A Brief Visual Encounter: July

The Categorization of Days

Some days just don’t fit into a category or a to-do list or a goal-accomplishment metric. No, they don’t. Some days you just wake up and wonder, hmmm, what the fuck? Time’s a wasting here, what am I doing about it? I’m 37 years old, maybe halfway done, where’s the old carpe diem? Some days it takes so much strength to not dial up more Law and Order episodes on the Netflix that there is little gusto left to accomplish anything else except, possibly, throwing down some wandering language about that very fact.

This morning I passed Spady and his killer Scottish Terrier on the Belmont Blvd. dog walking circuit. He’s apparently 25 chapters into a novel. I wonder about Spady. He kind of reminds me of the Key West dudes, the tiny Hemingways who seem to have surrendered to the pointlessness of it all and are more than content to be carried along on the whims of existence. Experiencing his presence in Nashville is akin to witnessing a dried starfish washed up at the entrance of the Whole Foods Market. Anyway, Spady told me the plot of this book when I saw him out a month ago. Not much about it sticks with me except some allegory relating to numerology and a murder… it all gets hazy in the early-Summer humidity.

Doesn’t it, though? This document can stand as a testimony to the scatteredness of it all. Some days the Universe finds it goddamn funny to pour a vat of molasses straight into your skull and watch you stumble around the house in a sorghum daze, thinking one thing whilst doing something completely different, like trying to come up with a two-letter word that begins with ‘C’ as you take what will hopefully be the first of several dumps today. There is no two-letter word that begins with ‘C,’ you remind yourself, just as there is no particular dietary regimen that will guarantee more than one dump per day at the age of 37.

Men, I tell you. Let’s ponder the endless derogatory remarks made by women about men in certain comedic entertainments these days. If they could only peer into the gooey brains of the species itself… my goodness, the thoughts that men actually have about men. Like women, we are constantly comparing, and perhaps in not too different of a manner. Take Spady vs. Me. I don’t really have any particular desire to beat or one-up Spady in any specific area, but I can’t pass the motherfucker on the street on a perfectly good Wednesday morning without wondering whether or not my life is measuring up to his by some indeterminate scale of which I have little comprehension or mastery of. 25 chapters into a novel? Really? I have nothing to compare to that, in my mind, and here’s why: I feel completely unable to focus on anything that requires the dedication and commitment a novel demands. I have been focused on things that last for three-and-a-half minutes for quite awhile now, as well as the means by which to foist them upon the world, which are probably best suited to people who with even shorter attention spans than three-and-a-half minutes.

Meanwhile, I have male friends whose marriages are falling apart. The dark hours of abandonment and disappointment these folk are currently experiencing crush my piddling piddliness with an iron fist. They are being drawn towards real man-child moments, those seething encounters with the ego that find a dude waving a fist at life one moment and curling up in a corner like a baby the next. Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Ernest… just please make it go away and I promise to either beat it so far into submission or nurture it like a lost kitten, if only to prove a point.

Years ago I was motoring around Bristol, England with my radio promotions guy. We crested a hill in the city and were greeted with the site of hundreds of students sunning themselves on a lawn that sloped down towards the city center. A lawn, that glowing, illuminated green that only occurs when the sun comes out on certain days in England, setting the grass pulsing, aglow with all the stored-up chlorophyll generated by days and days of endless moisture.

Neil (the radio guy) and I had been riding around for days at this point, hopping from station to station, plying my new single. Neil was eternally sparky and blissful, always happy to be doing his job, to be cresting another hill in another city. I was depressed, completely absorbed in the slightly confusing process of attempting to gain acceptance at radio stations and with the British public in general. Had there been a forest, I would not have been able to see it for the crab apple trees. Truly, there was nothing but grass, centuries-old buildings everywhere and young, nubile people relaxing and enjoying themselves. The moment escaped me. I imagine I was wondering how long it would be until we could stop off for our afternoon pints.

