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October 31, 2002 - Thursday October 30, 2002 - Wednesday Political statement
 FSA/OWI B&W Photographs from the Prints and Photographs Division of the Library of Congress. (Stumbled in via gmtPlus9.) [ a ] October 29, 2002 - Tuesday A happy goat
Driving a couple weeks ago, a goat ran suddenly out into the road a distance in front of the car; ran right into the perfect middle of the road. It stopped and turned straight at me, looking. Thinking something. Smiling. Then it ran back the way it came. Now, every time I go past that spot I look for the goat. Horatio Valor-Goat. [ a ] October 28, 2002 - Monday Ten dollarth
Hilarious, for some reason; possibly because I know the two principles of the story, and it's so... them. This tale is lifted from an email from Jeremy, presented here out of context and completely without permission. ...in October of '89 (I think), John D—, Jim N— and I embarked on a pilgrimage to New York for the then freshly-dead Andy Warhol's retrospective. We picked up Jim in Washington D.C., then took his car up to NYC. We stashed the car in Newark, then took the bus into the city. At the Port Authority, we were greeted by a small, wiry black man who was parading around the waiting room, loudly saying (with a hint of a lisp), "Ten dollarth! I'm looking for a boy wants to earn TEN DOLLARTH!" He then went into the men's room. John saw where he went and followed. Jim and I looked at each other, raised our eyebrows and settled to wait for a minute. More than a minute went by. I get hyper-tense in big cities, fearing that everyone knows I'm from out of town and is therefore ready to fleece me, rob me and rape me. Waiting wasn't making me any more calm. Finally I went in. The bathroom was empty, except for a familiar pair of shoes under the one stall with a closed door. "John! What's up?" I asked. "Nuthin," he replied, "Just takin' a crap." [ a ] October 26, 2002 - Saturday The spirit of Stephen King at Cornell University Press
From the Cornell University Press website:  "Since early 1993, the acquisitions, editorial, production, and marketing departments of the Press have been located in Sage House, pictured above, where the staff keeps company with the house's carved bats and stained-glass birds." [ a ] October 24, 2002 - Thursday October 22, 2002 - Tuesday No hopes dashed, no tears shed
There's a new Barnes & Noble opening soon in Ithaca. About a month ago, just days after we got here, before I started going to the fantastic job-finder place, I stopped by a "Job Fair" the bookselling giant was having at the local Holiday Inn. I filled out an application, thinking that it might somehow be cool. This is, after all, Ithaca—where a McDonald's in downtown failed because nobody would go to it. I mean... they're Barnes & Noble... but this is Ithaca. I thought maybe, because of that, things would be somehow different. That corporate greed and bloodlust would be magically replaced by genuinely caring community-mindedness. Call me naive. I "interviewed" with a bored recruiter who only lit up when I mentioned the big Border's book store in the mall across town. The fangs came out when he smiled. "They won't be a problem," he said. Sharks eat their own. I wish that was all they ate. "We believe that downtown Ithaca has Upstate's largest collection of independent bookstores, with over 250,000 volumes available." This came in the mail. Should I be ashamed? Relieved? Proud? Discouraged?   [ a ] October 20, 2002 - Sunday Should I not sleep, or not wake up?
