digital rendering by veach st glines — 2008

People ask me, 'Don't you ever run out of ideas?' In the first place I don't use ideas. Every time I have an idea it's too limiting, and usually turns out to be a disappointment. But I haven't run out of curiosity. — Robert Rauschenberg (1925-2008)

Gus 1998 - 2008

Hanging on my studio wall, higher than I can reach without a boost (remember when gimme a boost was followed by someone interlacing their fingers and bending at the waist in anticipation of a dirty foot being placed in their hands?) is a nail—obviously driven there prior to the landlords last paint-job. Suspended from that ivory-painted spike is a slender booklet. The page facing me bears a close-up image of two tanned, well-manicured, and unsoiled sudsy hands under a chrome faucet. I think the hands belong to a woman; but since the unpainted nails are short and no jewelry is visible, my assumption is only based on size and shape and in no way should be construed to mean I think men with svelte hands are effeminate. (The last phrase of that previous sentence is a lie.) Periwinkle words: National Hand Washing Awareness Week 3rd–9th, cross the lower edge of the image, over blurry white porcelain.

Below the image are thirty-one squares. I don’t have to count them to know how many there are because each one has a number in its upper right corner. Using an indigo-blue Bingo Marker, my paramour places a dot of ink in the center of each of the squares. I can always determine when she was away because catch-up dots are lighter, less-round, and a little streaked at the edges.

I’ve seen the new booklet my paramour plans to hang when each of the squares below the washing hands is dotted (I may offer to give her a boost because I love to hear her laugh). The front image shows the inside of an arm—I don’t know if it’s a man or a woman’s arm—where a needle has been inserted into a vein and taped in place. The needle is attached to a short red tube, which leads to a suspended plastic bag half-full of dark blood. I know it’s blood because of the vermilion words at the top: National Blood Donor Month.

Yesterday, when my paramour brought home the booklet that begins with a bag of blood, I thought back to when she hung the current-almost-finished one—now filled with candy-apple red and indigo-blue dots (she ran out of red on the page Prostate Cancer Awareness Week 15th–21st, with a picture of an elderly man hiking in the mountains....sometimes, less-obvious imagery is definitely better).

The worst page was the one with business-suited cyclists parading down a city street wearing: helmets, smiles, and little round mirrors at the top corner of their sunglasses. In muddy-taupe print, Bike to Work Week 12th–16th, tarnished the perfect-blue sky. That was the page Gus died.

Almost ten booklets ago, the very pregnant hausfrau—who reluctantly surrendered his care to me—was concerned that I would not be able to sleep with him in my house because, “this is a wonderful, indoor, red-tip Siamese, but a constant-he-is-yowling.” Her strongest fear, she confided, was Gus suffocating her soon-to-arrive baby.

At that time, he was the age that’s no longer kitten and not yet cat. Gangly. He was content to sit quietly in my apartment window during the day as long as I allowed him to sleep between my legs on hot nights, next to my head on cool nights, and under the covers—in my armpit—on cold nights.

The housfrau’s fear was legitimate: when I laid on my stomach, he would lie on the side of my face; if I turned my head, he would reposition himself in order to stay on my face. (I suspect he liked my warm breath.) Since I need cool air to sleep and have never been able to sleep with my head under a blanket, I slept only on my back or side.

His attention was always focused, his purr louder than fingers tapping on the arm of an overstuffed chair, and his head-butting-show-of-affection was a daily, solid, affirmation of his connection to me—his human.

He loved to play rough—my hands and wrists bore constant scratches (and a few scars) as testament—but he intuitively knew faces were off-limits. If interested in playing rough, I would sniffle, by audibly drawing a short breath in and out of my nose. He was always game. He taught me the sniffle-signal while purring in someone's lap; a few quick sniffles and he attacked the person petting him.

Gus would almost always come when his name was called (indoors). His sigh, exhaling a long-breath that left his nasal passages and lightly strummed his vocal chords, like a weary soldier, just before he fell to sleep was a goodnight I have learned to sorely miss.

Gus had an impressive vocal range and an obsessive-compulsive streak. If a door was closed which he wanted open, he would cry and meow at above normal indoor-voice-conversation level. If his meowling bothered me, I would sometimes shout at him or chase him away from the door. Then, he could—from a distant room—increase his volume until it became an angry-hurt, deep, baying, rapid-fire-howl. This, however, only happened after he taught me to hike with him in the woods.

After leaving Germany, Gus and I traveled through several American southwest states for almost half a booklet. I allowed him out of the tent almost immediately (even though he hadn’t asked) because there were no man-made objects in sight. At first, he wandered and I strolled after him. His explorations—with me always just over his shoulder—got longer; I intervened only when his path looked precarious or his destination was toward man-made objects. After a few weeks, I began to take the lead. If the sun was not too high-hot and the trail I chose was interesting for his nose and ears, he would stay with me until drawn off-path by a gecko, bird, or cooling spot of shade. At times we would switch the lead and he would move ahead (usually because he wanted to ‘break brush’ and walk anywhere but on a path). I soon learned what surfaces his tender foot pads could tolerate and subsequently chose all future hiking locations accordingly.

