All sorts of homecomings. Home comings to my parents’ house (is it strange that I find all of the familiar mugs on the shelves so comforting), home coming to College Perk (all of my friends are there), home coming to the band (band practice tonight was a LOT of fun)… Home moving – moved ilyaimy.com to a new hosting service, spookymedia.com, today. THAT was a pain in the ass. Jeezoflip AND sigh.
Yeah, sigh TWICE even. My parents probably think it strange that I went into the bathroom with my laptop. I guess I better quit typing, flush, and exit. ttfn.
This morning started with a jumo. I’m not quite sure how it happened visually – reflections and blurs and half-remembered dreams conspired to rearrange my view of the side of Heather’s head into Brennan staring wide-eyed at me from across the pillow.
I jerked away and things resolved into Heather’s earings. Not quite sure what happened there. Very disturbing.
So much happened yesterday. Unbelievable amounts of stuff. There are SO many pictures. Today I’m sitting happily in my orange pants, half-heartedly watching some Cameron Diaz movie and organizing photographs.
Last night, after watching Aoutar, we went back to my parents’ house to crash. Then we ventured forth into the world, slowly – the bright lights of the shining sun certainly somewhat discouraging ME from emergence. But my mom made me scrambled eggs the way she used to (with cream cheese), and that was reason enough to regain consciousness.
So, my mom went out to weed the garden, my dad lamented about his computer, Heather slept, and I played games until about 1 when my dad tried to get us to go out to the woods for a walk. He had the right idea – the weather really was perfect yesterday… perfect for frog hunting!
And THAT, my friends, is where our story begins.
We’re sitting on the Lloydholme back porch. Heather’s writing poetry, and I’m writing letters and Journal entries. Worrying that yesterday has produced ten pages of pictures. I’m reading emails from new fans – newcomers to the ilyAIMYite fold. The listeners of the Folk Art Cafe are more vocal than most… and I have a tonne of what can only be described as “fan mail” floating through my inbox.
I feel exhausted, and happy, and good. The theramin thrum of the cicada song continues unabated, and I’m hoping for a thunderstorm before the evening’s out.
Last night’s Folk Art Cafe gig was a success. Sort of a success. I’m not being a good independent musician, and we forgot to put out a tip jar and advertise it’s presence.
I thought about it once, and then didn’t think about it again. My fault entirely. But it’s not something that I can do again. Gas prices are beginning to legitimately scare me, and I don’t think people are taking it seriously. I mean – we’ve all grown up groaning about fluxes in the price of gas. Ten cents here, twenty cents there – but I’ve been reading newspaper articles about the reality of $3.00 a gallon gas.
Now, I’m sure our two European fans are reading that and scoffing – but for us that’s about a 200% increase, and that’s a huge number. I’ve been budgeting for gas for a while – and overbudgeting, to make sure we don’t fall short. You know, it’s always a nice surprise when you realize you have more money than you thought. But here we’ve gone from $1.80/gallon being a “high” estimate of the cost of gas to $2.05/gallon being woefully inadequate. With the majority of our expenses being car-related, I’m worried that we’re about to see our expenses effectively double without any possibility of something similar happening with our income. That’s really frightening. How to we like the idea of small independent artists effectively being eliminated by something as stupid as the rising price of gasoline?
And so we come to the hope of finding alternatives… but what are they? There are conversion kits – good for converting your DIESEL vehicle to run on vegetable oil. Heather’s looking at getting a hybrid, if the settlement for the accident ever comes through – but the chances of THAT kind of money falling into our laps, I think, is slim to zero.
The way our world works… it makes sense to me in one way, but… it’s so spectacularly short-sighted. The Baltimore Sun writes something to the effect that it’s not that the price of gas is getting excessively high, but that the price of gas HAD been too low. This front-page article goes on to assert that this is actually a good, thing – that there is always the possibility that the thinning supply of oil is actually a percursor of a shortage – not caused by supply and demand or those pesky brown-skinned AY RABS that we’re all supposed to hate… but caused by the very real fact that the planet may be drained of this not-very-renewable resource.
And so, the Sun asserts – running out is a good thing, as this will teach us the value of conservation.
That’s excellent ladies and gentlemen – but while we’re learning that lesson, how are we getting to work? How are we making our plastics and latex and rubbers? Hehe – we’re all stuck at home with nothing to do and no condoms. THAT will teach us our lesson, won’t it? I’m not a doom-sayer – but I also wonder how much warning there would be… or if the pumps would just go dry one day, and since the government of the United States (and as far as I know, just about every other government as well) hasn’t exactly placed a high-priority on alternative fuel sources, and in most cases, has actively discouraged it’s exploration… well, what happens?
