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.
3 Things
Mini Ramp ism: As mentioned elsewhere, we tore down Bracewell's dilapidated mini ramp and built a fresh one. It took way more work and time than any of us imagined—but hey, all the best things take both work and time.
New Built To Spill Album: Thinking about this band takes me straight back to an era of corduroy pants and black studded belts, when I cared deeply about such things as indie-rock record labels. I haven't followed BTS since Keep It Like A Secret, and in general, it's tough to return to a band you were very emotionally tied to in the past. The music's too mixed up with memories—you just can't be objective about it. If I had to pick, though, Doug Martsch would prob be one of my favorite guitar players ever, and so I'm gonna give this a listen and see if it goes. I haven't formed any opinions yet, have you?
Vegetable starts: There's a romance to growing your own food. Sadly, maybe—it should be normal, not novel. But fuck—everyone can't live in cabins and chop wood all day. Anyhow, way back in February, I sprinkled some tomato and cucumber seeds in empty tin cans and sat em in a sunny window. Stems pierced the soil, broad leaves unfurled. A few months later, I just plopped the little plants in the ground. See ya in August, guys!
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.
New Jerseys
As you may know, I used to travel all the time. Europe, B.C., Vermont, India—every week, somewhere new. That's not me anymore—different job/different life. But! I love when people travel to me.
This past week, some guys from New Jersey came through town, and I let them stay in my basement. I'd never met these people—friends of friends, you see, but they pulled up in a killer old Buick and we were all immediately buds.
Like any consummate host, I showed ’em all the spots. We skated, hiked, wandered. We ate. We drank. We made a backyard fire. They did all the dishes and gave Lefty more attention than he's ever known. They also, while I was at work on 4//20, made this funny little feature film on location in my yard.
As a rule, I love East Coasters. Salt of the earth, funny, hard boiled. I also love the rite of the traveler—how you can meet new people and feel like you already know them, bond over a couple days or a car ride, be instantly old friends. If you've never left your town or your life, if you've never stayed on someone's couch or let them stay on yours, well then that's one of the best things you're missing.
Lefty's new squad. Thick as thieves.
Showed ’em some Oregon magic.
Hung around the fire pit while a sliver of the moon hung in the Western sky.
They really know their way to a girl's heart.
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