notebook – Page 3 – flotation device

October 5, 2008

watering hole

here’s a rejected short one from flotation device 12.

4/13/07

9.30pm Monday night. Water seeping up through the pavement in the street in front of my house. The trees dark against the night sky the water a little stream. Artesian spring here in the city. The source of life. Bubbling out of concrete. Little birds gather to it. Flock to it. Squirrels visit. My own little watering hole. My own little nature microcosm. Right in front of my house. How long will it last?

How long until the pavement buckles and folds in on itself. Microlevel plate tectonics. How long until the ground underneath the pavement is eaten away. Erodes. How long until there’s a hollow underneath the pavement. How long until the pavement buckles and folds in on itself and falls into the sink hole. How long until the sink hole in front of my house.

Will there be a parked car. Little birds squirrels people. Will the little birds fly away. Will they know in advance. Like when real nature happens. Or will they not notice man made tectonics fault lines erosion. Man made nature.

Will the tree fall in the hole.

Will this Daley democratic machine city fix the problem before it happens. Will they shut down the little microcosm in front of my house. Or will it just happen. Will it even happen.

September 16, 2008

pedestal

i wrote this right before i got off my ass and finished writing flotation device 12. i guess it helped motivate.

3/27/07

I need to demystify my writing process. I used to treat it like this divine sort of act. Invoking the writing spirits the mystic rulers of word rhythm the secret gods of sentence structure. I would reverentially play amazing music – depending on the phase of my life I was in. Different types of music were more spiritual at different times. For a while it was punk rock and for a while it was electronic and for a while it was experimental and for a while now it has been jazz. Punk generally meant dead kennedys. Electronic generally meant aphex twin. Experimental meant sonic youth and jazz meant fucking jazz. Of course I still listen to all of these things – especially jazz and in particular free jazz.

But I need to take my process off of the pedestal I put it on when I was 20. When I was writing my stories for fiction writing at Columbia. When I was writing late into the night into the early morning listening to amazing music in the glow of my little lamp. Warm and magic. That was when it was easy and words flowed and text fell out onto the paper of notebooks I didn’t have to much think about it.

That’s when I turned my writing into this lofty exercise this magical event that I could only perform under certain and ideal conditions. It worked for a while but then life happens and living situations change and you grow up a bit. But my thoughts about my writing stayed the same. I waited for mood to hit me for certain times of day for certain lighting for certain social arrangements for certain everything. And I stopped writing. It was too much. The circumstances were never right. I rarely wrote for three years – a long time when you consider yrself a writer. Painful and depressing and always in the back of yr head. In the back of my head.

I had grown and life had changed but my conception of writing and my process hadn’t. It was still back there where I left it. It was still in my room in my apartment at 2216 w Wilson. It was still there with me at 20 listening to xx play video games and cats meowing and xx slurring and xx fucking and amazing music in a warm glow at my desk at 2 in the morning feeling alive and magical. Magic. Magic. Spirit. Spirit. Invoke. Invoke. And the pedestal kept growing year after year. It got taller and taller rose higher and higher in the sky and it disappeared in the clouds and I thought that only on certain occasions at certain times of day in the right light with the right music could I touch it again, that magic glow on the pedestal in the clouds. And then I felt like I couldn’t do it at all.

How powerful the mind is. How amazing it is. How wonderful it is at convincing us that things are impossible and that an easier way should be sought after and found. What a son of a bitch the mind is. Telling us it’s easier to not do anything rather than work at something we enjoy so much. What a motherfucker.

I lived with my process existing on that fucking pedestal for 8 years the first half of which worked great, the last 4 didn’t work at all. And it’s only been in the past few months that I even saw the fucking pedestal at all. I kept blaming circumstances and far from ideal or sometimes just slightly unideal conditions.

