time was devoted to scratching her in all the right places, and gently, so when she would encourage me to rip the scabs off of her nose and ear to drain the grisly shit that was going on underneath, my fingers could dance around it. She peed on everything and I didn’t give a fuck; that Thursday she came in the house, I promised her that I would take care of this once and for all, and so we hung out hard-core: nerding it up while I solved Halo: Reach on Legendary mode with her next to me for good luck; watching Netflix Kung Fu movies until 4 in the morning on school nights; hand-feeding her American cheese slices and black forest ham on her Mexican blanket on the couch and hearing her little “om nom nom” noises; waking up in the middle of the night as she decided that she wanted to sleep closer to me, so she would carefully crawl on to my chest or between my calves and pretend like she had always been there. Kanji was fiercely independent, but she knew better than I what time it was.
I took Kanji to Heather at Cabrillo Vet four or five months ago to find out what was wrong with the persistent scabs on her ear and nose. Heather and her whole staff, by the way, are the greatest lovers of animals on the planet. Referring to me as “Dad”, Heather told me several months ago that this was fast-moving, untreatable skin cancer, and as tears welled up in my eyes, she informed me that Kanji had 1-6 months to live. Today I took Kanji back to Cabrillo and Heather to put her down. Over the last week, I would come home from work at GreenHouse, drop my heavy backpack of tech, and go looking for her. I was worried that Kanji would try some disappearing bullshit on me. At first, I would find her laid out on the couch somewhere, but as this last week went by, I would have minor panic attacks and search the yard fruitlessly, thinking that Kanji either couldn’t get back in the window or that she was trying some dumb “I’m just going to disappear” ploy. She was always inside the house, but these last three days, she was so embarrassed with her incontinence and appearance, she found a secret spot in my back closet where she would hide until I coaxed her out of it and encouraged her back to the couch. Usually, this involved playing Lady Gaga tunes and putting fresh food in her bowl; she loves teh Gaga while she delicately ate while trying not to bang her scabby nose into the kibble.
So the second vet visit ever was to put her out of this misery. I am comforted that I spent good time with Kanji and have lots of pictures and even a little bit of video (where she got excited and tore the crap out of the back of my hand). Heather and Cabrillo are very efficient; I signed some paperwork and there was no wait. We went right back to the exam room, and they gave me a scant two minutes to let Kanji out of the carrier and let her freak out and run around a little. As I put her back on the table for the procedure, I got one good look in her big baby blue eyes, and saw them change from fear to resignation to trust. I trust you. I. Trust. You. And that is how Kanji went forth into the great beyond.
I’m an Eagle Scout; I pride myself on being prepared and being good in the “clutch” situation. As I drove home with Kanji’s still form in the cat carrier, I couldn’t help but look at her as if she was just sleeping. When I got home, I didn’t like her body in the carrier, so I carefully pulled her out and laid her on her circular cat-tower-throne that she liked when she was sunning and sleeping. She looked like she always did, sans an infrequent mini-bath and look around while squinting and licking her chops before resuming her nap. I found my shovel under the stairs and dug a deep hole next to two of the massive eucalyptus trees here at Edgemont place. Curling her up in that hole, and arranging her limbs to cover her eyes and give her the semblance of a nap reminded me of doing the same thing with Frodo. And that’s when I knew that it doesn’t get any easier the second time around.
As I updated Kanji’s Catbook profile to provide how long she had been loved, I realized that I have known her since 2008. It is 2010; that is two years. But when you love unconditionally — something I have a problem doing with humans, but rarely with animals — that is a lifetime. I have received many beautiful expressions of sorrow and understanding from my friends and family, and I appreciate them all; however, none of them goes as far as a simple meow from Brother: “Are you OK? I love you. BTW where’s Kanji? Can I have her fud?”
Kanji is physically gone, like so many other cherished pets and loved ones, but that does not relinquish the responsibility of playing it forward: lives are spent setting examples, and I remind myself constantly that this is why they were here in the first place: to move and inspire me now. Even after I have laid one of mine to rest in the cool earth. Kanji is not even a girl; Heather took one look at her and laughed, stating “that’s a boy-kitten, Dad.” Having known this for over four months, I still could not quit referring to her as a girl; Kanji didn’t care about the context — only the tone of voice and the love contained within and that there was Fancy Feest involved if he/she acted cute enough. This is unconditional love, and I can haz it with cats; human beings, though, I am not so sure about. Kanji was like that: suspicious of “hoomins” — this is, perhaps, one lesson that is worth remembering; and, that once alleviated, love is all I have to give to you.
BELA CHRIS FEHER: 1969 – 2005
By Michael Murdoch, friend of 25 years
For the AUDIO VERSION, check it out on YouTube.
INTRODUCTION
Sometimes I get the opportunity to introduce my friends to each other. Occasionally, I have the unique pleasure of introducing one of my old friends to one of my newer friends. Invariably, I have spun some stories about the other person, and it is fascinating to listen to one friend say to the other friend, “oh you’re the guy who climbs Half Dome by yourself! That’s amazing!” I have been accused by people who know me of turning everyone I know into a superhero when I tell tales about them; well, I am going to tell some tales because that is the best way that I can think of to remember Bela Chris Feher.
Tom Sawyer
Towards the end of Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Tom and Huck and Joe return in time to witness their own funeral:
“As the service proceeded, the clergyman drew such pictures of the graces, the winning ways, and the rare promise of the lost lads that every soul there, thinking he recognized these pictures, felt a pang in remembering that he had persistently blinded himself to them always before, and had as persistently seen only faults and flaws in the poor boys. The minister related many a touching incident in the lives of the departed, too, which illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the people could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful those episodes were, and remembered with grief that at the time they occurred they had seemed rank rascalities, well deserving of the cowhide. The congregation became more and more moved, as the pathetic tale went on, till at last the whole company broke down and joined the weeping mourners in a chorus of anguished sobs, the preacher himself giving way to his feelings, and crying in the pulpit.”
Chris, wherever you are now, I am going to assume you are in the balcony.
What Would Bela Do?
Ever since I heard the news, this one question keeps repeating itself in my head: what would Bela do? Well I know that he would want me to speak today, not just for him or for me, but for all of you, and he certainly wouldn’t want me to cry up here. So I am going to do my best.
Thesis Statement
This is to capture my grief and respect for a man that I grew up with, who I have known well for a quarter of a century, and who has always been a loyal friend to me. Being adopted myself, I have learned to adopt people I love into my family; Chris wasn’t like a brother to me; he was my brother.
MEETING CHRIS
Sunset View
My earliest recollections of knowing Chris – as he was called before he went to college – were from Sunset View Elementary. Being in a combo 4-5-6 class, I had Bob Nickel and Nat Gordon as classmates, and they knew Chris. Occasionally I had the pleasure of being run over by one of these guys while playing soccer on the gravel field. Older boys got to go away for summer camp while I was stuck reading book reports for owls crafted out of felt.
BOY SCOUTS / EXPLORER SCOUTS
Joining Troop 500
It was when I joined Boy Scout Troop 500 that I became friends with Chris. He was two grades older than I was — grades translated in a big Scout troop like 500 — and joined by Nat and Bob and AJ Winter, Travis Metzger, Grant Goad — these were the Scouts who had higher ranks than I, and who I aspired to be. This group would regale us younger scouts with stories of Grand Canyon treks and Colorado river canoe trips, playing Capture the Flag at night at Camp Hualcucuish and marshmallow fights on the Fourth of July in Ocean Beach.
Awesome Boy Scout
Chris was an awesome Boy Scout. If he was on a hike, he was leading it. Chris had no second, third, or fourth gear when he hit the trail. On the Colorado river, he had to be lead canoe, only coming back if there was a good bailer war going on. Chris had a penchant for ignoring your feeble attempts at soaking him with a cut-up bleach bottle and just ducking the side of your canoe underwater. When he would get to a campsite, he would be the first with his gear set up, and would be scaling boulders by the time you arrived. Chris set an example that was tough, prepared, and energetic.
Best Beer I Ever Had
As I grew up in Scouts, I started to be able to keep up with Chris. Once I was able to go on the more advanced hikes, I would always go on the trail that Chris was going on. I had some great adventures with him: the Tanner Trail that we earned the Primitive Trails award for; the Rim to Rim to Rim in three days instead of the normal five; the Havasupai twice, including one time hiking 16 miles round trip to get all the way down to the Colorado river. I remember clearly when we got to the bottom of the canyon after slogging across the Havasu river maybe 20 times, and saw the Colorado rushing through this huge gorge. Al Winter and Reinholt Metzger were the parental units on that hike; there were some huge tourist rafts tied up so that they could hike a little in the canyon. When Al talked to one of the raft tour guides, he was so impressed that we had hiked 8 miles down from the Havasupai campground and were going to start back in an hour or so, he gave Al a six pack of Sunkist and a six pack of Budweiser. I have consumed a lot of beer since that day with Chris, and I think that Chris would agree with me, that Bud was one of the best beers we have ever had. Of course, then we proceeded to jump off of the 50 foot cliffs into the deep water. How do I know they were 50’ cliffs? I am roughly 6’ tall; Chris used me and his thumb to eyeball how high the ledges were. He was that kind of Scout.