Today I have a yard that is in desperate need of cutting and flower beds that could be weeded but should probably just be completely dug up and begun again. I have what feels like an endless list of administrative tasks to do, most of which seem daunting and mindless. I am writing from the confines of the nicest house I have ever lived in, one that needs some attention here and there but is remarkably perfect. Yes, something is telling me that I am, once again, missing a great moment here, but I feel incapable of reaching out and grabbing. Recent experience has taught me that taking small steps towards the goal is the best way to proceed. I suppose that this little missive is the first one of these. However, I am still thinking of Law and Order: SVU and wondering how they will solve the next hideous crime they are faced with. I would still very much like to get through at least one computer Scrabble match. Neither of these tasks would involve engagement with the world on any level and would, I fear, only draw me a little further into a particular hole.

And thinking back on what seems to have been written so far here I am taken with how completely self-absorbed it all is, how I will never care to read it again and how it probably serves no purpose whatsoever. About how Social Media, the most tempting outlet for these labors, would actually accept this load of hooey with open arms as something worth sharing, having contemplated and commented upon. I just can’t get with the ide of airing these thoughts for consumption. We really have to rise above the idea that this crap is worthy of sharing with each other. That is the problem with art today, I believe; we have become utterly convinced that these type of musings constitute a relationship with an audience, an interaction when, in fact, these kind of musings are exactly the shit that we should keep to ourselves, the grist that will (hopefully) propel us to creating something higher, something infinitely more useful, for our compatriots in existence to chew on and to share.

Did someone mention breakfast? Since moving in with Liz three years ago, I have become infinitely more attuned to the needs and goings-on of my body. I know that part of the issue with getting this day going is merely the fact that I have given myself nothing to work with on a cellular level besides caffeine and nicotine. I need protein mixed with just the right amount of carbohydrate to achieve a roper balance that might assist in seeing things in just the right light. That solidity that sets in after a couple of eggs or even a fat dose of almond butter. Meat is a possibility but some days you just don’t feel like thinking through the reality of the death, the slaughter of innocents, the very real possibility that you could just as easily be eating the dog you were so tenderly walking only hours ago. Goddamn meat. Why are you so tasty and wrong.

Our friend Emily Leonard is a startlingly good artist. She gave us a gorgeous print for our wedding, a gorgeous print that I have yet to have framed. A plane of happiness that currently sits furled up on a bookshelf, its joys hidden from me. It is a painting of a forest, oddly enough, one rendered impressionistically enough so that there is not really a hard option of actually seeing individual trees so well. It’s like the perfect existential rendering of woodlands. Just merge with it, don’t let the small stuff get you down. Asshole.

One of my favorite avoidance pastimes is reading The New Yorker. I don’t recall at what point in my life this magazine took hold of me, but goddamn it, it did. Its promise of weekly sophistication and high-mindedness has driven me toward of number of unrealized ambitions, such as being an eminently cool musician, a well-regarded writer, a long-time resident of New York City. All things I have touched upon at various junctures in life, none of which I would say that I have ever really achieved. But the New Yorker still comes every week, still promises and idealized frame of mind that seems achievable somehow. I don’t know why, anymore. I have finally reached a stage in life where I feel comfortable not reading every goddamn word of it; yes, I am now capable of skipping ahead after reading a few paragraphs of the 15,000 word piece on Ugandan sheep hymens without feeling as if I am cheating myself out of some seriously necessary life knowledge… or merely not getting my money’s worth. It’s a step.

I am beginning to question my newfound allegiance to the IPhone. I waited ages until my Verizon contract was up last October to jump on board but, once I did, I was shocked by how it immediately influenced my life. Everything seemed to get infinitely more organized and categorical: blobs of unintelligible ambition aligning themselves into brightly-colored squares on my ICal, legions of unforeseen needs suddenly met by the acquisition of another smartly-programmed app, badly-written emails from other IPhones instantly replied to with my own badly-written email.

