The Prison of Cheese

I fancied myself in some barbarous country where, being charged with a political offence, I was doomed to be incarcerated in a large cheese. And although this curious prison-house seemed most oppressive, it formed but part of my sufferings . . . to my horror, an army of rats attacked the monster cheese, and soon they seemed to have effected an entrance, and began to fix themselves in numbers upon my naked body.

from The Journal of Psychological Medicine, 1856

(photo by Doug Sparks)

Take the Bridge and Feed the Beast

So my knee is pretty bad and I may have torn something because the leg isn't working right. But I got tired of sitting around on my ass so I went out for coffee and conversation tonight and then I went to a punk/ska/oi show in Lowell. Funny about Lowell: there was another punk/ska/oi show in the city but I preferred the one I went to because I liked the sound guy. He was in a band with the ex-husband of the girl I loved who was killed about two years ago. He asked me to buy him a beer tonight. He still uses a picture I took of him, years ago, as his facebook pic and he talked about it to me. He told me he doesn't want to take it down. This means a lot to me in that I have to wrestle to preserve memories of those times, and to keep the continuity between the old self and the broken self, and, well, yeah . . . it makes me happy in its own melancholy way.

The rain was slight, a drizzle, and the bands sang about America, oi oi oi. And I texted a few friends, old and new. And the rain insisted. And I'd gone all day and had only eaten a pork chop, because I'm trying to push things, but I gave up and left the show and drove to McDonalds, where the man through the intercom told me that the late night menu didn't include Big Macs but that he could do up a Quarter Pounder in the style of a Big Mac so I okayed that and got into a long line and opened up the perfumed copy of my Dashiel Hammett novel. There had been pretty girls at the show tonight, but they all seemed to be dating guys in the bands. The rain fell harder and I found an empty parking lot and sat there, eating my sandwich and finishing up the chapter.

*

The rain came down and my knee gave out. I walked through the rain with my knee buckling and threatening to collapse at odd angles. The drops of rain were suffused with city lights and I decided to drive fast over the bridge on the way home, if only because normally I drive slowly and, like I said before, I wanted to push things.

The beer had been cheap. There was a guy there with a "Strike first" tattoo on his back, a friend of a friend, and he told me about how he normally carried a piece, but one time he didn't, that one time, and he he got into an altercation in the streets of New Hampshire and someone cracked his skull with a pipe. After that, he couldn't drink water for six months, because the doctors were worried that the water would expand his brain and cause his skull fracture to rupture. When they finally told him he could drink water he downed a pint of Fuji and then went out into his garage and, for the first time in six months, drank a beer.

All this made me happy. I was in good company. The girls around me had nice hair but were distant, and I looked at them, and listened to the stories.

And the rain fell in a fine mist, which, if you took care to notice, was illumined pink and blue and white by street lamps and neon and by the lights over the bridge over the Merrimac.

Pissing with the Dog

Chihuahuas are hard to house break, because they shit so fast.

The shits are small and hard and easy to pick up. I often pick them up with my bare hands. I fling them into the toilet, as though they were mini-basketballs. And then I wash my hands. Don't worry. I'm not that much of an idiot.

So I started talking my dog into the backyard and pissing to show her how it's done. I try to aim for the poison ivy or poison sumac. I don't think human piss kiss plants that make you itch, but it can't hurt to try.

Of course, at times I wonder what my neighbors would think if they looked out and saw my pale white ass stomping around. I have that strange sense of modern paranoia where I always think the police are going to show up and arrest me for one crime or another and it would be something like this: me out, innocently pissing next to the chihuahua, the next day in the Concord pen, writing Thoreau-like letters about how prison isn't so bad, since the real prison is the human mind.

I would be in the pen, but still have poison ivy around the toes from stomping around the backyard naked.

*

I should note that my trick worked, and the dog now stands next to me and we piss together.

*

An ex-student of mine, Frank, started writing a blog entry here that we had planned out as a half-prank, but I found out that Osama bin Laden had been killed and it not only would have spoiled the joke, but well, as I said, I have that strange sense of modern paranoia . . . .