But writing is writing and it’s not a spiritual act or magical. It just is what it is. Sometimes it comes easily sometimes it’s hard as shit but I have to just do it. I’m not a great writer. I’ll never be remembered as being amazing. Fuck, I’ll never be remembered. Everyone I read humbles me. Their words and grammar and sentence construction and narrative structure. They are amazing and I’m okay. I’m alright. And that’s fine. I’ll keep writing what I write, documenting what I can how I can. But my shit doesn’t have to be magical and it doesn’t come from some fucking magical place that I invented when I was young. It just comes from me and my voice and my brain. It is what it is. And I can fucking do that whenever or wherever I want. If it’s something I need to work on fine. If it’s difficult I just need to do it. I need to work through the difficult times. It’s a discipline. It’s work and I should treat it as such. It’s a mundane action and I just need to keep practicing.

September 3, 2008

insomnia

here’s one in case you were wondering what happens when that keith guy doesn’t get any sleep. as i get older this becomes more and more of a problem the later i stay up. i just can’t rock a late night like i used to. so earlier and earlier to bed and earlier earlier to rise. which is cool. just stay productive. you can’t fight the seether. you know? this was originally going to go in flotation device 12, but it didn’t make the cut.

8.25.06

Albert Ayler on the stereo. Prophecy. Bells. Ghosts. Last of the summer night time cool air fall on the breeze the wind in my face as I ride wanting school to be done again so I can get back to normal season feeling. I like fall. I hate the feeling of slow sink dread that comes on as summer ends and classes start again. Overcast right now. Clouds. Gray. Humid.

Teaching english standing in front of a class under neon lights dry erase markers. When did this happen?

Trees. Israel. Current events. Fuck. Sleepless nights.

I’ve taken to not sleeping one night every other month or so. I’ll lay down in bed shut my eyes and my brain rebels. It keeps going. I can just feel it not let go of whatever is going on. It won’t let go of the day. It won’t let go of events of thoughts of consciousness of thinking of music of breathing of stress of sounds of awareness that I’m not sleeping of anything. It just goes and I lay there. The glow from the power light on my computer illuminating the bedroom in its blue brilliance as my eyes adjust to the dark. I listen try to focus on something the fan the night outside the refrigerator the house settling. I try counting slowly stretching out each number for seconds elongating the sound of it in my mind. Oooooooonnnnneeeeee ttttttwwwwwoooooo ttttthhhhhrrrrreeeeee I get to twenty before I forget what I was doing and start thinking again. Thinking thinking. Try not to think about why I can’t sleep. Try not to obsess about it and for fuck’s sake don’t’ look at the goddamn clock. Never look at it. Do I still have sleep meds. My nighttime pills that I’m supposed to take when this happens. no. lay awake in bed. Eyes open. Just relax. Let the dreams start to happen. Just drift away shut yr eyes and.

Ow. Eyes open.

Twinge of nausea. Fuck. I guess it’s that time. Go to the bathroom turn on the light blazing brilliance piercing the back of my skull searing my pupils. Turn on the radio. NPR. Safe jazz all night til five am. That’s still a few hours away. Shit my guts out. Read harpers. Listen to safe jazz. Go back to bed. Shut my eyes twinge of nausea. Fight it for a while but every time I start to drift off. Every single time. I start to fall asleep I awake with a start. Oh fuck. Back to the bathroom for more safe jazz more harpers and more shit my guts out. Brilliant blindness of blazing bathroom light.

Repeat.

At some point I give up move to the couch and read a dull book. Something that won’t take my attention. Something like Race and Reunion – the Civil War in American History. Something in Spanish like El Muerte de Artemio Cruz. Something that’s guaranteed to knock my shit out. Lay on the couch with soft lamplight illuminating the quiet room. And wouldn’t you know it. My dull book happens to be quite the pot boiler page turner and I’m enthralled by how the south carefully constructed their own version of history and foisted it on the rest of the country. Oh. Back to the bathroom. My brain is totally awake, but my body is falling apart. Too bad I can’t be productive. Too bad I can’t write or be comfortable while not sleeping. Too bad I get the dry heaves and shit my guts out cuz I could put a few spare hours to good use. But instead my body goes crazy and I feel totally incoherent. Is it five yet? Five o clock and I can watch the morning news sitting in my rocking chair watching the traffic and weather repeated every five minutes. I finally pass out when the sun starts to come up the sky gets lighter and I fall asleep around six or seven and sleep until ten.