But in recent weeks I have begun to wonder if all it has, ultimately, been for naught. If all these perfectly-scheduled new events (with reminders) are actually getting me anywhere or merely serving to fill up all of that undefined white space on my calendar. If these apps that get used maybe once a month are really just filler to camouflage the Scrabble and FIFA 11 games that get most of the action. If those badly-written emails are just going out into the universe attracting more half-baked thoughts and ideas.

I love to look at the IPhone. It brings me pleasure. I won’t be getting rid of it anytime soon; the transition would be way too much of a pain in the ass. Nothing is really that big of a deal, anyway. This I should know by now. All things get done eventually, just don’t get too stupid about it. Right now babies are being born, children are starving, divorce papers are being served. Life is coming to a series of very hard and immediate conclusions, whether I am paying attention or not. You can’t get an app for that shit, no way.

Hardwood

The weather in Nashville really doesn't get much better than today. Sunny, breezy, just a hint of crisp in the air, a touch of moisture, everything blooming and swollen with life. Eureka!

I spent the day in Joelton working at Bob's house on Clarksville Highway. The drive out of town was fine, early Spring light washing over everything. Upon arrival, I grouted a tile backsplash, installed some light fixtures and sanded and sealed the new floor in one of the bedrooms.

I am crazy for wood these days. I really like working with it. Bob and Raymond taught me how to lay hardwood floors last year and I have come to find the process very rewarding. Laying the planks is pretty hard on the back, but there is something magical about building this really strong organic surface out of a lot of individual pieces. I like to try to coordinate the different grain structures of each piece into some kind of harmonic visual pattern when possible. When I stare at it all for awhile the grain starts to look like water, like the boards are kind of flowing together.

I used to dislike the sanding process because of the unwieldy nature of the sander, but I've grown into it. It requires a certain kind of patience that a lot of other activities in my life do not. The trick to doing it correctly is performing multiple passes with different grades of sandpaper. It looks like a brutal process with the sander whining away and dust flying everywhere. But it is kind of delicate, in a way. It's like I'm rubbing off all the dirty fingerprints and grit and general Home Depotness the poor wood has had to endure since it left its original condition. I like the way the friction of the sander reforms the wood and seems to kind of seal the surface. I have to go fairly slowly, doing six passes in three different directions with 40 grade sandpaper (the roughest), then six more with 80, then four with 100 and 120 (the finest). Then I go around the edges of the room (Where the big sander cannot reach) with the small orbital sander, repeating all of the grades there.

By the end of it, the wood is gleaming. It looks supple, almost flesh-like. I vacuum it very thoroughly with the Shop Vac and then apply a coat of oil-based sealer with a roller. This leaves the surface very shiny for a minute or two, like a girlfriend that just stepped out of the shower. Then the grain of the wood starts to raise up a bit as the sealer seeps into it. Yes, it is a little disillusioning to watch the smooth texture disappear, but I take comfort in knowing that, once it dries, I will go back with an even finer grade of sandpaper, knock down the raised grit, vacuum, and then apply a couple of more coats of varnish. I'l take a picture when it is finished.

No Rain Today...

... but check the brick work:

The Importance of Being Earnest

My friend Jay Odenbaugh blew back through town earlier this week. I was able to catch him for breakfast and a hike on Tuesday. As we crested the Mossy Ridge at Percy Warner Park, he informed me that he had recently attained tenure at Lewis and Clark University. I was damn near misty-eyed as I contemplated the ramifications and the long road to his achievement: At the age of 15, when I had known him for three or four years, Jay stated his desire to become a Doctor of Philosophy, a feat he achieved quite handily in the subsequent decade. After countless exhibitions of pride and determination, I can't say that I was surprised to find out that he had finally grabbed tenure out of the hands of defeat; I just wish I could remember more of the details about his rise to the top.