Eagle Scout
Chris earned his Eagle Scout honors before I did; and that meant putting in enough time to do a few merit badges here and there and perform community service through recycling newspaper drives and spaghetti dinners and putting together Eagle Scout projects Chris worked on my Eagle Scout project, reconstructing the outdoor classroom at Sunset View.
John Muir Trail
I went with Chris on the Explorer Scouts hike through the Sierras on the John Muir Trail with Matt Masterson. This hike was extreme; seven passes and 97 miles in nine days, and, of course, Chris was in the lead. I was second a lot of the time, because Chris had taught me how to hike. I remember sleeping on the same ground cloth out under the skies with Chris at 10,000’ watching shooting stars.
Altitude Sickness
On that trip, I came across Chris doubled over with his pack off, dry heaving and really pale. This was the first time I ever saw Bela this vulnerable, and I didn’t know what to do. I tried to get him to drink some water, but it was no good. Matt Masterson came around the corner, took one look at Chris, and recognized altitude sickness. Matt set up a stove and started some freeze-dried chicken noodle soup. He instructed me to make Chris eat it all – all of it – and then return his stove. Matt put on his pack and started up the trail. I fed Chris chicken noodle soup and watched him regain his strength while Bob Nickel and Scott Glazebrook and the rest of the Explorers passed us. He got his pack on and proceeded to overtake all of the Scouts that passed him, with me in tow, to regain his position at the front of the pack. We finished the nine day trek in seven days.
DUNGEONS & DRAGONS
Dungeon Master
Once I had started hanging out with Chris in Scouts, we found we shared some other interests, and really became close. I can’t memorialize Chris without mentioning D&D. I cannot count the Saturdays that Bela and Jan tolerated a group of enthusiastic teenagers sitting around their back patio picnic table playing some idiotic dice-rolling game that involved a lot of shouting at their son. Chris was the Dungeon Master. He was in charge of captivating his players with his storyline and playing all of the “bad guys”. For at least two years, he spun one novel-worthy, continuous adventure to the likes of Michael Murdoch, the Barbarian; Alex Kohrt, also known as Galsteefus the Wizard; Arlen Greer the Rogue, my brother Kyle, the Warrior, Wendy Swanson, the Fighter; Brian Freer, the Orc Assassin; Linda Nickel, the Ranger, and Bob Nickel, His Holiness, the Cleric. I relate these roles to you, because I remember that campaign to save the world like it was yesterday, and playing these characters was a learning experience, a growing experience, and I think that it was more than just camaraderie and eating lots of Little Caesar’s pizza. I believe that we all maintain those roles a little bit in our characters today.
HIGH SCHOOL
T-Shirt
Because Chris was two grades ahead of me, I missed him at Correia Junior High, but he was there with me at Point Loma High. I remember when he was a senior, hanging out on the grass at lunchtime; out of the blue, he asked me if I could draw a skull in a martini glass. I told him I could give it a shot; a few days later, I handed him a sketch; he said that it would do, and had me ink it in. Chris turned it into a T-Shirt for his Graphic Arts class. I still have that T-Shirt; I’ve been wearing it lately.
Aliens
In 1986 I vividly remember going to Glasshouse Square Movie Theatre with Chris – I think we ditched school because he had a car – and we saw “Aliens” together at the matinee showing the very first day that it was out. Chris and I were so excited about the movie, we sat third row center. After the previews (I think Predator was in the previews and we high-fived and promised we’d see that one together, too) but before the movie started, the first three rows were noisily occupied by what seemed like a platoon of Marines, in their battle fatigues, who had come in from training specifically to see the Space Marines they had heard about in this movie. Glasshouse Square was trying out this new technology called 70 millimeter that was supposed to provide better sound and better quality. Well, anyone who has ever seen the movie Aliens knows that it is absolutely one of the best science fiction movies of all time; when Chris and I watched it opening day with a truckload of Marines, the movie broke five times, absolutely ruining the experience. Incredibly, Chris and I witnessed an angry Marine pick up his 32 ounce $5.00 drink and hurl it accurately from the front row through that little window that the movie is shown through. As we left the theatre, we were all given free tickets to come back and see another film. I remember that Chris and I used those same tickets together to see the remake of The Fly with Jeff Goldblum. This anecdote may sound trivial, but this is how I remember Chris.
Soul Mining
One of my most cherished memories of Chris is when I was in ninth grade; Chris picked me up in his Honda with the sunroof, and told me that I had to listen to this tape he had rescued out of the Tower Records Bargain Bin for $3.99. I clearly remember the neon orange discount sticker with that price on the cassette tape. This was the guy who introduced me to Oingo Boingo, so of course this was a weighty recommendation. The album was “Soul Mining” by a group called The The. This record is my favorite album of all time, and that says a lot coming from a DJ.
This Is The Day
There is a song on “Soul Mining”; it is track two, and it is called “This Is The Day”. This is the one song that I would pick to play for Chris.
You could’ve done anything
If you’d wanted
And all your friends and family think that you’re lucky
But the side of you they’ll never see
Is when you’re left alone with the memories
That hold your life together like
Glue
…
You pull back the curtains
And the sun burns into your eyes
You watch a plane flying across a clear blue sky
This is the day
Your life will surely change
This is the day
When things fall into place
Whenever I want to remember Chris, I just put this album on.
Versus the World
During high school, after three albums, The The finally went on tour. To my knowledge, it is the only tour that they ever did. They came to the California Theatre; Alex, Chris, and I went. We sat front row on the balcony and it was one of the best concerts that I have ever been to. I remember standing up and waving my hands and singing along to Matt Johnson with Chris at the top of my lungs; I remember meeting his eyes and knowing that we were sharing yet another awesome experience.
COLLEGE AND BEYOND
UC Irvine
Chris went to UC Irvine; I went to UCSB. We would hang out every once in a while, on breaks and on vacations. It was in college that Chris started going by his first name – Bela – and it was at this time that I took my liberty as one of his long time friends and I started referring to him by his first name. Bela was a constant in my life through new girlfriends and fiancés and wives and new girlfriends.
RECENTLY
Moving Back to San Diego
When I moved back to San Diego after my divorce in March of 2003, I called Chris to help me get the other end of the couch and get it upstairs into my new apartment in Ocean Beach. Seemingly tireless, he helped me and Cat unload a top heavy 17’ foot U-Haul full of all of my worldly possessions into my current residence in exchange for beer, pizza, and companionship on a Tuesday afternoon. There are friends that will say they will be there for you, and then there are those that will actually show up and pick up something heavy; Chris was one of those friends to me.
Rediscovering Our Friendship
I am one of those irritating people that will try to contact you to see if you check your e-mail, or if your cell phone number still works, or, if I have to, I will call your parents to get in touch with you. Jan and Bela were always kind enough not to screen me from Chris, and would go dig him out of whatever project he was working on to let me talk to him. I lost count of the times that we would meet at the Kaiserhof in OB for their happy hour, where you would pay for a pitcher of Hefeweissen and eat a dinner of Swedish meatballs and French fries. I can’t remember all of the times that we argued economics and politics and scientific theories on my porch, drinking Pacifico and smoking until late in the night. I remember when Chris bought the X-box game “Brute Force” and an extra controller – he didn’t own an X-box – but I did, and we played it together in cooperative mode for hours and hours. All of these memories come flooding back to me when I realize that I won’t be able to finish that game, that beer, or that conversation with him.
Getting the News
Grant Goad, bless him, had the strength to call me when he heard about Chris falling from Half Dome. I was stunned and shocked. I berated him for not telling me to sit down first. Once I had the circumstances and the basic story, I hung up. It really didn’t hit me until I passed the one picture of Chris that I had taken the time to lift from one of my haphazard photo albums and put in a spare frame on my bookshelf. I cried so hard, clutching that photograph, I thought I was going to die. I felt a great disturbance in the Force.
The Last Time I Saw Chris
It took Catherine, my fiancé, coming home from her business trip to Vancouver, Canada, to comfort me and to remind me of the last time we had seen Chris Feher in the flesh. Until CAT verified that this was true, I thought it was a dream I had had. I didn’t know if I remembered correctly that we had seen Chris not two weeks before. I was DJing at City Coffee, right below our apartment, and in the habit of grabbing a crate full of random records out of our extensive collection. This particular Thursday, I had selected a bin full of Oingo Boingo and The The. I had to call Chris and demand that he get out of the house and come hang out. He brought a 12 pack of Bud Lite and came down to hear me sling records. That evening, I played him “This Is The Day” by The The and a bunch of other tracks from Soul Mining. We talked about the The The concert, and seeing Aliens together. We spoke of old Grand Canyon Scout adventures and when Arlen “subtly gouged the Hill Giant with his dagger” in his Dungeons and Dragons campaign, and Chris told me that he was thinking of going up to Yosemite and doing some climbing.
That was the last time I saw Bela Chris Feher, and I will never forget being able to talk with him, drink a couple of beers and argue with him, spin him a couple of records, and recount the times that we were together, before he did what he had done dozens of times before. I never worried about Chris; I just insisted that he call me when he came back.
