Friday, March 23, 2007

I was going to make a comic about a character called "Emoctopus" who is an emo octopus. He'll have a frustrated expression and a little shag of hair. Also, armbands. Maybe some bandages on his wrists/tentacles.

Then I remembered that I can't draw. Also, it is a terrible idea. And to be pragmatic, it is about three am and I have to babysit my nephews all day and then build a set for a play all night. Quite a Friday.

I'm listening to Regina Spekter. She's from Russia, 26 years old, and telling me how it is. Lyrically, I mean.

This song is fun and different:

But I know that there are some people who like to take things down a notch prematurely, like Emoctopus. He would listen to this one first:

That Emoctopus is so wacky. At least, he might have been. Ah well, I guess I can throw away the notes about his misadventures. Might as well get rid of the FAQ about him, too. They mostly deal with his "hair" (it's really a splotch of ink that floats just above his head) and why an octopus would try to slit its wrists/tentacles since it can just regenerate them (to further illustrate the futility of it all).

I'm going to bed.

Monday, March 19, 2007


Avoid nostalgia. Focus instead on what has grown from the event. I do not know a tree that is wistful of being a seed, nor a labyrinth that longs to be some other forking path.

Swinging in rusted swing. Hands ruddy from the rusted chain endlessly oxidizing from children's sweaty palms; their chemical grip. Sand for braking feet and distributing impact is littered with orange peels, napkins, and the glittering foil shells of sandwiches and cookies and other playground fuels. The ghosts of traded lunches, the aluminium skeleton herds of the bulls and bears of the schoolyard stock exchange.

Fairy rings are lush amidst the yellow grass and green blades poke up along the concrete path that bisects the playground. This path demands a choice from feet that fall upon it: come or go. The slide makes a similar demand.

I stare into desolate backyards littered with faded, unnecessary toys and vehicles and furnishings that have become of only slightly less use than when they were purchased shiny. The bitterness I feel at this is fed by recognition. Green rings of grass fed by a hidden mold.

Orwell's "Why I Write" speaks of outrage fueling his writing. My relationship with words is more flirtatious. We are like childhood friends whose parents winked and nodded to each other in matrimonial conspiracy. And, like all children, we had noticed but it was just one strange thing among the many strange things and deserved no more attention than anything else that did not directly interfere with our play.

And now we've grown up and are happy to see one another but are both otherwise committed. Not that commitment really means much. It is simply the invocation of the mystical force that keeps us in one place when we wish to be in another. Like centrifugal force. Exactly like centrifugal force in that it only seems that we are being acted upon to whirl incessantly around some arbitrary center but if we remove the barrier we lose no energy and fly true along the path we were always on.