August 21, 2008

rewriting

Here’s some more stuff from the old notebook. No date on this one, but prolly from 2005.

Afraid of rewrites. That’s why I haven’t written about the Ornette dream that I had. What does this say about me. Sloth? Spiritualist? Afraid of rewrites either means I’m lazy and loath to make a second attempt a second version of what I wanted to say. Like I don’t have time to do that. That’s part of the discipline I lack. Discipline remember that? Editing? What the fuck? I don’t do that. I write or I don’t write. Digital. Pure. My editing is inaction. Rewrites? Never heard of it. If I didn’t get it right the first time it wasn’t supposed to happen. If I fucked up it’s done. Done. Does this make me a spiritualist. Looking for meaning in my laziness… words are sacred and what I write is special. Not to be fucked with. I have to wait for the right time and place to write something or else it comes out all wrong and it fails. Maybe. Is it all, all my words. Are they predetermined, preordained. Am I fatalism. Am I a fatalistic writer? What the fuck kind of unenlightened bullshit is that. It makes no sense. Spiritual fatalist? Lazy? I think I’m fucking lazy.

Ornette. I’ll get to that amazing dream someday. Such a beautiful dream. Free jazz and me. I can’t fuck that up.

I still do have trouble rewriting my stuff. Although, I do spend more time on it now than I did a few years ago. Rearranging things, tightening up, etc. Maybe there’s hope for me yet. I’ve also begun to change the way that I work. I decided to stop fighting my schedule and work with it. So instead of waiting for some magical writing time that never comes – especially not after work – I started to get up early and write for an hour or so before I go off to work. It seems to be working. Also that Ornette dream was pretty awesome. One of my all time favorite dreams. I still haven’t written it down.

August 13, 2008

thanksgiving, mexico, 2003

thanksgiving in mexico
i took the two buses over to

mexico smells of fabric softener and burning

early morning taxi to the airport

July 25, 2008

why i like zines (and minicomics)

and we’re back to the notebook. i wrote this for a little zine that a friend of mine, hatuey, and i put together that compiled contributions from people that participated in our self-publishing workshop that we used to run out of chicago comics. that workshop was called gutters. we don’t do it anymore. so i wrote this on 9/2/05. you’ll see that i out myself as a librarian in this piece. i still agree with what i wrote regarding the “as a librarian” bit, but i’m an archivist more than a librarian at this point. although there’s a lot of overlap between the two. so at some point i could be more of a librarian than an archivist. and it would still rule if i could be a zine librarian/archivist. now you know.

I had

I’ve never really tried to put into words what it is about self publishing in general, zines/minicomics in specific, that draws me in captivates me inspires me engages me.

I’ve written about my frustrations. I don’t know if I’ve ever published any of that – I try to keep things positive – so many rants already there, I try to avoid that. But I have written in my notebooks of how agonizing it can be, how aggravating, how tiring, angering, annoying it can be to do yr own zine. It’s enough to make you say, why bother, and quit.

But I don’t.

There’s something there that keeps me going. This brings me back to my opening sentence. The one I meant to finish. I’ve never really tried to put into words what it is about zines that I love, until recently. Lately I’ve had to explain what zines are to a whole new bunch of people. I’m in library school learning to be a librarian – hopefully a zine librarian/archivist and I’m meeting all these new people that don’t know what zines or minicomics are and they’re intrigued. But they ask or I assume they want to know what makes zines so important. To which I used to take a while going “hmm. Let me think. Umm.”