CONCLUSION
Balls Out
Everyone has to grieve for Chris their own way. I will just remind you of this question that keeps running through my brain: “What Would Bela Do?” From the vast rank and file of the people I know, Bela Chris would be the last person to advocate running at the mouth or tearing at the eye over him. As I come to understand that I will never have another conversation with Chris again, nor be able to see a movie, or listen to a record, or go on a hike, I understand that he would not want me to waste the time that is left to me in this life on such trivial matters as mourning him. He would want me to climb that rock, lead that hike, and go “balls out” as he was wont to say; I translate this phrase to “live life to its fullest.”
Thank You
I appreciate having this time to appreciate Chris. My soliloquy represents a lot of people who wanted to say something but didn’t know how; I trust that I have represented Chris the way he would have wanted to be represented. It is in our characters, hearts, and souls that we go forward from here to represent him. Just by remembering Chris the way that you remember him, as a mother or a father, a sister or an in-law; a friend, a Scout, an acquaintance, it is up to us to recognize that this life that was cut short is a life that will inspire us, and that will insure that Chris is immortal.
I have a platform, and I am inspired to write. Or at least copy-paste
From the Associated Press, via the San Diego Union-Tribune, September 16th, 2005
Rock climber from S.D. killed in fall
September 16, 2005
YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK – A San Diego man fell to his death Wednesday while trying to scale the face of Half Dome in Yosemite
National Park.
Bela Feher, 35, apparently fell 100 to 150 feet while rock climbing near the Slab Route of Half Dome. Feher’s body was discovered by other rock climbers about 11 a.m.
Feher, who was alone, appeared to be an experienced climber, park officials said.
The exact cause of death still was under investigation yesterday.
– Associated Press
From the San Diego Union-Tribune, Thursday September 29, 2005
Chris Feher
For veteran rock climber Chris Feher, many of the routes up the Half Dome in Yosemite National Park were as familiar as they were
challenging.
He had completed the roughly 4,800-foot climb more times than he could remember, either alone or in the company of others who shared
his passion for vertical adventures.
On Sept. 14, he was climbing solo on a path known as the Slab Route when he fell 100 to 150 feet to his death. Hikers found his body at the
foot of a cliff.
No one knows what caused the accident. One climber about a quartermile away said he heard a rock slide, but park rangers refused to
identify that as a cause because Mr. Feher had been protected by a ledge above him that remained intact.
What is known is that Mr. Feher, 35, consistently used good judgment, along with the best climbing gear he could find or make. In
addition to his mastery of Half Dome routes, he had climbed the sheer granite walls of El Capitan in Yosemite seven times.
” He was always really careful, very focused, ” said Scott Wied, a friend. ” He was in his element up there. That was what he loved, and
he did it a lot. ”
Mr. Feher, a mechanical engineer with a flair for artistic design, had built a climbing wall in the back yard of his Point Loma home. To facilitate his longer climbs at destinations such as Yosemite and Joshua Tree National Park, he designed specialized equipment, including what he called a ” porta-ledge ” for sleeping on the side of a cliff.
He built his own kayak, in which he paddled around San Diego and Mission bays, and designed and built furniture. His parents have a
coffee table he made with a mosaic of brightly colored tiles. Recently, he had been converting a former door into a computer desk.
He also had completed a metal sculpture and had created and laid ceramic tile.
You Started This Blog, Now Write
Posted: August 24, 2010 in Rant, WritingTags: ADHD, Angel, Apple, Blog, Burn, Byron, Chicane, Correia, DJ, Eminem, Fire, Froggacuda, Jared, Kanji, Love, Michael, Muse, Nike, Pope, Protagonist, samurai, serendipity, Shelley, synchronicity, Tadpole, Wordsworth
I can’t count the number of times I have exhorted myself to sit down and write on this damn blog. I sit in front of wonderful technology, with multiple screens, and everything that I need literally at my fingertips, and I can’t do it. As I age, I feel myself becoming more careful, more conservative. I think I have figured out part of it: now that I have a platform that is beyond scribbling in a spiral notebook, or sketching on the beach in an art pad; drawing on big sheets of paper while bored in class or even pecking away at a keyboard into AppleWorks, I am aware that I have an audience. And that’s frightening. I don’t want to let you all down.
And that, my friends, is the problem. This is MY blog, and — as Eminem has deftly reminded all of us — I’m not afraid. This is pretty simple to do: just write.
“Write, and be prolific / Not everything written is monolithic” ~Thee Froggacuda, 1988
That is the best two-line poem ever for Michael. And I wrote it. I have ignored this advice from the past me to the future me, and it is powerfully captured as a nine word reminder. I think everyone can benefit from this. It’s a simple distillation of my “press record” rant. Nike has made an entire multi-year campaign out of “just do it” that everyone loves because everyone needs to hear that repeatedly over their lifetimes.
I have a lot yet to be said. I am Thee Froggacuda. Release Teh Tadpoles!
So here’s what I did, relatively present tense: I got a little inebriated, put on the new Chicane album “Giants”(reference: Middle Distance Runner), and reskinned my blog to give it a whole new appearance, even to me. After some WordPress admin tweaking to get the elements in the right places, I hit the button labeled “New Post”. And I sat in front of the screen daring myself to write something — anything — and publish it. Tonight.
I am angry with myself that I let the Kanji-Part-1 blog lay fallow in the Drafts folder for as long as I did. I was waiting for the Muse to strike me with inspiration and that’s not how she visits you or I: thou must seeketh out the opportunities, and if you have a fully functioning blog, just write for no reason, any reason, because you are writing for yourself.
That is the point of a personal blog — [insert legal-compliant disclaimer from professional life] — it’s to be able to write; not about whatever you want, but also not because you have an audience. I’m a Libra; there’s a balance to be struck. This gift of a new album from Nick Bracegirdle even has a beautiful song on it called “Where Do I Begin?” Synchronicity is serendipity. I am learning that restraint is not always care; however, baring my soul is not always as simple as it used to be. That’s why there are archives, and I will never regret being unemployed and casting around for a project important enough to deserve all of that free time, and entering all of those poems and stories and rants you’ll see on the left-hand side month-by-month, year-by-year. There’s some good stuff in there; I am committing to digging some of it back out and throwing it in my face again. Here, on the Virtual Lilypad; you can come along and read if you like, but it’s not for you. It’s for me. Because I can’t help but think that I am actually smart enough to code messages into my content for my future self. Maybe it’s a function of being on the bleeding edge of human evolution because I have ADHD and society and civilization have not caught up to how many threads my brain is processing at any given time.
I am a single human being trying to make a difference with my life. Everyone struggles with this same thing. I write who I am because at an early age I was inspired by Jared D’nofrio to tear out the back of an old math notebook and try to write poetry. Shit, we were studying Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth, Pope, in school, and if he could do it; why not me? Well, Jared’s stuff was great, and I never thought I could equal that elegance…but I gave it a shot anyways. It was like drawing block letter names of girls I had crushes on and spending a whole science or math period at Correia Junior High School coloring them in uniquely with fluorescent hi-lighters. Y’know what? I just found that I was good at it.
DJing is a lot easier than writing. You get to express yourself with the beauty of other people’s interactions with their Muses. The problem is this: if you are good at something, don’t you owe it to yourself — and everyone else — to share it? That is why I have a drive to capture things in cages of ink and tape and 010010 and MP3. I think this is fundamentally the human condition; interaction is like breathing to me. I have just forgotten that I can target myself, and that I am my own primary audience.
I cannot depend on messages that I have coded myself in the past unless I make the effort to read them again; to listen to them again, to experience them again. And I certainly cannot pass any of my current wisdom on to myself in the future unless I produce content right now. This is the heroic circle of one’s life, Scar.
The Archangel Michael wields a sword. I’m not so good at the martial arts. I promised my ninja-to blade to my youngest godchild, anyways; Belén is going to be a better Samurai than her Unkle or her Father. But this Froggacuda character has a wicked tongue and sharp teeth, and I’ve been representing as Thee Froggacuda for almost 20 years now. Recognizing that you have a sticker that reads PROTAGONIST over the mirror that you never look at, finally you understand: this is the Muse trying to shake you free. The Muse is me. The problem is that I never look in that mirror: my mirror until now been everyone else except me. All of that is changing.
My Cat Kanji is Dying of Skin Cancer
Posted: August 10, 2010 in WritingTags: Cancer, Cat, Death, Duchess, Feline, Kanji
I took my cat Kanji to the vet because her ear wasn’t getting any better. Ever since I have known her, she’s had problems with her ears being mangy. I’m a pretty live-and-let-live pet owner — no collars and indoor / outdoor freedom, occasional wet fud and cursing them for being filthy fleabag dirt-tracking loveable spoiled brats — but after neighbors and girlfriend insisted they would cat-nap Kanji to take her to the vet, I had to act. And I knew that Kanji would hate me for it.
I inherited Kanji from the legendary six-month residence at the OB Saratoga crib. When I was forced to move out by unforseen witchery, I sat down with this cat that came with the property and explained that there were two options:
- Stay here and find a new owner after I have spoiled you rotten treated you like the princess you are, or…
- Come along with me and my ride
It was pretty clear, if you were there, that she chose me.
Kanji is an OB alley cat. She doesn’t take shit from nobody; she expresses discontent with bared claws and a wicked repeated paw whipping to feline, canine, and human alike. Moxie is her middle name. At her home at Saratoga, there were raccoons, skunks, dogs, opossums — never mind other stray cats — and Kanji would just sit relaxed but warily on the top of the porch table and let these creatures do whatever they came to do, as long as it wasn’t bothering her.