Yesterday evening, as drowsiness descended, I began to remember the comfort of half-dreaming in a warm bed in a chilly room that morning, working out the details of a fascinating story line free from the distractions of consciousness. I began to write—squeezing, wringing the memory drip by drop. A paragraph later, as the lines began to warm, the laptop locked up. Today, nothing. [ a ] October 17, 2002 - Thursday October 15, 2002 - Tuesday He became president near the end of WWII
 From the book: "Mr. President," a boy asked Harry S. Truman, "were you popular when you were a boy?" "No," said Truman. "I was never popular. The popular boys were the ones who were good at games and had big, tight fists. I was never like that. Without my glasses I was was blind as a bat, and to tell the truth, I was kind of a sissy. If there was any danger of getting into a fight, I always ran." The boy, and his classmates, applauded. All the People, by Joy Hakim. A textbook for young people published by Oxford University Press, 1995. America's wondering / How we got here / Harry all we get is lies / We're gettin' safer cars / Rocket ships to mars / From men who'd sell us out / To get themselves a piece of power. —from the song "Harry Truman" by Chicago, 1975 [ a ] October 14, 2002 - Monday Some civil servants are just like my loved ones
Jeremy wrote: This morning, I stopped worrying about the government. The Talking Heads wrote: Don't Worry About the Government I see the clouds that move across the sky I see the wind that moves the clouds away It moves the clouds over by the building I pick the building that I want to live in I smell the pine trees and the peaches in the woods I see the pine cones that fall by the highway That's the highway that goes to the building I pick the building that I want to live in It's over there, it's over there My building has every convenience It's gonna make life easy for me It's gonna be easy to get things done I will relax alone with my loved ones Loved ones, loved ones visit the building take the highway, park, and come up and see me I'll be working, working but if you come visit I'll put down what I'm doing, my friends are important Don't you worry 'bout me I wouldn't worry about me Don't you worry 'bout me Don't you worry 'bout me I see the states across this big nation I see the laws made in Washington, D.C. I think of the ones I consider my favorites I think of the people that are working for me Some civil servants are just like my loved ones They work so hard and they try to be strong I'm a lucky guy to live in my building They own the buildings to help them along It's over there, it's over there My building has every convenience It's gonna make life easy for me It's gonna be easy to get things done I will relax along with my loved ones Loved ones, loved ones visit the building Take the highway, park, and come up and see me I'll be working, working but if you come visit I'll put down what I'm doing, my friends are important I wouldn't worry 'bout I wouldn't worry about me Don't you worry 'bout me Don't you worry 'bout me [ a ] October 11, 2002 - Friday All art is quite useless
Sentences plucked from the author's preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde: To reveal art and conceal the artists is art's aim. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. No artist has ethical sympathies. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. All art is at once surface and symbol. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. All art is quite useless. I bought a discounted contemporary copy of The Works of Oscar Wilde on our honeymoon in Ireland—which the Dearest One then hid from me, and then gave to me yesterday on our anniversary, assured that it was a gift I would like. I didn't marry no dummy. [ a ] October 8, 2002 - Tuesday Flyness: A High Place
 From the book: When Sally and I visited Louie last summer, he showed us a bunch of pictures he'd made, using water colors and inks. One in particular made us curious: a picture frame, under which was written "Wenatchee." His explanation follows: Wenatchee! Oh, Wenatchee is a fly that got into my car when I was picking apples in Wenatchee, Washington, and came all the way back with me. I hadn't had a relationship with an insect for a long time. The story gets hard to believe.The window was open on the trip, all the way, and Wenatchee never left. We got back [to northern California], and he lived in my car. Wherever I'd park it, he'd live there, eating scraps off the floor, whatever. When I went to Florida he went all the way with me. He stayed in the car, and got out in Florida, and I came back. Two weeks later, Wenatchee showed up. I called up Nick and he came over and we got pictures of him. There's this little speck, but if we can get it blown up I'll have a really good picture of Wenatchee, and it'll be an out of sight picture. I know that when people can see his face they'll really know that flyness is a high place. Page 114, Dwelling: Making and living in your own space by River; 1977, Doubleday Anchor. [ a ] October 7, 2002 - Monday I, Worker
My first real paycheck-job was in the summer of eighth grade: assembling Schwinn bicycles, starting out with one-speed banana-seaters and working my way up to ten-speed racers, for a small but thriving neighborhood bike shop that kept its boxed stock in the basement of the massage parlor around the corner. Other work has also been memorable for various reasons, both good and bad:
Now I'm looking for something with a more stable income—maybe in or around Ithaca NY, or in the Pacific Northwest somewhere. Or in another place. If you have a job, you can email it to <bigfatpaycheck@potkettleblack.com>. Thanks. [ a ] |
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