I don’t know, it’s an awful lot like a man taking his sixty foot ladder, chucking it down a dark hole, and hopping down after it. Plus or minus surviving the fall, it’s hit or miss whether or not that ladder’s going to get him back into the light again.
And so… here we are… I can worry about it – and it would certainly be impolitic to purchase a Humvee at this moment in time. Perhaps you place solar panels on your house, but they haven’t been good for much other than heating water up till now. You could vote for the politician that is interested in green sources of energy… but when it comes down to it, we’ve built a system where money talks, and little else has any sort of voice whatsoever.
So we nabbed two and made a run for it.
Buy the hybrids? There are like… four on the market. There will be another four next year perhaps… but there isn’t much to choose from, and the current nine month waiting period (shouldn’t that be signal enough that these are in demand and that supply should follow? or is that waiting list why car companies feel so confident charging $10k+ for a two door compact car?) is reason enough for most consumers to turn their eyeballs elsewhere.
Perhaps you purchase the diesel vehicle and buy the conversion kit. That sounds very viable, and the more reading I do, the more it seems smart. Am I ready to start asking at the back of restaraunts for their left over cooking oil? Not, I think, until I’ve met someone who runs one of these cars and they show me their modus operandi. My ideal world, right now – would be to get a diesel VW Westfalia, perhaps – get the conversion kit, and have at the world…. but at the moment, this is all just dreamin.
Random note – Heather just caugnt me a ligntning bug. She demands that it LIGHT UP NOW!! Hrm – she just brought me a chocolate covered banana. She’s dangerously close to being sweet, and I’m naturally suspicious.
Well, I’m not really sure what happened to the text that had been here before. It wandered off and got a drink, perhaps. Vanished into the dark depths of silicon memory, overwritten by something, somehow. Sorry about that.
Heather and I are snowed in at my parents’ house, trying to help my Dad where we can, even if it’s just emptying the dishwasher or (in Heather’s case) rearranging furniture. My Life is oddly like a movie at the moment, and I’m not quite sure how to deal with it. Mostly, my brain just feels slightly fuzzy, not really on top of what’s happening. Maybe it’s all the cat hair, or the discovery of sweaters long-lost in my parents’ basement, resurrected but not dedusted, clogging my mind and my hair and my nose with long-hidden dust.
It’s cold outside, cold and wet – like being immersed in a dog’s nose? Perhaps. Unfortunately, it’s always so very hard to focus here, I’m amazed by Heather’s ability to bury herself in her work, vanishing from the world. I’m just caught in between. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep, and I want to focus, but my brain just won’t be brought to bear. That’s probably how I deleted the text that was here in the first place. I just want to curl up and be warm! Just for a little while. It would be nice to resurrect the fireplace.
At the moment, my mom’s watching some underwater Australian SCUBA cop drama. In Australia, aparently they don’t have “bikers”, they have “bikeys” (no, I’m not sure how the SCUBA divers are going after big guys on bikes – the image of men in flippers yelling “oy mate!” comes to mind). Unless I’m just mis-hearing them. I don’t think I could take a Hell’s Angel seriously if he was a “bikey”. They’d have Bikey Boots. Hee! Ah – and they’re not a Biker Gang, it’s a Bikey Mob.
I’ve been spending a lot of time wandering my parents’ basement, taking photographs of my old environment. Lots of things that won’t mean a thing to others, but that act as triggers for my head.
And I am too tired to care. My head is unfocused, worried about so many different things. I’m scattered, and I feel like things are crashing down, crushing in. I want that tiny, tiny corner in the back of some basement room to open up and swallow me. I was listening to Seth Horan‘s album Conduit and realizing that I just don’t listen.
I somehow missed them when I saw him perform, but as I was heading up the slope of the Earth on I-95, the words of his tune “Anonymous” shook me.
“You’re not a quitter just because you hate this chill.
Cause Even Ani flies South for the winter.
and Johnny’s long gone to the Hollywood Hills
You’ll be bitter if you wait around here too long
watching all your ex-lovers and all your friends
and recycling the same old songs
all alone among all these clones
growing slower than I ever planned
and even standing still“
And I’m thinking – isn’t this me? Heading for anonymity? I suppose this isn’t going to be a popular entry, and I don’t mean to say that I don’t value my friends, because I do – I Love them deeply. But I’m tired of watching every word that I say. I guess the smart solution would be to shut up. Don’t sing, don’t write, certainly don’t publish it rantingly on the world wide web. But it’s the only quiet 3.30am outlet I’ve got…
I’m afraid I’m closing myself in concrete and stagnation. I’m sitting so still and bogging myself down in politics and website mechanics and trying to be so nice.