So Kanji decided to throw her lot in with me. When I had to move, I hauled her down to the Panorama Compound in La Mesa kicking and screaming, where I kept her in my studio for about a week before letting her explore outside. She spent most of her time either curled up on my futon at my feet or in the Mithril mines under the hosue itself. There were three other cats already on the property — Brother, Jedi, and Vader — who she decided were irritating and unworthy, so she would pointedly ignore them as much as possible. She loved the 1.1 acres of land to explore, yet seemed happiest curled up in the dark spaces beneath the house or — when she got used to being inside — being inside my room.
When I moved to Edgemont Place, she was furious with me — again — and although I kept her inside for a couple of days, at the first opportunity, she absconded to the beat-up wreck of a garage on the property, eventually becoming master of the rafters. Kanji would emerge when she heard the sound of my 1993 Nissan Truck engine after I would come home from a day of work at GreenHouse to miao and follow me to the house where I would have to open the doors for her so that Her Highness wouldn’t have to jump through the open window to get in and get some fresh kibble. If there is anything Kanji loves more than me, its her “fud”.
Because I have no idea where Kanji came from, originally, I also have no idea how old she is. This is just a strange fact that you just learn to accept. Also, she probably likes it that way because she’s a girl. The hoodrats around the Saratoga Party Palace called her “Cloud”, “Ghost”, and other nicknames because nobody really knew what her real name was. I forget who it was, but one of the older neighbors speculated that she belonged to the original owner of the house I was renting who had moved to a facility; apparently I was renting the house from his or her daughter. I think it was this neighbor that seemed to remember that her name started with a K. Kanji came to mind when I was playing with her; after a couple of years, she knows her name when I call it. It has taken equally as long to work on our relationship; she is still skittish and very particular about everything, especially touching her (she likes her butt scratched and if you don’t scratch good enough or long enough, she will bat your hand and tell you to get back to work).
That is why I never took her to the vet before. Every time I have to stuff Kanji in my truck or in a carrier to go somewhere, I lose her for about a week as she sulks and spits and swears she hates me. It’s a lot like having another girlfriend. I knew she wouldn’t run away, but I could always feel her eyes glowering from the shadows of the shed or the garage or from under the house shooting laserbeams of control into my head like some sort of feline Onceler: “you will put three open cans of warmed Turkey and Giblets wet fud, a diamond tiara, and a QP of White Lightning catnip in the bucket or I will eat your eyeballs out while you sleep.” Kanji is the master of making you feel like an abusive husband, looking at you reproachfully and measuring out her trust to you again by the spoonful. She is very intelligent and unlike many cats who can be memory-wiped with a can of Fancy Feast after a traumatic trip, Kanji will not forget the embarrassing and totally inappropriate “you-don’t-put-your-hands-on-me, my-FATHER-doesn’t-put-his-hands-on-me” treatment that vehicular transport entails. It is totally against the way a graduate of the Handsome Girl Modelling School is supposed to be treated. I love this about her personality, and I will very rarely overstep these boundaries and devastate her pride by forcing her into a 1′ x 2′ box to be taken to a strange person who is going to stick a thermometer in your ass and feel you up in the harsh light of a vet office.
It is indescribably awesome and horrible that I can walk out my front door, which overlooks this beautiful canyon that my brother Kleptus is guerrilla landscaping with native plants and find Kanji curled up peacefully on one of these old wooden Adirondack chairs half in and half out of the sun. The cancer that is melting away her left ear and left nostril is due to SUNBURN. Melanoma, essentially the same thing that humans (and dogs and even horses) get when sunshine is dangerous. It can’t be helped, except by keeping Kanji inside 24-7, and I won’t do that. Is it her fault that she wants to sleep in the sunshine and the long-term result is that she is going to die. Relatively soon. Every time I can touch her while she is alive is facing the fact that I am going to watch her face get eaten off by cancer, and I am directly responsible for her quality of life QoL). That is, until I make the awful decision for her that enough is enough, and it is time to go.
Wear sunscreen, sheeple. And how about we fix that ozone layer. I don’t have children, but I do love my cats as my kids. I have godchildren I adore. If you cannot get on board the “save the planet” bandwagon, then I think you give up your right to be on this green Earth.
So when does it transition from Kanji enjoying the sunset of her life and me having to decide QoL for her? She is still audacious and strong, she eats like a pig and mugs for attention like a kitten. At the urging of my girlfriend, Lilith de la Nuit, and my neighbors, Dawn and Jenne, I took a half-day off and stuffed Ms Thang in the cat carrier. I took her to Heather at Cabrillo Vet Center for Kanji’s first visit ever to the vet to check out this ear and nose thing. Now we know what it is, and what we can do about it. Heather was extraordinarily kind and sensitive, even though she was in the office with walking pneumonia. She is that dedicated to animals and their “Moms and Dads”. If money was not an option, there is pretty much nothing that can be done to save Kanji’s life. It is a matter of QoL for one to six months from June 15th, 2010. And this decision is mine.
Kanji humbles me with her bravery. She knows she is dying, and yet manages to ham it up and act like a kitten
and squeeze all of the attention and specialness she can out of her situation. When she mugs for some love, and you give it to her, she gets so corny that she wants to rub up against everything — including with her torn-up ear, where she rips the scab off and then shakes her head, flinging blood everywhere. It is ghastly and somehow beautiful that she does not care but for the moment. And for love.
[later, August 10, 2010]
I have had this blog post in draft for over a month and a half now, and I have realized that I can’t finish it just yet. I can just post what I have and do a Part 2 later on. Kanji has almost a whole ear missing and her nose is halfway gone, but she does not seem in pain or too much discomfort. It pains me to hear her sneeze occasionally, and snuffle a bit, but her big blue eyes say that it is not time yet. I am comforted that she has already beaten the odds of the low end of her possible time frame on the planet, and frankly, she is keeping me company, maybe more than I am doing service to her.
Every day when I come home from work, I whistle for her, and she usually comes trotting from the garage where she sleeps, or out from under a piece of lawn furniture with a raspy miao. She’s been waiting for me to arrive because I am reliable like that, and Kanji wants to point out that her special on-the-table fud bowl is empty. And that she missed me.
I will miss her, now and soon.
The Froggacuda’s Top Ten Albums
Posted: January 8, 2010 in Music, WritingTags: Album, Concert, January
The Froggacuda’s Top Ten Albums
- The The – Soul Mining
- Beastie Boys – Paul’s Boutique
- Chicane – Behind the Sun
- Depeche Mode – 101
- Oingo Boingo – Alive
- Kruder and Dorfmeister – The K+D Sessions
- Hybrid – Remix and Additional Production
- Original Concert Recording – Dance Craze (The Specials, The English Beat, The Selecter, Bad Manners, Madness, The Bodysnatchers)
- N.W.A. – Straight Outta Compton
- Original Movie Soundtrack – Hackers
HONORABLE MENTIONS:
- Deee-Lite – World Clique
- Nine Inch Nails – Pretty Hate Machine
- Chappell Roan – The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess
Worthy of posting January 2010 — we’ll see how this list stands up in 2020. I challenge you to do the same thing.
DJ LURK: UP and DOWN
Posted: December 26, 2009 in MusicTags: 2009, CD, Compilation, DJ Lurk, Down, Up
The 2009 compilation — called UP and DOWN — is now available for download. In the spirit of consuming less physical resources, this is the digital distribution; download and burn at your convenience. There are two discs, each of which will fit on an 80 minute audio CD, so feel free to rip your own copies for the car, boat, etc.
For those of you not familiar with my DJ Lurk persona and his obsessive music hobby, he is in the habit of releasing a compilation of the songs, both old and new, that topped his personal charts over the course of a year. Since it is boring to include the same old version you hear all the time, extensive work has gone into hand-selecting face-melting remix versions, so even if you can’t stand Katy Perry or Natasha Bedingfield, give it a whirl anyways. Enjoy!
You can download the zip file here (right-click and save as…231.4mb).