But now I’ve got it boiled down to one immediate answer. It’s the immediacy, the intimacy of zines that I love. The instantaneous expression of ideas and opinions. But as a librarian what is important is the documentation of the everyday. The preservation of this huge record of information about normal people. Not celebrities. Not politicians. Not athletes. No stars. Just plain regular people who are observing their world, their lives. That is an important body of information.

500 years from now. We’re all dead. Generations have come and gone. But, theoretically, those people will look at the zines from now and see what was going on. They’ll see what we cared about. What you and I were doing. Us unfamous yokels. What we thought. Even if we’re just writing about bands and bikes and our traumatic high school experiences and loves and ups and downs. It may seem trivial, but it’s not.

Diy publishers. Zinesters are documenting important information for posterity. Whether we admit it or not.

That of course is my high falootin answer. Ask me sometime in person and the first thing I’ll say is. Um. I don’t know. I like zines. Then I’ll shuffle my feet and look at the ground.

June 30, 2008

spring, writing, jazz

5/25/05

Cloudy out now. It was sunny. A few fluffy spring Chicago clouds warm sun filling the porch sitting on the stoop wearing sandals feeling good in the early evening sun setting sun. Rain clouds now wind in trees people heading home hurrying before the water breaks. Cars headlights squealing brakes as they hit the speed bump in front of my apartment their sensitive metal underparts scraping along the top of the hump as they inevitably bottom out. A skater with a backpack slowly cruising by with his skateboard overstuffed huge backpack strapped to his back. Street lights on.

Mexico. That’s a big one. But it lacks emotional depth. It’s not like Costa Rica at all. Selected high lights only please review tape. Highlight reel. Playing shows with the rories. Shit job extravaganza paper source. Unemployment. Depression. Therapy. Not getting a job at borders. Library school? Current events. All the new people I know. How underwhelming and alone it was to come back to Chicago. How much I love Chicago. Interview people? Put jrnlsm to use? About what? Research? Exciting possibilities. Jazz zines? How sexy is yrs? Does it get anybetter than don cherry? No. it doesn’t.

All these possibilities. Of course none of them call me. Maybe I’ll just go with the unstated and most seductive one. Just write for a while. Seemingly unrelated bits and pieces and construct them later into something greater. Just write and through structure create the new – create meaning bring a sleight order to the chaos. Not chaos but random. Find the thematic link later. Be jazz.

Be jazz.

But not like Kerouac mythology. Be free now. Be free for now and reign it in – form formless later.

Jazz editing to follow jazz writing.

Jazz editing.

Free jazz is energy. Falling in love every time a new record comes on. Falling in love with every song. Energy. Energy. Action. Change politics freedom protest liberation. It’s all there w/in the energy w/in the skronk the smooth the beat the rhythm the bass the piano.

Collections of invocations.

Notebook collection

Am I allowed to do that

Something so raw and dumb

Just me talking w/out reason

w/out a point

I suppose it’s the attempt. This discipline thing. To just write and write everyday regardless of whether or not it’s good or usable. Just write. Keep in the habit. Flex that muscle. Keep that shit toned.

So here I am writing just to write to make myself write. Sun ra on the stereo before that, art ensemble. I love this shit so much. Jazz my new rock. Something new to obsess about. Nerd.

June 20, 2008

guitar

5/27/05

I’m spending so much time playing guitar. Hours and hours just standing in front of my amp electric guitar hanging from my shoulder. Red and white. Sometimes I watch my hands move in the reflection of the tv screen. Sometimes in the mirror. I watch my hands move from fret to fret. Fingers picking out a melody. My brain gets confused watching myself play in the mirror – it’s all backwards I inevitably fuck it up while watching myself play. Like a taboo. Something not to do – watch yrself play an instrument.