This isn’t the way I want it to end, with me slowly winding down, getting nowhere and just getting tired of scratching the same circles on doors and walls, watching people getting sick of my constantly recurring face. Inertia and momentum are dying, and entropy really is gripping me, and daily I feel less and less energy in my muscles – a failure, a slip, and it will drag me down into the quicksand of the everyday.
I was driving to the beltway exit near my parents’ house, leaving Seabrook behind again. There’s a homeless man that Lives beneath the underpass there by 495 – his darkened, leathery skin is a stark contrast to the bristling white of his hair and his beard, and ir’s 11 degrees outside. His sign has occupied any number of different sheets of cardboard. They must decay and blow away and warp, and that and survival are his never-ending ever-repeating tasks.
I’ve long been fascinated by the homeless. Scratching a Living beneath the radar of the world. And this man has been a steady feature of the 495 underpass for at least a decade. I remember him from the school bus in high school, though then I think I was only dimly aware of what his existence really implied.
I remember him from as far back as 17 years ago. He’s almost always been there. I wonder where he came from, and how he gave up. And if I had the courage that I imply by my chosen existence, I’d know the answer already.
The time is slipping swiftly, and inevitably, as the days pass by, more and more of you complain about the lack of Journal entries. The ilyAIMY Journal seems to be a popular item to do for the Bored-At-Work crowd, and this… this I understand. Afterall, I would become truly frustrated with web comics that petered off – Sinfest? You know who you are. You got less funny. And I got tired. Sexy Losers? Oh your perversity has always been grand – to the point that I was somewhat afraid of viewing you at work… but then updates were only once a month, and then rarer and rarer – and eventually I stopped checking. Maybe I’ll check today.
In any case – let me upDate you, dear reader…
now, again – a lot of what’s been going on in my world has been family-oriented. I can’t really go on about it here. Those of you who know, already know, and for those of you who don’t, let’s just say me and my family are grateful for any positive energy you choose to send us. In any case, because I tend to just type whatever’s on my mind, and my family has been occupying my brain to my brainhilt recently, that’s why I’ve been bad about writing.
Last Saturday was PLOJ XXXII. That means the next one gets to be three x’s and three I’s, and that’s appealing to me. Numbers have a lot of power in my head, and I’m always a bit overjoyed when they add up just right. The beauty of rounded figures in Life and arithmitic is something programmed into me at a visceral level. It explains a lot, really.
PLOJ XXXII was one of the best, I think. I’m afraid I might say that about ever PLOJ, but this one especially just fit my head well. There’s a wonder to things that happen at just the right time. This PLOJ brought together a lot of old friends, and a lot of people that I hadn’t seen in a long time – I was overjoyed to have a night so full of flirtation and music. It could have been perfected by old-school presences like Syl and Audrey and maybe even Little Michael, but it wasn’t destined to be.
In the process of setting up the Exclusive ilyANGEL stuff, I’ve been sorting through old, old recordings. Things made in dorm rooms, and even recordings made from the first rwo Pot Lucks. I worry about the NSA as I’ve been playing SOME of these songs for a long, long, looong time.
In any case, I’m truly amazed that Chuck (Chelsea’s Dad) came all the way up from Richmond. He’s made us a regular stop now – he doesn’t miss the PLOJes, and I think that that’s awesome. JR even stopped in – he’s visiting breifly, back from Sedona. Arizona has really agreed with him. He’s vibrant and frenetic and his fingers (if possible) are even FASTER. We played an awesome, jaw-dropping version of LooseN.
In any case, the PLOJ went on till around 3am, and then we hung out (actual friends!!! ACTUALLY hanging out!! – when did I get so old that things like THAT didn’t happen anymore?!!?). (that’s the wrong question, as I think it’s now that most of my friends have day jobs, and THEY can’t do it anymore…). It was a good feeling, collapsing on couches and wishing the mess away.
In the far, dim, back of some of these pictures you can see Rachel. Oh Rachel of the fanciful dreadlocked hair… we met her in a bar in Fell’s Point, I think. She was there to see another band, and worked at a Starbucks. Now she tours the country further than we do, supporting another acoustic act. She Lives at a farm and radiates freedom and carefree – beyond that that I can even aspire too. I just get too uptight.
And yet she’s melancholy, sometimes. She watches from the back. Always so quiet. She’s a Lovely presence, and falls into the category of People That I Never Expect to See.
My father died in the sunshine at 4.35pm today. Thank you to all the friends and family who’s been propping us up for the past several months, and through his fight with cancer over the past five years. I’d prefer not to be called or emailed right now.
