Book Dumb
I'm ashamed to say this, but I've stopped reading books. I hope it's temporary, having to do with being busy and the warm weather. But I'm worried it's not, that this state of inertia might relate to how the internet decimated my attention span and the endless scroll, scroll, scroll. Also, maybe, how I write and read all day for work and so by the time I get to bedtime—the dominion of book reading for me—my eyes are very tired from computer screens and my brain is cold spaghetti and all I want to do is lay my head on the pillow and be told a nice story by my iPod.
In my life, I've always taken everything as it comes. But the idea of never again reading a novel start to finish seems impossible—dangerous even.
I've started on poems, though. To keep me going. They're digestible—a little peek into a person, place, or time. Like Pluma, by Gerald Stern, which I loved this morning because it took me quickly into the tropical heat and also taught me a new word—"euchered": cheated or robbed.
Pluma, By Gerald Stern
Once, when there were no riches, somewhere in southern Mexico I lost my only pen in the middle of one of my dark and flashy moments and euchered the desk clerk of my small hotel out of his only piece of bright equipment in an extravagance of double-dealing, nor can I explain the joy in that and how I wrote for my life, though unacknowledged, and clearly it was unimportant and I had the money and all I had to do was look up the Spanish and I was not for a second constrained and there was no glory, not for a second, it had nothing to do with the price of the room, for example, it only made writing what it should be and the life we led more rare than what we thought and tested the art of giving back, and some place near me, as if there had to be a celebration to balance out the act of chicanery, a dog had started to bark and lights were burning.
4 Years, Today
According to the Humane Society, Lefty turned 4 today. As you know, he's my number one. Here are a few things you might not know.
I grew up with dogs but didn't really want one. Lance, my former mister, convinced me to meet the 8-week-old mutt, and I mean anyone faced with a fuzzball of this caliber does not drive home puppy-less. Lance wanted the dog, yeah, but all these years later, look whose dog it is!!
His name has nothing to do with dexterity. We named him after Lefty of Pancho And Lefty fame, who, I've been reminded, was a snitch. The name was also kinda inspired by that Lefty's Prayer drink at the Bye And Bye—a dark elixir of beat juice and tequila that sent me spinning a few months before we got Lefty.
The dog is spoiled but he's not pampered. He doesn't get hair cuts. I don't really buy him toys. And he doesn't go to the vet—he's a farm dog and when shit comes up we sort it out at home. He's a fucking wild animal!
Lefty IS spoiled, though, ’cause he gets to spend almost every waking minute with me. Codependent? Yeah. But dogs are the best company on earth—I like him better than most humans—and I've never understood why you'd get a dog and just leave him at home. They're born to be your wingman, to walk behind you on the trail, to chase you at the skatepark, to lay at your feet while you work, to bark at that stranger in the dark, to guard the house at night while you sleep.
Twice A Year
On Tuesday we had a storm. Thunder was involved—and a rainbow. Everything you could ask for from a storm, really.
I grew up on thunder. There is a wildness about it that's to love. Around here, it thunders, like, twice a year, though.
Tuesday: I didn't even know it was gonna be THAT kind of storm. It caught me by surprise on an evening dog walk that almost didn't happen. We were feeling lazy but decided to go anyway.
My first step on the sidewalk, the thunder cracked, a few blocks from my house, a rainbow unfolded, and still further on, sun beams pierced the downpour—turning the rain into a kinda shower of light.
I guess what I'm saying here is thank god for dogs and the way their sad droopy eyes coerce you into walking outside when you were inclined to stay in. Outside is, of course, where all the good stuff happens.
Ball Sports
Check it out. To people who grew up punk, these ball sports that all the regular folk were playing and taking for granted are actually really weird and hard. Case in point: our new intramural softball team for Unheard Distribution. "The Unhearders," we're called, and at our first game last night, we lost. Like, BAD—28 to 2, in all honesty.
In the outfield, Daniel kept complaining that he had to pee. Covering second base, Johnny was outrun by a lady in yoga pants. Up to bat, Kristina swung at fucking everything (and missed fucking everything!). I was unable to catch a single ball, even the pop fly that the gods sent straight to me like a beam of light.
I really wish you could've been there, because you woulda laughed, and people need laughter in their lives, right?
Side note: Tennis is just as tough. Have you played lately? Fucckkkkkkkk.
Spring Scene
Can you believe we live in a place where all the trees bloom at once and you can look out your front window in the morning to see a yard awash in sun and trees dressed in all manor of color causing petals to fall through the air everywhere like snow and and and .... It's pretty remarkable. The color and the warmth and the light forces a kind of unexpected happiness on you in a way that, maybe, you haven't experienced in a long time.