TRACKLISTING:
DISC ONE: DOWN
01 Steve Jablonsky – Decepticons
02 Depeche Mode – Walking in My Shoes (Ambient Whale Version)
03 Oasis – Wonderwall (Full Tilt Remix)
04 Coldplay – Life in Technicolor
05 Maroon 5 – Wake Up Call (Ultimix)
06 T.I. featuring Rihanna – Live Your Life (Ultimix)
07 Keri Hilson featuring Lil Wayne – Turnin’ Me On
08 Kid Cudi featuring Kanye West and Common – Make Her Say
09 The Fixxers – Can U Werk Wit Dat (Funkymix)
10 Ray J featuring Yung Berg – Sexy Can I (R.E.E.O. Mix)
11 David Banner featuring Chris Brown – Get Like Me (Funkymix)
12 50 Cent vs Nine Inch Nails – In Da Club (Scooter’s Closer Mix)
13 Fergie vs The Violent Femmes – London Bridge (DJ Yoda’s Blister in the Sun Mix)
14 DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince – Megamix
15 Lonely Planet featuring T-Pain – I’m On a Boat
16 LMFAO – Girl Can’t Help It (Funkymix)
17 Lady Gaga – Poker Face (X-Mix)
18 P!nk – So What (Ultimix)
DISC TWO: UP
01 Peter Luts and Dominico – What a Feeling (X-Mix)
02 Eric Prydz – Call on Me (Radio Edit)
03 Keri Hilson – Energy (Ultimix)
04 Beyonce – Diva (Red Top Mix)
05 Nadia Ali – Fine Print (Serge Deviant Radio Edit)
06 Katy Perry – Waking Up in Vegas (Manhattan Clique Bellagio Remix)
07 Nic Chagall featuring Jonathan Mendelsohn – This Moment (Prog Mix Live Edit)
08 Tiesto and Sneaky Sound System – I Will Be Here (Wolfgang Gartner Remix)
09 Frou Frou – Breathe In (Watkins Vocal Mix)
10 Chicane vs Natasha Bedingfield – Bruised Water (Michael Woods Full Vocal Mix)
11 R.E.M. – The Great Beyond (Hybrid Mix)
12 Underworld – Rez-Cowgirl (Live at Creamfields 2003)
Compilation is (C) 2009 Impeccable Taste, Inc. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY THE ORIGINAL ARTISTS. Special thanks to S.A.T., Delvin, BunnyKitty, Woodweaver, T-Boz, DJ Yoda, Scooter, Radio 1’s Essential Mix, Pete Tong, The Green Teem, and all of you who move and inspire.
How Songs Become Old Friends
Posted: December 4, 2009 in Music, Rant, WritingTags: Church, Cojones, Communication, Compilation, DJ, Friends, Hip Hop, Old, Record, Sermon, Shaman, Skool, Song
Some tracks just resonate with you. These are the ones that get stuck in your head, or you find yourself quoting lyrics from them, or — the most telling tale — you keep playing them over and over again because they move and inspire, as Landmark Education would describe this feeling. That’s why I make “compilations” of tunes every year; even the year I said I was going to stop making compilations, I made a compilation. I just didn’t make physical copies with custom covers and inserts and liner notes, which takes hours and days and months to perfect, in 2008 or — most likely — in 2009. I give them away for free because they’re my way of communicating. It’s a way to say something along the lines of “here’s what I played for myself all of this year; hope you like some of it” in a palpable format.
What’s a real trip is letting this sink in: I have been making these compilations every year for 12+ years now. That is just a count of the official, main compilations; sometimes more than one disc, but always tuned to fit on an audio CD (OK the Old Skool Hip Hop McGee Mix can’t, but there are always exceptions). There are adjunct comps, live mixes, bootlegs, extra cuts that couldn’t quite make it, times I didn’t record while spinning to an international audience on the Mordenkainen’s Parlour stream, and practice stuff — some of which I recorded and some of which I didn’t.
When engaged in the constant act of choosing music you like for 12+ years on a day-by-day basis, you know what you like and what you don’t like. Everybody does that. That is why everybody is a DJ. The crucial difference is that I recorded it. This fact sets me apart from the rest of the amateur record-scratchers and mix-tapers. Why don’t you go pull out one of your old mix tapes or CDs, or an old .m3u playlist and try to understand what you were thinking about when you felt passionate — or bored — enough to actually press the record button and pick some songs in a particular order. Or did you give them all away to potential booty calls?
Songs become old friends when you play them enough. Ensconced between the lyrics and the bassline, the drums and the swells, a personal soundtrack has embedded itself into the fabric of the music. Playing certain tracks is evocative to you in a way that nobody else is going to get just like you. Sharing these particular musical missives with others is, I believe, a fundamental art form. That’s why I do it.
So when I spend hours listening to my compilations, in order or on shuffle play, it has become something akin to going to church. The best way that I can be a Shaman for everyone is to bring something back; that is certain compositions of music, perhaps in a certain order. I love these sermons. Because I recorded them myself of myself in space and time. When I press record, I realize that it is a positive, creative, wonderful thing that I have the cojones to take a deep breath and go live for posterity.
Ask yourself this question:
Do you put yourself on a pedestal?
Yeah, now that I think about it, touching that soul-searching apparatus that has been gathering dust in the basement for a while. Dust your own pedestal. Take the marble bust of yourself off of the Doric column you have in your mind, and while you’re at it: move the papier mache it is levitating on and vaccuum under that. You’ll find some interesting dust bunnies; I guarantee it.
I am not saying after [insert years of life on earth since birth] years you don’t deserve your own statue on some sort of fancy plinth, but you can’t rest on your laurels (or laurel wreath). You have to keep swimming, like a shark, to breathe that stuff of imagination and innovation, the basic H2O that is the 98% of my human body and 96% of this Budweiser here at my elbow that I am consuming. Sure, there is a certain amount of complacency-to-years-lived ratio that you are owed, but if you really do a good job at dusting, you’ll be shocked by the amount of taking-yourself-for-granted buildup there really is on your little monument to yourself.
Metaphor clear? I can’t recognize who that is in my own personal cleanup on aisle five. Time for some gritty cleaner, like Bar Keeper’s Friend, to get in there and scrub that grout. Note how cheezily you chiseled this sculpture out in the first place. You start looking around and flushing to the face as you clean house as you know full well how to clean house. What took you so long?
I’ll tell you why: trophies are easier to earn than the upkeep to keep them on display and dust-free. And prizes don’t mean shit to me. Neither does this bust on this pedestal, the ultimate Caesarian nod to your own ego. If you had your 15 minutes of fame, then sit down and shut up when your timer is at zero. At some point, when the spotlight is dead, you’ll be the one that will be dusting your collection of whatevers and muttering to yourself that you aren’t appreciated. That’s pathetic.
The lesson is embedded in the hard work of dusting; cleaning house; polishing the things you have so that you appreciate them again; lifting your eyes to the horizon rather than the task at hand, even if you are a filthy animal while you get the job done. The reward is tangible: you approve of your job at cleaning, if not that artifact in your museum, and you move on. Perhaps to dust the next dinosaur bone in your closet. But you do a good job of it at your own thorough pace, nonetheless.
Clean on.
The Strength of Street Knowledge
Posted: November 14, 2009 in MusicTags: Aphrodite, DJ Lurk, Drum and Bass, Hip Hop, Mix, NWA
I have always wanted to record this set…so today I asked myself what is stopping me? Aphrodite is a visionary for being able to take old skool hip hop jams and transform them into this crazy jump-up drum & bass with his signature style. Every time I have broken this stuff out, whether it’s to end a night of partying or battling some sucka DJ, this never fails to blow my mind. At 1 hour and 5 minutes it will handily fit on a CD for bumpin’ in your ride at stoplights.
Opening sample is the legendary beginning of NWA’s Straight Outta Compton:
You are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge…
right-click to download
TRACKLISTING:
- N.W.A. – Gangsta Gangsta (Aphrodite Mix)
- Da Luniz – I Got Five On It (Urban Takeover)
- Blackstreet – No Diggity (Aphrodite Mix)
- Beastie Boys – Body Movin’ (Movin’ in Kent)
- Jungle Brothers – Jungle Brother (True Blue) (Aphrodite Mix)
- Natural Born Chillers – Rock the Funky Beats (Aphrodite Mix)
- Frou Frou – Breathe In (Aphrodite Remix)
- Smoke City – Underwater Love (Aphrodite Mix)
- Beastie Boys – Intergalactic (Prisoners of Technology Remix)
- A Tribe Called Quest – Once Again (Twista Mix)
- Pharcyde – Passing Me By (Aphrodite Mix)
- NWA – Dopeman (Prisoners of Technology Club Mix)
- Fugees – Ready Or Not (Aphrodite Mix)
- Warren G – This DJ (Aphrodite Mix)
- Method Man & Redman – How High (Aphrodite Mix)
Occasionally I am transported. Somewhere where people actually mean what they say and have no games to play. It’s like being in a Coldplay song, like Life in Technicolor, where you can’t decide if the song is more pure as an instrumental — where everyone has a smile in their eyes and is pulling in the same direction — or if it really takes another album and another shot at the song as a full-blown vocal track. I think that the best songs will stand alone either way. So thank you, SAT, for breaking my anti-Coldplay stance on the undeniable rocks of “wow, this is really good”.
You know, folks, I am aware that people think what they think of me. I am okay with that, because you still seek me out for my opinion. It must matter. I find that stunning, and then a real honor. But baby, it’s a violent world. Everything counts in large amounts. Telling the truth is never easy, but it is the most universally recognized sign of sincerity. I have been reticent to blog on my own blog because of an old racket of mine: I think too much about what the audience — whatever or whoever that may be — will think of what I have to say. It defeats the purpose of the technology.
Publishing in an instant for all history to record is a serious responsibility. Please contribute something to the blogosphere that is worth recording. Remember all the people who died to bring you this freedom, this technology, this lifestyle, this success, this ability to type letter after letter, purse your lips, read it again slightly aloud, and then press the Publish button.
Say something that matters. Speak from your heart. Scribe it in electronic papyrus; chisel it in the ones and zeroes of the Intarwebs. Send it out there beyond your control, but remember that you birthed it. Create content, or else you will have a hollow life manipulating other people’s creations for a living. Be a catalyst.