This morning I met my father for breakfast at the Pancake Pantry. I had not seen him for a month or so and there was plenty to catch up on. He and Vicki have sold their house, not before winning a Nashville Historical Society Preservation Award for their fine renovation/restoration efforts. They are soon moving into another house that Dad has renovated, a Cape Cod that was on the verge of collapse this time last year. We went to look at it this morning, and I was truly stunned. It is one of the finest home renovations I have ever seen anywhere; the floor plan flows beautifully and old and new aesthetic details have been married with nary a flaw. It is the seventh house my dad has renovated in my lifetime, and by far his crowning achievement. I am looking forward to visiting and, as always, very happy to have such a sweet place to hit rock bottom, should the need ever arise again.

I went straight from Dad's house to Bill DeMain's apartment, where we wrote a new song called "Philosopher Dog," recorded the two remaining demos for 1908 Division and then mixed all of the demos. Listening back, I am pleasantly surprised. The songs are alternately more complex and deconstructed than most previous efforts. The implied apartment building narrative allowed for the use of various styles and dynamics that I would normally not include on one album, but all in all it holds together pretty well. Then again, what wouldn't sound good to ears tweaked on high-grade organic peyote? Before the carpet began slithering up my ankles I was able to detect a few arrangement issues here and there, but nothing major, nothing that won't be easily dealt with the minute these goddamn fruit bats stop flying out of my nostrils.

Word on the street is that I have my third home-cooked supper of the week to look forward to this evening. Liz is on a real culinary tear and I am supremely grateful. Tonight is Quinoa and vegetables, I believe. I would like to go for bike ride in the meantime, but feel obligated to hang with Stan for a bit; he endured a terrible thunderstorm today alone. He seems shaken but did managed to avoid relieving himself on the floor, which is certainly what I would have done in his position.

The Price of Adulthood

Last night, Liz and I rode the yellow bikes to a restaurant in Germantown called City House. I had visited the establishment on three other occasions with mixed results, and this occasion was no different: for every five things the restaurant gets right, there is one element that seems slightly off, just enough to tweak a particular synapse that may or may not affect the vibrational frequency of everything else. Which means nothing at all, really, and, since most things don't, I will continue with the pride and determination of a little band you may or may not have heard of: Fognode.

The occasion was a festively grim one: our friend and confidant Peter Bradley Adams was, and still is, moving to Brooklyn, of all places. As a send-off dinner, it was a fairly disappointing experience, as there was exactly one toast to the guest of honor and almost no storytelling or 'This Is Your Life' kind of moments, of which the ensuing embarrassment is one of my favorite elements of a proper 'send-off' dinner. However, as a dinner honoring Peter Bradley Adams, it was a complete success, as Peter Bradley Adams had apparently expressed no previous desire to be properly 'sent-off.' In fact, he will be leaving most of his belongings in Nashville, taking only a suitcase and his now infamous collection of shrunken Doberman heads. Theories abound that the entire migration is merely a method by which he might construct an appropriately bizarre and disappointing set of circumstances that would propel him straight back to the Music City for the recording of an award-winning album.

Ah, Peter Bradley Adams. P-Bra, to his friends. Two glasses of Chablis into the dinner, he acquired a particularly giddy air, seemingly befuddled by the flood of non-attention being paid to him at his last Nashville hurrah. Someone had seated him smack in the middle of the table, the unwilling bifurcation of two incongruous sets of friends who, as the evening unfolded, seemed to express no interest whatsoever in getting to know one another. Firmly planted at the non-alcoholic end of the table, Liz and I were unable to follow the thread of his slightly-impaired logic, the cut of his jib. At a loss, we continued making fart sounds with our armpits until the pasta course arrived.

The heartburn and gas had begun to set in, so we said our goodbyes and hit the road on the yellow bikes. We navigated a slightly different route home, one that took us over the Demonbreun Street Viaduct just as mighty freight train was passing underneath it. "Look Liz," I pointed, "two paths intersecting, like strangers in the night."

"What?" She was too far behind to hear me.

"That broccoli was divecting, this gas like a knife," I shouted as she pulled up closer behind me.

"Just let it go, Honey. Let it go."

Peter Bradley Adams, this one's for you. Ahh, that's better.