Tag Archives: Pitchfork

At My Leisure

In our front yard, there is a veritable flower stew, at the moment. [Flower goulash? Flower casserole?] Three different bushes have grown together [I think?] and three different colors of flowers are budding from their branches.

What!

Once the flowers go away, the bushes will lapse back into the nuclear-level ugliness that is their lot for 11.5 months out of the year. For now, when you walk down our block and look upon them in the bright-hot middle of a summer’s day, the bushes are idiotically, extravagantly, recklessly beautiful. They are spending it all. They are filling their Ferrari with a million dollars and pushing it off a cliff into the ocean.

I am just saying.

 ***

This summer has passed soooo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o quickly, I think! Says me. I do not know why.

At the moment, I’ve been off work for over a week, and won’t return until next Monday.

PROS, NOT WORKING:

1. Not working
2. Can indulge penchant for night-owlishness
3. Seems time enough for everything

CONS, NOT WORKING

1. Loosened grip on the ropes of life is disorienting
2. Sometimes lots of time to think about Things is not so good
3. Desire level to win lottery, spend life eating candy bars unreasonably high

***

Speaking of candy bars–I bought a candy bar at Trader Joe’s last Friday? The packaging said that it was 73% cacao super dark chocolate, and normally your average dark chocolate Hershey bar has like -23% cacao, which renders its taste less “cacao” and more “half-eaten jelly doughnut”. When I clapped eyes on the candy bar–for the record, I was there to buy vegetables!–I thought: “This is the sort of chocolate I should be eating always! No chocolate is EVER dark enough for me! Also I fight bears!”–sort of a chocolate-machismo thing.

Well, lemme tell you: It was a real struggle, eating this candy bar.

“BLAR,” said my taste buds, when I took a bite. “Do let’s mash this up in a bowl of sugar.”

***

Further research revealed that Japan has an incredibly detailed chocolate classification system. Buh? The American FDA specifies four types of chocolate–milk, sweet, semisweet, and white–and Japan has at least twelve, by my count. Japan: Apparently BANANAS for chocolate classification!

One of the classifications is something called “quasi chocolate”.

Mmmmmmmmm!*

 

*No

***

You know what’s terrible? White chocolate. That is some terrible stuff, white chocolate.

GROSS

I also learned this weekend that I apparently stand in direct opposition to both God and man, due to my extreme distaste for graham crackers. Why did people start eating graham crackers, ever? Unless the graham crackers have been ground into some sort of “dessert crust”, thusly neutralizing the flavor of the graham crackers in their unaltered state, THERE’S THE DOOR.

Well, now you know how I feel about it!

***

Hey, Pitchfork ended up being pretty nice!

Look what a nice time we are having!

It was very HOT, however. See how my hair is stuck to my forehead like whoa?

You can’t have everything in this life.

 

Sorry

When I hurt you and cast you off, that was buccaneer work:
the sky must have turned on the Bay that day and spat.
We’d tarried on corners, we’d dallied on sofas, we were
in progress, do you see? Yet stormcloud bruises bloomed

where once we touched. The walls swam under minty fever;
we failed to reach the long, low sleep of conquerors.
Since I played wrong and you did too, since we were wrong,
we need apologies; for your part in this sorry slip of hearts,

you should walk on Golden Hill at night alone; for mine
I will hang with my enemies, out on the long shore,
our brigand bodies impaled on the horns of our failures,
the cold day casting draughts through our brinkled bones.

Roddy Lumsden

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Filed under Poetry, Roddy Lumsden

Post-Things

Ack! I can’t get my phone off speaker phone! I just had an entire conversation with Adam on speaker phone. I can’t handle this, truly. I laid the phone down on the counter, and shrieked at it like a 90 year-old Amazonian shaman who’d never seen a light bulb before. I don’t know how we made it through the call alive.

The physical world! It confounds me!

Like ATM machines are my worst enemy.

ME: My card won’t swipe!
MY FIVE YEAR-OLD NIECE: Here, I’ll do it.

***

The odds are high on this blog entry being brief and a little fiddle-dee-dee. I’ve been temping someplace hilarious for the past two days–how I’ve missed you, office buildings, which is perverse; I miss elevators and lunch friends–and I’m still tired from the weekend, I am; my brain does not feel like a brain, but like a sea sponge. I spent the weekend at Pitchfork. All of the weekend. My days were long and hard on the feet and heart.

This weekend decided it, too: No more Pitchfork Music Festival. I am done. Stick a Pitchfork in me.

It was great fun the first year I went. I was young and impetuous, and my heart was full of bright white flames, and so were the hearts of my friends.

Last year was less fun, but still fun.

This year was gray skies and uneven energy [mine] and, like, one band that I really really wanted to see, and I did, and it was glorious, and my heart was full, but then I peaced out of there, all done.

I can’t define it precisely. Too many sweatbands; too many five-dollar plastic-wrapped soy ice cream cones; too much everything. Too many eyes.

Bye-bye, Pitchfork. It’s been for real. Often.

PITCHFORK: Bye-bye. 

***

I’m crazy entranced of late by Little Circus Design, helmed by a gal named Madeleine Stamer.

Angel

Just go lookit.

***

IT IS A SHAMELESS PERSONAL PLUG

Hey! If you live in the greater Chicagoland area, you should come see the ten-minute play I wrote. It’s a part of 20% Theater Company’s Snapshots Festival, which runs from August 6-9.

Here are the tickets and the buying of the tickets: E-mail twentypercentchicago@yahoo.com. Book ’em.

August 6-9.
8 p.m.
‘Ceptin Sunday the 9th. That’s at 7 p.m.
Strawdog Theatre, 3829 N. Broadway.

My play is called Orphanage Picnic. I like it and everything.

YOU: Are you making fun of orphans?
ME: Well, you know.

 

October

Although the tide turns in the trees
            the moon doesn’t turn the leaves,
though chimneys smoke and blue concedes
            to bluer home-time dark.

Though restless leaves submerge the park
          in yellow shallows, ankle-deep,
and through each tree the moon shows, halved,
          or quartered or complete,

the moon’s no fruit and has no seed,
         and turns no tide of leaves on paths
that still persist but do not lead
         where they did before dark.

Although the moonstruck pond stares hard
           the moon looks elsewhere. Manholes breathe.
Each mind’s a different, distant world
           this same moon will not leave.

Jacob Polley

             

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