I know from my experience that when the bat hits the meat of the ball, and I can feel that thrum through my muscles, and I lift my gaze to the far wall of the park, a smile dawns on my face: this is good. And then my feet don’t touch the ground for a while. You taught me that feeling long ago; you remind me of it tonight. And I thank you for it.
Can Anyone Hear Me?
Posted: September 21, 2009 in Quick and DirtyTags: Blog, Mordenkainen, Parlour, True
http://www.ustream.tv/channel/Mordenkainen-s-Parlour
Bookmark it. This is my true blog.
I (heart) Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle
Posted: August 23, 2009 in Quick and DirtyTags: Archangel, Footfall, Heaven, Michael, Niven, Pournelle, Satan
So I happen to be re-reading Larry Niven / Jerry Pournelle “Footfall”, and I am struck by this passage:
“…as far as I know, though, Michael is the only quick and dirty way we have to get a battleship into space.”
“Michael?” The President asked.
“Sorry, sir. We’ve already given it a code name. The Archangel Michael cast Satan out of Heaven.”
“Appropriate enough name. However, our immediate problem is to get them out of Kansas…”
ART OF SCRUM: Dining Room? Hells no; it’s a WAR ROOM!
Posted: August 3, 2009 in Art of ScrumTags: LinkedIn
At GreenHouse, where I am the Chief Technology Officer, I am in charge of bringing bleeding edge, revolutionary, creative and inexpensive business optimization tools to bear for all strata of the company in order to make my teammates and executives have productive and fun days doing what we are doing. Which, by the way, is changing the world for the better. Nothing, not even the iPhone, comes close to the wonders we have achieved with a $14 4′ x 8′ piece of tileboard and a $20 Expo Dry Erase System. That’s right, people: I am talking whiteboards. Again.
Stick the clutch and change gears with me for a minute. As many of you know, I had a previous life teaching; college, high school, tutoring, Boy Scouts, by example… Due to the necessity of the ever-evolving requirements at our company, and the need to foster teamwork and agile communication, I have been teaching GreenHouse Scrum. Honesty, embracing change, active collaboration, knowing you have a team with you, daily standups, squeaky toys — all of the soundbyte stuff that sticks well in the mind. Meanwhile, a routine is being built; expectations are being set; issues bubble up to the surface instead of being swept under the rug or left for someone else to discover; you stop working in a vaccuum and one person can communicate what the rest of your Team is doing while you’re the only one of them going out to lunch with the business owners.
This started way back in history…when I moved in with Kleptus and brought a whiteboard, which I would occasionally would draw on to make a point about Delicious Cake. Or he would draw the islands of Hawaii and point out the Na Pali coastline. When we started working together at GreenHouse — in the office affectionately named “The Armpit” — I got two of the aforementioned sheets of tileboard, hijacked some underused dry erase markers, and a roll of paper towels for an eraser and we got busy:
- Lists of Things to Do
- Important Phone Numbers
- John Galt is Talking to Me and My Head Will Explode if I Do Not Write This Down
- Nature Is Pissed (a sticker at the top of one of the tileboards)
- My Brain Hurts (a sticker on the other whiteboard)
- Flowcharts
- Tension Maps
- Charts, Graphs, and Other Wildly Inaccurate Sketches
- Treasure Maps
- “-ISMS” (quotes heard ’round the office that stopped productivity for a minute or two due to uncontrollable laughter and repetition of the phrase)
- Grand Schemes, Miscellaneous Plots, and Unattainable Goals
- Etcetera
Here is the simple truth about whiteboards: If it is writ large upon the wall, it is semi-public information. Which makes you much more aware of whatever it is. Especially if it is your responsibility to get it done. Fact. Try it. Post your to-do list on a little whiteboard — or even a clipboard (easily scavenged office supply) on your office door or cubicle wall in plain sight, and see how uncomfortable you are with that often-trumpeted and rarely attained goal of transparency.
That is why, when Kleptus and I moved into what we dubbed “the War Room” from “the Armpit Office”, we made the most of it: we plastered tileboard EVERYWHERE. Add a conference room table, a bunch of chairs, and a leather couch, and we had a command center for GreenHouse Energy and Builders to operate in.
Then, we introduced Scrum.
Scrum is not — as it might sound — a new strain of Swine Flu; rather, it is an agile project management methodology. In my experience, Scrum is best applied with liberal whiteboards. My teams — which, by the bye, are kicking ass — have all their progress project-by-project slapped on the wall of the War Room every day. These notes are then photographed and inserted jumbo-size into the Google Doc of notes from the Daily Scrums. Business Owners can peer into these notes whenever they desire; they can’t, however, come interrupt a Daily Standup Meeting (though they do). Battle Plans are drawn. Logistical Nightmares. BHAGs. The best is when we as a Team can point at a couple square feet of wall and say “those were the stack-ranked priorities, and we got them all done”.
For my Scrum-certified sisters and brothers out there, who are undoubtedly gouging their eyes out with the edges of their Story-and-Task sticky notes, their velocity and burndown charts, and their accurate-information-filled Scrum boards, I say you this: results are the fruit of Scrum, and measurable, incremental, agile steps forward from the Sprint the week before are the hallmark of change management, not a wholesale paradigm shift. No organization has embraced Scrum as wholeheartedly as GreenHouse has, because the benefits are too numerous to mention — and too nebulous right now to say it is true Scrum traction. But daily communication, weekly due dates, and almost a month of proto-Scrum under our belt has produced phenomenal results, and I am very honored to be a member of the three Teams that I am a part of at my workplace. We get iiiissshhhht done.
So the point of this personal blog post — and from whence the title is derived — is the fact that I have a whole two bedroom, one bath house to myself, and I had this dream I had a formal dining room where I could have sit-down dinners and invite people over to enjoy themselves. You know, stemware, matching silverware, whorederves, etc. I just hung two framed whiteboards in my dining room. I think I will measure and install hidden screws behind them so I can take them down and quickly hang thrift store art in case I need to “be formal” in that room, but for now, my dining room is my personal War Room. Whiteboards galore. My laptop and a printer and broadband Internet. A conference (dining) table for six in case I need a bigger Team. What works at work is sometimes the best way to get things done at home. Personally.
BACKLOG OF THINGS TO DO:
- Use your War Room
- Feasibility Study and Stack Ranking
- Sprint
My Blog is — apparently — my Whiteboard. Keeps me honest, agile, and communicating!
Music Should Be Loud
Posted: June 10, 2009 in MusicTags: Chicane, Erik B, Kegerator, Kleptus, Music, Natasha Bedingfield, Office Qween, Rakim, Stereo
“it’s been a long time…I shouldn’t have left you / Without a strong rhyme to step to”
That is the opening lyric to Erik B and Rakim’s legendary and elemental “You Know You Got Soul“. It always humbles me to re-learn this fundamental fact of life every time I am alone and I turn up my stereo. Because my sound-producing systems are a power-sucking, overwhelming, disgustingly 70’s speaker-studded monstrosity that has not stretched its wicked claws in almost a year. With Kleptus and teh Office Qween (and the loveable brats) moving upstairs, the animal is waking from slumber. It misses it’s counterpart, a big stainless steel bear affectionately called Teh Kegerator. I might point out that using a Kegerator (especially if you have a Kvar system in place) is actually greener than recycling all those cans and bottles. Walk the walk, bitches.
So I am totally head-over-heels in love with Chicane featuring Natasha Bedingfield – Bruised Water. That link is specifically the Adam K Remix. It’s been a long time…since I have heard a track that every single version is stellar. Plus, it helps that Natasha Bedingfield is crazy fuckin’ hawt. I had to search for this, but check out the original video with the updated mix. But let’s not get twisted; the message and the mermaid from the original remix outing is drool-fuel, too.
“so let down my guard / drop my defenses / down by my clothes…I’m learning to fall / with no safety net / to cushion the blow”
That’s about where I am at, but moving steadily on radar. Stay tuned; especially to Mordenkainen’s Parlour.
Taking Writing for Granted
Posted: May 27, 2009 in WritingTags: Achieve Internet, Amazon, Archive, Audience, Blog, Chaos, Data, DJ Steve Porter, Facebook, Flickr, Galsteefus, GreenHouse, History, Kleptus, Mashup, Poem, Poetry, Red Dragon Inn, Remix, Slap Chop, Unemployment, Wayback Machine, WordPress, Writing, YouTube
If you look at my Archives, you’ll see that I actually used to write for myself, by myself, for years and years. The idea of transferring this to an electronic medium since I sit in front of my MacBook Pro most of my waking hours should be a no-brainer, except for one small detail. I refuse to use it privately; it’s just my personality.
When I was let go by Achieve Internet last year, I realized that unemployment, in a sense, is like forced vacation, and even if you really wanted to get on with your next gig, you had a metric shit-ton of time that you spent thinking about the world we live in, and life in general, and inevitably, you wander into some really deep, frightening places. So when I had all that free time where you literally cannot spend towards finding a job, I decided to type into this WordPress blog several hundred poems that I had written over my formative years in high school and college. And then BURN the original journals in the first camping trip I had taken in years with a couple of friends led by Kleptus himself.