It’s too much tho. I play all the time. I think cuz I’ve gotten to the point where it’s easier than it was before. To the point that it’s like a new vocabulary. And what’s a new vocabulary other than anew obsession. New words new means of expression. That detracts from my first obsession – writing. I should be spending hours and hours scribbling in notebooks reacquainting myself with words. With structure. W/sentences. w/my shorthand.

My shorthand. These scribbles that look kind of strange now. Unfamiliar. A novelty. I actually notice my handwriting. It’s been so long – it’s so foreign that I notice it.

It’s because music is easier right now. I don’t have to think with music. I just fuck around until something works. There’s less fucking with writing. At least for me. If I’m fucking around with writing – I feel like I’m wasting time, ink, paper, energy…

Wasting. Because writing random sentence fragments is not practice. I don’t have the same luxury as people who draw. Who can doodle and attempt to draw something. Just do it and have it be practical. Have it be practice. I suppose technically I could look at an object and waste a page describing it but it would just be waste. Because my joy in writing comes from structure and sequencing – the construction of the narrative. This requires output – meaningful output. Pieces that come together and make a whole. Output. Empty descriptions do not work for me.

I write all this totally overlooking the issue. Why is it easier to play guitar than it is to write. Why do I spend all my time playing guitar thinking about writing. My mind always on writing. My heart wants to be there…

It’s because of what I mentioned before about structure and construction. I feel safest when I have a plan for the overall story – the heart – the guts – the idea. A purpose a reason a goal. I don’t have this right now. Haven’t had it for a while. I’ve been too busy reordering my life telling myself I have nothing to say. Listening to sad music. I’m at the point where I just feel like if I don’t have a purpose a tangible goal a series of pieces a story to tell – then why bother.

When I made zines before – when I first started making zines – I would publish whatever random notes – scraps, bits, torn words, it didn’t matter – there wasn’t a story there. They were purely independent from each other. I was happy with that.

But that was ten years ago.
Now I need that crucial thematic link.

Those links used to come easy. I just wrote about my adolescence. Growing up. High school mostly. Easy. Who doesn’t have shit to say about their high school experience. Yay. I felt ostracized and alienated. Who didn’t. it served its purpose though. But I’ve kissed it goodbye – got it all out of my system. I have nothing left to say about high school. It was over ten years ago.

So I just have to wait for some experiences to accrue. No problem no sweat.

June 9, 2008

blue line, winter

so i’ve started writing in a new notebook and before i put the old one in storage i started looking through it. and i decided to post some of the pieces that didn’t make it into the upcoming flotation device 12. the pieces start a while back, 2005. it’s taken me three years to finish what turned into fd 12. that’s a long time for me. it looks like i’m starting chronologically, but we’ll see if that lasts. i might end up getting bored and wanting to jump around a bit. and with some of them i’ll want to talk a little about them, others – like this one, are kind of just what they are.

1/23/05

     friday night on the blue line train coming back home from work. the long way around. the red line at belmont downtown switch to blue line. 11.45pm. blizzard. 7 inches of snow in a few hours. didn’t want to deal with busses.
     sitting in the corner writing lyrics on a scrap of paper. hat on scarf wrapped around my neck. so many layers of clothes on. a guy across from me. huge duffel bag. appropriate cuz he’s so huge. black with long black hair.
     a girl talking loud. everything’s fucked she says. fuckin this. fuckin that. “my fuckin landlord gets back in a week. he wants the fuckin money. i don’t fuckin got it.” real pale. dark hair. some pulled back some in her face. “this shit is like fuckin pure mdma,” she says…
     walking down wrightwood from the blue line. 12.30am. snow blowing in the wind. still falling heavy. following paths carved by cars, walking in the tire tracks. the sidewalks still unshovelled, too much work to walk on them. occasional cars. they drive slowly – careful not to lose control. snowflakes in the headlights. i step out of their way and into snowdrifts to let them pass.
     quiet. muffled. mute. i can only hear what’s inside a 10 foot sphere around me. everything else fades away in the snowy night.