An exhausting week. I swear, there’s got to be a better way. During the death of a family member, the actual death should be the most stressful event. Everything else should be smooth, should be taken care of. The paperwork should be straight-forward, designed to be comprehensible to someone who’s in the midst of dealing with the loss of a Loved one.
So, very tired. The beginning of allergy season. The end of so many things.
Today would have been my Dad’s 61st birthday – and as such, I knew I was going to be spending the day with my mom. It’s also just really convenient to be staying down here right now, and though sometimes she drives me crazy, there IS a sense of home here that I don’t neccessarily get other places… so it’s good to pull into Seabrook and round the corner and see the big old blue van.
There’s usually space for my weathered Saturn in the driveway, and I used to really enjoy pulling onto Wellington Street at a pretty good clip and letting my momentum carry me right up the driveway. I’d learned to be a little more cautious over the last year – once my Father could no longer drive, my mom took advantage of the situation by parking casually (and diagonally) across the whole driveway.
This time, as I rounded the corner, the parking hazard wasn’t in the form of my mom’s Saturn, but in the form of the kitchen. It was in the driveway. All over the driveway.
Apparently my Mom had gotten sick of the kitchen last Saturday. She’d called her brother and her father. They came over with some beer, some Chinese food, and apparently some crowbars. The kitchen was in the front yard by 9pm that night. Barring the kitchen sink, which was (of course!) in the dining room.
And so, when my mother asked what I wanted to do for Dad’s birthday, I figured there was nothing he’d like better than to know we were finally getting the house into shape.
I think this house was the bane of his existance for the past 35 years, and that if I DID have any belief in the idea of his haunting anything, it sure as Hell wouldn’t be this house, cause I’m sure all he ever wanted to do was escape it.
In any case, I woke up this morning to pounding, scraping, drilling. My Uncle Marty was already busily scraping the Hell out of the remnants of the kitchen, and within an hour of consciousness I was priming walls and pulling trim. Oh, and then I learned about “cutting in”. Heather was over pretty early in the day and then things went into full swing.
The daughter of DIYers, Heather’s a monster with a paint brush.
It’s been a long day. Tomorrow we paint the whole thing blue. If I’m up for it. There’s other important things that happen on Fridays after all – Battlestar Galactica for one.
I’m staying with Rowan tonight, perhaps in danger of giving meat to all those rumours. I’m glad I’m here. He’s off with his lady but will come back in time to do some hanging out before it’s time for unconsciousness. Well… officially time… it was time to be unconscious hours ago, but I persevere for the sake of cartoons and silliness.
I really miss Living with Rowan – and one of the biggest reasons was that we discovered the absurdity that is Adult Swim together – and it’s somehow just not the same, watching it with out his huge laughs or his “ohhhoho”s of horror.
In any case, I’m just barely staying awake, no matter how eager.
It’s been a long couple of days. And the kitchen has just been the start of it. I’ve been doing a lot of painting of kitchen ceilings and walls. I’ve been avoiding flooring. I’ve done a lot of hauling of kitchen parts into and out of my Mom’s house. And I feel bad, because I’ve made my escape, but my uncle is still hanging in there.
Yesterday was the infamous College Perk 8.13 Festival. It’s a long story about the name . It doesn’t actually involve my hamster. That was a lie. Let’s just say that 8.13 is a number of great significance, and has been for a long, long time. Vast occult significance it has. I fear though, that Brennan’s useage of it could make the gods angry and he might be struck with lankyness…. oh. Yeah, well, it’s MEANT to be FUNNY.
The 8.13 Festival was a marvel of musical collection. Brennan’s a genius when it comes to dragging cool people together, and it was stupid, stupid, dumb luck that the weather conspired against him so heavily. I just don’t think that any of us were going to win against a 105 degree heat index. The bands actually ended up starting indoors to avoid the heat, and then eventually moved outside when things got a little less oppressive.
I was in a weird mood, mostly from the heat. Just …. artistic… you know, ups and downs for no apparently reason. I fear I was a bit of an asshole here and there. If I could’ve fucked the air conditioner I would’ve, but even if it was putting out, I still wouldn’t have treated it well..
But the show was awesome. We didn’t let the heat stop us, and I feel like we put on a pretty damned good show.
Same thing went for today in Richmond. The heat was INSANE. Hell, at 8pm, driving to Rowan’s, the bank thermometers were STILL reading 98 degrees, and that’s just not RIGHT. I Love watching people preparing for a boring little acoustic set and then getting their asses handed to them by strings and drum.
It’s arrogance, but I’m beginning to think it’s earned. In any case, fatigue is setting in, so I think I’m going to stop babbling, post a picture or two, and take a nap so I’ll be fresh, so fresh for Rowan.