A couple weeks ago, I thought to myself, as the Jonathan Richman song goes, "I'm gonna walk up the street 'cause I have nowhere else to go." So I slapped on the Mizuno Wave-Balance sneakers and walked, down by the empty factory buildings (Vaughn-Bassett, Webb, etc.) where my dad spent most of his young adult life (his 20's and 30's anyway), and back up into town where my grandfather, who I haven't seen in over 10 years, still presumably lives in a one room apartment across from the Rex Theatre. These photos are the detritus of that little walk.
In case anyone is interested: over at Pitchfork, they're streaming Michael Tully's documentary Silver Jew, which follows David Berman's band The Silver Jews on their first tour--through the middle east cities of tel aviv and jerusalem. It's streaming for one week only, so get on over there and check it out.
He certainly looks friendly enough, especially with gas prices temporarily on the decline, but when you consider Exxon's net profits (not revenue) for the past year surpassing the total economies of 125 of the 184 countries ranked by the WorldBank (including a record 14.83 billion during their last quarter), and you consider the human rights and environmental abuses that have taken place to ensure those profits (look on the Amnesty International page), Tony starts to look a little more sinister. Of course, that's old news. I certainly hope we move toward establishing alternatives to our dependence on oil during Obama's tenure, and it would be nice (though probably not realistic) if those alternatives were more democratically controlled.
This post probably already suffers from the odd contrast in tone between the whimsical tiger and the writing, but this is what I happened to be listening to on the day I snapped the photo (and there are no good youtube videos of Bill Callahan's "Day"). If you can find the album, Frisco Mabel Joy, I highly recommend it. It's an underappreciated classic.
Clip of Doc and Merle Watson playing "Cuckoo," from a documentary on the Newport Folk Festival. The song starts around 1:55 into the clip. Listening to Doc Watson makes me happy.
i initially stopped to photograph the cows and the factory because i thought it captured something about galax--the mix of the pastoral and the industrial, i guess. the cows proved to be willing models; i believe they thought i came to feed them. they tried to eat my favorite jacket.
Bonnie "Prince" Billy with Thomas a Minor and the Picket Line and Oscar Parsons, "So Everyone."
home is where the pilling orange blanket hangs in a duct-taped window :) fries, va
--from Baudelaire's Paris Spleen
The Soup and the Clouds
My little, beloved madwoman was feeding me dinner, and through the open window in the dining room I was contemplating the moving architectures that God makes out of vapors, the marvelous constructions of the impalpable. And in the midst of my contemplation, I whispered beneath my breath: "-- All of these phantasmagoria are almost as beautiful as the eyes of my beautiful beloved, the little, monstrous madwoman with green eyes."
And suddenly I received a violent punch in the back, and I heard a hoarse and charming voice, a hysterical voice, made husky by hard liquor, the voice of my dear beloved, saying:"-- When are you going to eat your soup, you filthy beast of a cloud-merchant?"
Beat the Poor
For fifteen days I was confined to my room, and I was surrounded by the sort of books that were fashionable then (this was sixteen or seventeen years ago)--I mean to say those books in which is treated the art of making people happy, wise, and rich in twenty-four hours. I had, then, digested,-- I should say, swallowed whole,-- all of the lucubrations of all of these entrepreneurs of public happiness,-- of those who council all of the poor to make themselves slaves, and of those who persuade them that are all unthroned kings.--You won't be surprised to learn that I was in a state of mind close to dizziness or stupefaction.
It seemed to me only that I felt, confined in the depths of my intellect, the obscure seed of an idea superior to all of the old wives' tales collected in the encyclopedia that I had recently read through. But it was only the idea of an idea, something infinitely vague.
And I went out with a great thirst. For a passionate taste for bad reading engenders a proportional need for fresh air and drink.
As I was about to enter a cabaret, a beggar held out his cap to me, with one of those unforgettable gazes that would cause thrones to tumble, if spirit could move matter, and if the eye of a hypnotist could make grapes ripen.
There is this difference between Socrates' Demon and my own, and that is that Socrates' only appeared to him to forbid, warn, and prevent, whereas mine deigns to offer council, suggest, and persuade. Poor Socrates only had a prohibitive Demon; mine is a great affirmer, mine is a Demon of action, a Demon of combat.
Now, his voice whispered this: "He alone is equal to another who proves it, and he alone is worthy of liberty who knows how to conquer it."
I immediately leaped upon my beggar. With a single punch I gave him a black eye, which became in a second as big as a ball. I tore one of my nails breaking two of his teeth, and since I didn't feel strong enough--having been born delicate and being little practiced in boxing--to beat this old man to death quickly, I seized him with one hand by the collar of his jacket and with the other I grabbed his throat, and I began to bang his head against the wall vigorously. I must admit that I had previously inspected the area with a quick glance and that I had verified that I would find myself, in this deserted suburb, out of the reach of any police officer for a fairly long period of time.
Having then knocked down this weakened sexagenarian with a kick in the back, energetic enough to have broken his shoulder-blades, I seized a big tree limb that was lying on the ground and I beat him with it with the obstinate energy of a cook who wants to tenderize a steak.
Suddenly, -- Oh delight of the philosopher who verifies the excellence of this theory! -- I saw that ancient carcass turn, stand up with an energy that I would never have expected to find in so singularly broken-down a machine, and, with a look of hatred that seemed to me a good omen, the decrepit ruffian threw himself upon me, blackened both of my eyes, broke four of my teeth, and with the same tree branch beat me to a bloody pulp. -- Through my energetic medicine, I had returned to him his pride and his life.
Then I made him numerous signs to let him understand that I considered the discussion ended, and getting up with all of the satisfaction of a Stoic philosopher, I said to him: "Sir, you are my equal! Do me the honor of sharing my purse with me; and remember, if you are really a philanthropist, that you must apply to all of your brothers, when they ask you for alms, the theory that I had the sorrow of testing out on your back."
He swore to me that he had understood my theory, and that he would obey my advice.
Polly's World, Mouth of Wilson, Virginia Chestnut Creek Dam, Galax, VA Boiler Room, Fries, VA Radiator, Fries, VA Roger's House, Fries, VA Pink Panther, Fries, VA
--an assortment of photos I've taken in the last couple of weeks.
I've been listening to a lot of John Cale lately, especially Fear. Here are two performances of "Fear is a Man's Best Friend," one in 83 and the other in 84. Of all the ex-members of the Velvet Underground, I suppose I prefer Lou Reed's solo work (Berlin, Transformer); but, of course, it's not either/or, and Cale's solo work shouldn't be overlooked. Enjoy.
Last weekend, I drove to Harrisonburg, VA to watch my son, Dylan, play his last soccer game of the season. Alissa read Dumbo and rolled on the hillside near the field while Dylan scored goal after goal. He's really good, the Beckham or Pele of the Harrisonburg 5 and under league. The game was fun to watch. I have no idea who won, and I don't think the kids did either, which is good.
After the game, I took Alissa and Dylan out for lunch and we went walking at the JMU arboretum. In contrast to today, the weather was beautiful, sunny and mid-70's. We fed the ducks and walked around a trail Alissa called the maze. After walking the maze, I put the camera away and we played Simon Says, climbed some boulders near the edge of the woods, and talked about Obama. The kids may be more enthusiastic about Obama than myself, which is promising. I think it's good for kids to have some interest in the political process at a young age, just as it's good for adults to have some interest in climbing rocks, feeding ducks, and playing silly games.