*

But what are you here for? You see, I once told Frank that you can't write as though as a Protestant minister was standing over your shoulder. And I tried to put it this way to writing students: that very thing that pains you to write, that thought that flickers across your brain until you stop it with a no way there's no way I can write that no one will ever date me and I'll get fired -- that thing? That thing is what people want to read. And it's exactly why in the age of flame wars and 14 year olds dissing on Herman Melville and Lady Gaga alike we aren't an inch closer to anything like the truth. Because even those 14 year old kids - especially those 14 year old kids, are scared as hell to write what they actually think. Moreover, to do so with the necessary discipline, the aesthetic form to make it into something less random and more art? Fuck that. This echoes across the net as much as information does. Fuck that. No way. No no no no.

*

Because, of course, there's truth in it. Life involves filters and concealment. So be it. And if I told you the true comic adventures of what my daily life was like yes I would get fired but, I suspect, would probably get laid more. And it's not that I would get fired because I'm some arch bastard. Because I, like you, am pretty normal. My confessions have nothing to do with the big stuff and a lot more to do with the petty. But even that . . . .

*

So how's it going? How ya been?

I'm still on the Internet a lot. I mean, a hell of a lot. Hours a day. I study bjj videos on youtube. I "wiki" D.H. Lawrence. But I was fairly honest in keeping it all to essentials, or at least to things that don't need an apology. I am using the tool.

And from that perspective, the few times I've gotten on facebook, I have that feeling that I get when I occasionally look on my old myspace page. Which is mostly what the hell was the big deal?

When I get home at night, no light shines straight into my eyes. And I sleep well. I don't think I'll ever go back to being on the Internet frequently. I think I'll keep pushing in the direction of less. I've let my Nook gather dust.

I bought a Dashiell Hammett book. The book smells feminine, almost perfumed. Maybe a little soapy.

The book has a receipt for itself inside it. Someone paid full price, nine dollars, for it, back in 1999 and it was purchased at a Barnes and Noble in Riverdale, Alabama. How it made it's way to Nashua? Who read it? Who stained its bottom slightly with such a strange and delicate scent? So to think about as you read tales of the lost New York, with its drunks and dames.

*

But I still get on to send important messages and to make sure I have the time of events correct. Important matters.

*

I've started going to a park in the afternoon with a notebook. I first started doing this as a self-consciously creative-person act. But then I found that not only did it make me feel happy, but I was always writing a lot about stuff that I didn't expect. I also started drawing. Why? Well, because there were big blank white pages. Once you have a stick and a canvas and a little spare time, of course you'll start drawing bison, and from then on to naked women and trains and space monsters and, finally, leaves. Of course, leaves.

*

It's been hard to give up music and I gave in last night and listened to a Sinatra cd, Only the Lonely, and that was because I was feeling a little lonely. I hurt my knee this week, so I couldn't train. I had gone through a number of novels this week. And I just wanted to hang out. I didn't want my sociality mediatized. I wanted to hang with people. And no people were around. So, in my head, I thought of the America from before when I was born, and I thought of drinking Old Fashioneds in hotel bars and listening to Gerry Mulligan and I let my head roll and roll onto into that crazy fog of mantelpieces and Chinese food and black and white.

*

So I've written a lot, in this time, in a notebook, that only I can read. I wrote a few letters that I haven't sent. I read quite a few books. I injured my knee. So bad it's hard for me to walk. And I kept thinking that ideas, like anything in the universe, have power and energy.

At night, the dog has stopped sleeping on her heating pad and now insists on sleeping next to me again. I worry about rolling over on her, but I also wake up, every time, thinking, where is the dog? I need to find my little friend. And I reach my hand down my side, and there she is, nestly by my underpants. And her tail starts to thump against the blanket and she is happy, either because it's a new day or because I'm touching her or because a bond lost in sleep has been reformed.

North South North

This will be my last blog post before my Kill Your TV month begins. I'll take notes during that time, and will publish a full report on the results in early June.

This is merely a soft experiment in how technology affects thinking and day-to-day life. I am, as someone put it, turning the clock back to 1994.

Here are the rules. Aside from access necessary for work, during the month of May I will:

1. Refrain from all internet use.

2. Refrain from all use of the television, including dvds and live streaming.

3. Not listen to recorded music after work.

I was originally going to rule out any movie viewing, but since I only go to the theater about twice a year, I figured this was unnecessary. I also want the option to go see the new Werner Herzog film when it open in Boston.

During this time, I will attempt to read a number of long novels. I will keep a daily record of my reflections and activities. And I will try to avoid marring the experience by turning it into some self-improvement scheme.

Tonight, I will relax, drink tea, and watch Encounters at the End of the World. When the film is over, I will consider the experiment as having begun and will look forward to sharing my results in thirty days time.

See you on the other side!