For those of you who stumble across this and are not familiar with WordPress, it makes blogging and publishing so easy even a caveman could do it. The hinge here is that there is security; you can blog all you want and never publish a thing to the general Intarwebz. I think that you owe it to the online community to share; hell, everyone else is doing it and some are even making money at it.
Part of the fascination I have with the World Wide Web — rockin’ it at 14,400 baud since my first AOL account in 1992 where they asked me for a “unique” screenname, and the online presence known internationally as Thee Froggacuda was born — is that no matter how you interact with it, you develop a personality. On AOL in the early days, this used to consist of hanging out and doing free-form text-based roleplaying at something like the legendary Red Dragon Inn, which I just discovered is alive and well (and still has my “Kiss the ‘Tender” apron hanging in its accustomed place behind the bar), unless you were going back to the early, early days, hanging out and doing free-form dice-based roleplaying in Galsteefus’s basement.
The point of this bit of writing is that I have been taking writing for granted because of some sort of personal paralysis due to having a real live audience. And my worst critic is myself. I think that this says a lot. “I actually used to write for myself, by myself, for years and years.” That was earlier in this blog post. The archives are right next to you on the right-hand side under Archives, go figure. Choose a link; check it out.
This is where the public / private thing comes in. Our lives are on camera and on the Internet right now; isn’t it our duty to try to be graceful footage and Facebook for future generations? There is this misconception that old web pages die natural deaths, but I still have all of the HTML code, graphics, databases, and other artifacts from many iterations of my own Virtual Lilypad site, and nothing is safe from The Wayback Machine. Content production on them Intarwebz is, I would suspect, at an all time high and still rising. What are we to do with all of this dreck that we make public?
Whether you keep it public or private, nearly anything you do is capable of being recorded or transcribed or captured. And then traced back to or otherwise attributed to you. Tagged, if you will. I read an article that 1 in 5 US Recruiters Google your ass when your resume comes across their desks. People upload their own videos to YouTube, their own photos to Flickr, and their own shopping interests to Amazon. This is all content that may or may not be of any passing interest to anyone but the people that are adding the content. Where is the value?
- Creative aggregation of data
- Remixes and mashups
- Historical record
1. There is so much damn data out there at any given time being copied and created and beamed around the world, it is literally like a gigantic ocean. Data mining with all of that out there moving and morphing and trending and boiling has got to produce some fascinating art if it could be visually represented. When you dig into this matrix and start following threads, there would be intricate patterns and relationships and chaos theory butterflies, and I would probably just be hypnotized. With an uber dashboard to pan around and zoom, you could literally “zoom” all the way in with search algorithms to find specific pieces of content that are the catalysts for larger currents. Maybe one of those elements is one of these poems, songs, or stories that are contained in the Archives.
2. As most everyone knows, DJ Lurk loves hisself a good remix. He has even made some of his own. So I know how much of a labor of love most remixes are. There’s a relatively new piece of lingo the means essentially the same thing: mashup, which is a little more specific, at least in music, than remix. Most all of the created content on the Internet is public. Even if you think it is private, it isn’t as private as you think — somebody can see it and potentially mash it up with something else. Repurposing existing content in a new way is as much of an art form as making the content in the first place; in fact, many times a fresh take on an old standby is better than the original. Take Vince Shlomi — the Slap Chop is an amazing product, I know — but the Steve Porter Remix “Rap Chop” was so damn good I started following him on Twitter. I was going to spin the remix at the first chance I got but somebody beat me to it already. Speed of information flow is approaching speed of light.
3. History has always suffered because it was a privilege for the powerful and rich to be able to write the accounts. Publishing your own version — essentially documenting your own personality, life, and experiences — is, in and of itself, riches and power directly proportional to the amount of content you produce over that lifetime. You can’t take it with you, but you can sure make a conscious, good-faith effort to provide something for the seething, sentient mass of ones and zeroes to Borg. The value of anything that you do should be weighed first and foremost by whether you find value in it yourself. Then, and only second, think about the audience. The value of this blog is because I find it fascinating. If others do, too, well, icing is my favorite part of Delicious Cake.
I just realized — part of the reason writing electronically versus otherwise is less productive. I find that some of the most fun is using hyperlinks as footnotes. They’re even better because they are in-line, and you can click them if you want extra context or detail. However, they do a damn fine job of preventing me from getting my point across in a coherant manner sometimes. And potentially, other readers. Note to self. On WordPress, no less.
This was not the best content I have ever created, but I do feel like I cracked my knuckles and limbered up a bit before all of the writing that lays ahead of me, both personally and professionally. So, in the interest of reading more writing, well, an enigmatic word to the wise: GreenHouse.
Did You Just Say the F-Word?
Posted: March 28, 2009 in MusicTags: Deceptikons, DJ Lurk, Green House Builders, LMFAO, Mix, Remix, South Park, Traktor
I came home from a pretty good day at work slinging my IT plan for Green House Builders to a house without roommates or children, so I did what I do best: got intoxicated and slung some tracks. Usually I just pile a bunch of music into Traktor Pro and start mixing; this time I actually plucked a bunch of songs from the back catalogs from DJ Lurk and The Deceptikons because I wanted to make sure I included a couple of specific remixes. After deciding to start with the most excellent LMFAO cut, I couldn’t resist laying the epic South Park skit in there at the beginning. This mix is approved by Thee Froggacuda.
Opening sample is from South Park:
Kyle: I think I know the answer, Mr. Garrison
Cartman: [nonsense imitating Kyle]
Kyle: Shut up fat boy!
Cartman: Don’t call me fat, you fucking jew!
Mr. Garrison: Eric, did you just say the F-word?
Cartman: Jew?
Kyle: No, he’s talking about “fuck”. You can’t say fuck in school, you fucking fatass!
Cartman: Why the fuck not?
Mr. Garrison: Eric!
Stan: Dude, you just said “fuck” again!
Mr. Garrison: Stanley!
Kenny: fuck!
Mr. Garrison: Kenny!
Cartman: What’s the big deal? It doesn’t hurt anybody. fuck-fuckety-fuck-fuck-fuck.
Mr. Garrison: How would you like to go see the school counselor?
Cartman: How would you like to suck my balls?
Mr. Garrison: What did you say?
Cartman: I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Actually, what I said was… [megaphone feedback] HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO SUCK MY BALLS, Mr Garrison?
Stan: Holy shit, dude.
right-click to download
TRACKLISTING:
- LMFAO – Girl Cant Help It (Ultimix)
- Eminem vs Jamiroquai – Without Main Vein (DJ Vartan B Mix)
- Erik B and Rakim – I Know You Got Soul (Ultimix)
- KMC Kru – Devil Came Up to Michigan (House Mix)
- Justin Timberlake featuring Clipse – Like I Love You (Basement Jaxx Radio Edit)
- Les Rhythmes Digitales – Jacques Your Body
- Chicane featuring Tom Jones – Stoned in Love (The Young Punx Vocal Remix)
- Madison Avenue – Who the Hell Are You? (Illicit Remix)
- Pink – Who Knew (Bimbo Jones Club Mix)
- Rockell – What U Did 2 Me (Ultimix)
- Rihanna – Disturbia (Jody den Broeder Remix)
- Nelly Furtado – Say it Right (Peter Rauhofer Remix)
- Starkillers – Discoteka (Kobbe and Leeds Remix)
- Andain vs Depeche Mode – Here is the House (DJ Lurk Radio Edit)
- Chicane – Daylight
- Hellogoodbye – Here (In Your Arms) (Ultimix)
- Depeche Mode – Just Can’t Get Enough (Rubber Band Mix)
- Pink – So What (Ultimix)
- Katy Perry vs Goldfrapp – Kissed a La La (Full Tilt Mashup Track)
- Depeche Mode – Personal Jesus (Televangelist Mix)
- Puretone – Addicted To Bass (Ultimix)
- Who da Funk featuring Jessica Eve – Shiny Disco Balls (DJ Chaos vs DJ Infiniti Mix)
- Alice Deejay – Better Off Alone (Signum Remix)
- Chicane featuring Natasha Bedingfield – Bruised Water
- The Killers – Mr. Brightside (Jacque Lu Cont Remix)
- Depeche Mode – A Pain That I’m Used To (Jacques Lu Cont’s Thin White Duke Mix)
- Avril Lavigne – Sk8er Boi (Raphael Gomes Mix)
- Paula Cole – Where Have All the Cowboys Gone (E Team Drugstore Cowboy Radio Edit)
- Filter – Take a Picture (Hybrid Remix)
- Andain – Beautiful Things (Gabriel And Dresden Unplugged Mix)
- Fall Out Boy – Thnks Fr Th Mmrs (Ultimix)
- Perasma – Swing 2 Harmony (Deserves An Effort Polyphony Vocal Mix)
- Simply Red – Sunrise (Love II Infinity Classic Mix)
- Daft Punk – Technologic (Hi-Tec mix)
- Plump DJs – Kinky
- Faith Evans featuring Crooklyn Clan – Love Like This (Highpass Vocal Mix)
- P Diddy featuring Kelis – Let’s Get Ill (Deep Dish Vocal Mix)
- Tatu – All the Things She Said (Extension 119 Vocal vs DJ Lurk RPM Mix)
- Underworld – Born Slippy (Darren Price Mix)
- Imogen Heap – Hide and Seek (Karl G Remix)
- Prodigy – Voodoo People (Pendulum Remix)
No Shirt, No Shoes…No Dice!
