New Things for Old

It would seem--nay, it DOES seem--that a new post is necessary. All of these convoluted incrementality blog spots are almost as irritating to oversee as they are to behold.

Oui, oui, all the way home.

What's this coming year to bring? (That's a fine thing to consider, Mr. Gallaher; if you repeat that with some frequency, then it stands to reason that the foolhardy construct of a calendar year will dissipate, and that can't be a bad thing. [The passing of time--the impossibly simpleminded way in which those of us ensnared by modernity measure things--is such a lousy barometer of success. First of all, it's elastic (boogie woogie woogie [clap clap]). Second, that same elasticity renders impossible an empirical determination of success.] So, it's better just to change subjects, is all I'm saying.)

So, it's been a lovely birthday, and it's been very much like any other day. I think that this type of thing is comforting--sexy, even. Why have a time that involves such a labor-intensive departure from normalcy in order to commemorate existence, when it's "normalcy" itself that deserves change into something more affirming.

For instance, I would have loved a party with all of my friends around. Of course, that couldn't happen, because we're all far away from each other, and it'd be an impracticable humor game to accomplish. Instead, there could exist options for envisioning (and perhaps enacting) life changes in order to address that issue of separation.

It's possible that it could even be as simple as a perspectival issue, which is something to which I am awakening. Seeing my life and my time spent in relatively remote circumstances not as being shrouded in lack, but supported by a wide-ranging and far-reaching abundance.

I'm going to try to watch the premiere of Mad Men. I've waited for so long.


Dont Mind Me It's Incremental

This is obnoxious. Why, in my one moment of complete permittance to compensate for last nights complete lack of repose with a feeble nap, do I suddenly feel inspired to write on this blog? That blog. Don't answer and I will stop asking. It's a shame that they don't have anything analogous to a 12-step process for those that compulsively confound themselves. Oh well.

The story of the day is not related to this post of the day. Reason being that I am unaware of any stories of the day.

I was up with Ivor at a ridiculously early hour. Acrtually, the hour was still late. Blurrily staggering, I proclaim to myself and to others that I got some rest, because my blinks were like Morse code to Morpheus, like, "Nooooooooooo!" But it wasn't, you know, restorative blinking.

Now Desy's drumming anyway, so I don't think it so strange that I'm awake. He plays loudly, but with a handle on dynamics that expresses something subverbal that evades his hyperarticulate precocity. I am so, so happy that he has that venue. My parents just sent me a beautiful new crash cymbal for my birthday (tomorrow), and its resonance is very warm and embracing. To hear Desmond play with it is so magical.

Aaaaaaaaaaand hypnotic. Now I have to nap. Crap. More soon.
(elapsed 19 hours)

Yes. Well, now I'm thirty four, which is neither here nor there, but my visit last night from the birthday surgeon gave me one obvious white hair near each of my ears. That shit is real.

For everything that defies logic, there is a logical trajectory. I don't know what that means or why that matters, but I desperately need another nap, for sure.

I'm often asked what I want for my birthday. Generally speaking, I don't want much of anything except exemption from unpleasant variousnesses (examples: barking creditors, abrupt neighbors, passive-aggressive mock-friends, my 2 children pummeling each other, loneliness in a state where we feel exiled, headaches, thwarted attempts at romance with my one true love, et al.), which en toto feels exactly like a gift.

Another gift: the right to NAP. Which I'll do now.

(elapsed 2 hours)

I didn't nap, and I should've. I gave up on it when Pat Sajak appeared in some hypnagogic depth. I was like, "This ruinous image can't be overwritten in time for me to enjoy the remainder of the day." So, I went for a walk with Molly, Desmond, and Ivor.


(This vs. That) vs. the Other =

I was asked earlier about where a new post could be found.

Here's one! Right here! And it's not even written yet!

I apologize wholeheartedly for my absence from the fray. I would absolutely love to have something profound, beatific, and/or mesmerizing to show for it, but I do not.

I have been suffering the loss of a good, good friend and human force, yes, but

I feel also that I have arrived at an impasse in which the "thing" of "where i'm at" cannot be suitably conveyed without reprisal (or debilitating fear thereof). It's the worst.

What this means is that I have to take some time to reconfigure my relationship to this blog. I puke in both my mind and my heart when I think about that, but it's likely an integral part of some process.

So, thanks for your patience.


Revisited Currency

I've been so kinda sad and screwed up over the passing of my friend Glenn that I haven't been able to think in any organized manner over these last two weeks.

What is there to say about it? Glenn Sorvisto was like no other person that ever existed, but I guess that that's true for/about everybody (cf. that whole snowflake milieu), so I'll have to expound, and this is where it gets inarticulate and intangibly sorrowful. And there's advance dread about it, so I'll get to it after an interval during which I'll perform mundane tasks and tend to reponsibilities like getting dressed.

I think that there are too many stories to tell, each of which is too difficult to parlay, so what follows is what I have gleaned as the gist of my friend.

Glenn was disarming, in many senses and senselessnesses of that word. While striking in appearance (not only handsome, but also with a peerless sense of style that featured, among many other items, alligator shoes, an easter-grass bowler hat, and simultaneous boisterous plaids), his personality was truly artful. A dazzling array of people each knew and remember Glenn differently. 

To many, Glenn is remembered for a loose-limbed eschewal of decorum that seemed to verge on haplessnessembodying a defiant and devilishly funny maelstrom of caustic and extemporaneous alchemy. Like a song that swings with such ferocity that it threatens constantly to come apart, until it is made apparent that such swinging is actually fundamental to the song. None of it was orchestrated but for every separate and collective memory of it.

Dozens were the occasions on which I experienced genuine discomfort in Glenn's company, although hindsight reveals its majesty. I'd say so now if I could: 

"YES, Glenn! I am so grateful that you smoked a cigarette in the banquet hall during that wedding ceremony. And inside the DMV that one time." 

Or, "It was brave of you to walk into that liquor store, grab a 6-pack of beer, and walk past the cashier, saying, 'MaƱana!' Repeatedly. Until the clerk was so overcome with laughter that he allowed you to leave without paying."

These are among the more minor incidents to which I bore involuntary witness in the company of Glenn Sorvisto.

But that's all shallow nonsense on so many levels, because Glenn the person was so loving and gentle and kind that it's extraordinary for us human people to have been blessed with his presence for as long as we were. In all of the apparent chaos that surrounded him, there was always immense comfort. Glenn subverted my understanding of decency, because he was nothing if not singularly decent. He was deceptively sensitive and keenly thoughtful, even (especially?) in moments of alleged ignorance. He was always himself. He gave himself over to being himself.

There are bazillions of stories, but I don't feel like telling them at the moment, and I know that my facts are only as factual as the distance that separates me from them. I think about his love, Jody, and their incredible 18-year romance. I think about all of the friends that we shared, and the different ways in which each and all of these people experience this loss.

And a world without Glenn Sorvisto appears all the more daunting. But then, I remember that, irrespective of how daunting is any future, it remains inexorably destined for the same pile of pasts and precedents that houses hobbled former futures.