Posted: December 18, 2008 in MusicTags: Full Tilt Remix, Funkymix, Mix, Old School, Ultimix, Wicked Mix
Pouring rain and trapped by flooding into the one-room studio I am living in (or out of, if you prefer), I decided to quit playing video games and spin some tunes surrounded by three wet cats who decided to use my bed as a roost. I loaded up every DJ exclusive mix I could find because I was too lazy to go through my folders while the rain was beating on the roof. I also was influenced by going to my man T-Boz‘s birthday bash last Friday where our homegirl Aida brought a big-ass LL Cool J style boombox and her CD collection and proceeded to rock the hizouse with some real old school jams. Here are the results.
Opening sample is from Fast Times at Ridgemont High:
Brad Hamilton: Hey! You guys had shirts on when you came in here!
Jeff Spicoli: Well, something happened to ’em, man. Hahaha!
Brad Hamilton: C’mon Spicoli, just put the shirts back on. You see that sign?
Jeff Spicoli: No shirt, no shoes…
Jeff and Stoner Buds: No dice! Ohhhh.
Brad Hamilton: Right. Learn it. Know it. Live it.
Jeff Spicoli: Whoa!
right-click to download
TRACKLISTING:
- Stevie Wonder – Superstition (Ultimix)
- Boogie Boys – A Fly Girl (Original Mix)
- George Michael – I Want Your Sex (Ultimix)
- Madonna – Justify My Love (Ultimix)
- Ace of Base – The Sign (Ultimix)
- Arrested Development – Tennessee (Funkymix)
- Ice Cube – You Can Do It (Wicked Mix)
- Cyndi Lauper – All Through the Night (Ultimix)
- Zhane – Hey Mr DJ (Wicked Mix)
- Bee Gees – Stayin’ Alive (Teddybears Remix)
- Wreckx N Effect – Rump Shaker (Ultimix)
- Eric B and Rakim – I Know You Got Soul (Funkymix)
- John Mellencamp – Jack and Diane (Full Tilt Remix)
- Uncle Kracker – Follow Me (Ultimix)
- Digital Underground – Humpty Dance (Ultimix)
- MC Lyte – Cold Rock a Party (Ultimix)
- House of Pain – Jump Around (Ultimix)
- Marcia Griffiths – Electric Slide (Ultimix)
- Wild Cherry – Play That Funky Music (Ultimix)
- Kool and the Gang – Jungle Boogie (Ultimix)
- George Clinton – Atomic Dog (Ultimix)
- The Commodores – Brick House (Ultimix)
- Nu Shooz – Point Of No Return (Ultimix)
- Bobby Brown – Humpin Around (Funkymix)
- Puff Daddy featuring Mase and Notorious BIG – Mo Money Mo Problem (Supreme Ultimix)
- INXS – Need You Tonight (Ultimix)
- Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock featuring Omar Chandler – Joy and Pain (Funkymix)
- Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock – It Takes Two (Ultimix)
- Herbie Hancock – Rock It (Ultimix)
- Janet Jackson featuring Heavy D – Alright (Ultimix)
- C+C Music Factory featuring Freedom Williams and Martha Wash – Gonna Make You Sweat (Wicked Mix)
- Marrs – Pump Up The Volume (Ultimix)
- Dave Matthews Band – Ants Marching (Full Tilt Remix)
- Sugar Hill Gang – Rapper’s Delight (Funkymix)
- Vanilla Ice – Ice Ice Baby (Scratch Ultimix)
- Stereo MCs – Elevate Your Mind (Wicked Mix)
- Newcleus – Jam On It (Ultimix)
- Young MC – Bust a Move (Ultimix)
- Rockmaster Scott – The Roof is on Fire (Ultimix)
- Chic – Le Freak (Wicked Mix)
- Vanity 6 – Nasty Girls (Wicked Mix)
- Holiday (Ultimix DJ Jimbo Remix)
20-20
Posted: December 8, 2008 in Poetry, Rant, WritingTags: Angelkittn, Beer, Brother, Butterfly, Cat, Caterpillar, Champagne, Chocolate, Cigarette, Cold, Cross, Cry, Dark, Death, Eye, Faerie, Fire, Flesh, Friend, Fyrefayre, Heart, Juliet, Kitten, Leaves, Light, Love, Marriage, Melanicus, Memory, Mind, Music, Night, Phoenix, Poetry, Shadow, Sky, Smile, Smoke, Song, Soul, Trees, Wisdom, Witch, Woman, Wood, World
I.
There was a woman
Who I loved with all my heart.
It’s the only way
I know how
to love.
The problem I have
With falling in love
Is that I just keep falling
And falling on through.
It’s a perpetual autumn;
Storming leaves of memories,
Possibilities,
Skeletal trees.
And turning my collar up
Against the cold of this world.
Holding my hands out
To the warmth of the fire
That we had kindled
To keep the darkness at bay.
Every time these things end
I look up from the glow
Of the smolder, the embers,
For the ignition of a smile,
That familiar, beloved synching
Eyes to eyes:
It’s just understood
We’ll revel in the work
To pile on more fuel
From our common woodpile.
But nobody is there
Across the coals from me;
I’ve fallen through
The bottleneck of the hourglass
Along with all these ashes.
II.
Songs get tied
Like complicated knots
Around my feelings;
They remind me of how
I used to think about forever.
Some are bright blossoms
Stolen from yards
On the way to your window
In the middle of the night
To kneel and present you
With a moonlit bouquet,
My Juliet.
Another is the crosshatching
Of spray painted poetry
Hanging in midair
Amongst the tree branches
Between the shadows
Of the stars that were ours;
Witchcraft and wizardry
For an unrelenting passion.
Tapestries of smoke
And of tie-dyed freedom;
Soft paws of haloed kittens,
The chocolate and the champagne
Of the once in a lifetime.
Threads on a magick loom
Synchronicity unparalleled,
Spiderwebs like a hammock,
An embrace as if I was coming home;
Touch burning like the fire of a faerie,
Or the resurrection of the phoenix,
Tracing sigils in the sky,
Re-ignition of belief
Like a firestarter
Or finding a soulmate.
I am haunted
By the breadth of my music
And the depth of my commitment.
The failure
of my eyesight.
III.
The carnage is absolute;
A battlefield strewn with my corpses,
Beer cans and shrieks and cigarette butts,
The best of intentions and
The stench of taking things for granted.
These raw wounds
I have sustained over my lifetime
Of loving how I should have been loved
Never seem to heal;
They just ooze and pulse
Making heartbeats painful;
A crazy accumulation of luggage
Like owning an airport carousel
Of baggage you can’t strip off.
It just grows with you,
Older and less attractive,
Smelling faintly of urine and gangrene
When you can’t bear
To perform the required surgery.
It hurts too much;
I’ll excise memories I want to keep
Along with the decaying flesh.
Retrospective or post-mortem;
It’s still the death of a relationship
That I thought would live forever
As if I had infinite chances,
Infinite quarters.
IV.
I was pinned to a mortarboard
Like a butterfly from a caterpillar,
When I had to eulogize my friend;
My brother, my partner-in-crime,
Someone who understood
By the merit of not being female
The depth of love and an enduring relationship.
I don’t ever want to do that again.
It is the same with love;
I know I can, and it will be better,
But the pain of losing someone to provoke that work
Is too much to accept;
Besides, who the fuck will do that for me?
The answer is as clear as hindsight:
20-20.
I listened to my voice echo hollow through a church
That he wouldn’t have appreciated
To the people who were left behind,
And became even more haunted.
I did my best to represent,
Tell tales, romanticize, believe
And I went home with ashes in my mouth
To cry, cry out, want to evaporate,
Disappear, erase myself from existing
Because I had lost something precious:
A true friend.
It’s a lot like losing your love
Because you have lost a friend.
V.
The light switch is off.
This is the eye of the storm for me.
Now I deal with the still shatter of leaves,
The cold of being alone,
And shoving my hands into the campfire.
There is no warmth.
This destroys the fabric of memories
That took deep commitment
And sweat equity;
Deeper resources than I had without you.
And I see them all retreat,
As if they never existed;
Vanish into the thin, thin air
That I breathe.
Flatlined.
VI.
To move along,
Because there is nothing to see here;
It’s a pretty penance,
My cross to bear;
One that gets weightier
The more years I carry forward,
This boulder I am pushing uphill.
It’s that lost luggage from the carousel;
It’s those old wounds from the battlefield;
It’s those lyrics of happier times
When I would write, compose, sing
Of how I loved being in love
And how I expected forever
But you only had right now to give.
VII.
Perspective is a function of wisdom,
Which is a byproduct of experience,
That is what happens when you live and die
Through these things.
Perhaps they build character;
Actually, they create defense mechanisms
To try to prevent this from happening again
And again.
Expectations collapse
And you lay bricks and mortar in the fortress
That you think will keep you safe
But not sound;
You all are quite persuasive.
Certainly isolated
In the aftermath
Of bequeathing your everything —
Heart, mind, soul —
To your everything
Around that campfire
And you look up and discover
That she is long gone.