Once we were settled inside walls, he would yowl to go out when the weather was nice. Whenever I could, I would take him out into the forest and we would just walk together, for miles sometimes—me with a walking staff (to check for snakes in the dark nooks he liked to explore) and him with a bright orange neckband (If I called, he would come about half the time; the other half he just wondered: ‘why are you yelling? Can’t you see I’m right here?’ as his creamy-sandy-rust camouflaged him in some shady spot). Eventually, we hiked together enough that I stopped looking over my shoulder as much. If I got too far ahead (about 20-40 meters, depending on the terrain) he would mewl a high-pitched kitten-cry ‘hey, stop going so fast’.

We communicated—clearly—in a language of our own design. A click of my finger could mean get down, come here, look at me, pay attention to my hand, or stop that (the latter of which he understood but almost always disregarded unless I stood up, or stepped towards him). A closed mouth mewl with no tail movement meant either: I'm coming, I'm jumping up, wake up, or even just hi.

One most memorable occasion, we both climbed a huge flat-topped boulder where I meditated while he lay next to me listening to the birds and bugs ease the late evening into night. We were out there for several hours in the dark. He never left my side.

Four pages before he died, he became diabetic. I learned all about feline diabetes and especially how ignorant veterinarians are when it comes to the disease. I bought a human blood testing kit, pricked his ears several times a day (there were almost always a broken-capillary site, or three, visible from then on) and charted exactly how much insulin he got every day. He was fed only cans of meat and fish intended for humans; never pet food (all cat food is bad for all cats, but diabetic cat food is especially bad for diabetic cats) and I sprinkled an herbal powder on his food twice a day, which significantly lowered the insulin intolerance of his cells.

My paramour and I paid for a vacation a half booklet before he was diagnosed. A half-page before we left, Gus was almost completely weaned off of insulin and I was foolishly optimistic.

The pet-sitter was trained to administer the insulin and knew how, what, and when to feed. In the middle of that vacation I received an e-mail: ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Gus passed away.’

Of course I wanted to blame the pet-sitter, but I couldn’t. All I could think is: he trusted me more completely than any human has ever trusted me and after nearly ten booklets I let him down. At the moment he needed me, I was not there.

He knew I always insured his safety and even though I was hurting his ear and pricking his skin with shots every day—I was his human, it was OK. If I’d have been there, I would have tested his blood, I would have administered the insulin correctly, I would have fed him properly, and I would have responded immediately at the first signs of an illness. But I was in another country.

In comparison to the remorse I feel from the loss of Gus, I have never cried as fully, nor felt as long-term saddened as heavily by any other loss (human or animal) in my entirety. I can't stop reminding myself that as his fatal sickness intensified and the moment of his death neared, I wonder what he was thinking—and—know what he was thinking. Where’s my human? I need my human. Why isn't he here?

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

The film The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is a wondrous feat of storytelling and certainly worth investing three hours of your time and a sawbuck of your savings.

The critical reviews are rife with comparisons of this film with other, less refined films and movies, which span 80+ years of history (and, in this case, the lifetime of the titular individual).

The only reason NOT to see this film is because you have been anxiously awaiting: Yes Man, Bedtime Stories, or Four which case you probably don't read these rants anyway.

The director of Seven, Fight Club, and The Game has topped himself. Don't miss it.

Portland OR — Reasons (#3)

Craftsmanship Pride

A dozen rational reasons to enjoy living in Portland, Oregon: Number three.

I—like everyone—have heard the 'where's the pride in craftsmanship anymore?' complaint for so many years I thought it was a rhetorical question. It's not. Pride in one's craft only comes when your product is appreciated, purchased, admired, and desired. Since the trend toward more inexpensive IKEA products and nicer furniture from China is not reversible, the craftsmen and women of today are making wonderful products in my neck of the woods (and my neighbors and I appreciate them by the mug, plate, glass, bottle, and ticket on a frequent basis):
  • With 47 different brewing facilities within a 30-mile radius of the city (450 beer labels) this is the micro brew center of the world.
  • Over 30 wineries in the northern Oregon area make this a wine-lovers wonderland.
  • A handful of distilleries are catching hold, and besides unique local vodkas and other liquors, absinthe is now locally produced and available for legal consumption.
  • There are two local brothers: Mike and Brian McMenamin, who should be canonized by the Revitalized Congregation of Our Dearly Inebriated. They have brought new life into dozens of wonderful old buildings—including a 1920's-era Art Deco Vaudeville theater, a fully restored 1910's-era Ballroom with its "floating dance floor", and a Masonic retirement home—by turning/returning them into movie houses, brewpubs, hotels, and music venues. McMenamins: true pride in local craftsmanship.
There's a moment for everyone when you fall into your own shadow and the fact is that it's your shadow and you're forced to live in it. And this is nothing to celebrate or not celebrate. It simply is. — Robert Rauschenberg (1925-2008)

Happy Festivus

Aluminum pole, Food, Grievances to be aired, Feats of Strength to be tested, Beer (in that order).

I think a painting is more like the real world if it's made out the real world. — Robert Rauschenberg (1925-2008)

Solstice Celebration

Today is the shortest day and longest night of the northern hemisphere; the solstice (here on the US western coast) is at exactly 4:04 am.

If one were to pay no attention to man-made calendars, today would be New Year's Eve (which the southern hemisphere would celebrate on June 21st). Sticking with the hypothetical, New Years Day would actually be celebrated on December 23d—Festivus—rather than the 22d, because some years the Winter Solstice is on Dec 22d.

There are only 48 months until the ancient Mayan last day of the long count calendar. How will you spend your last four years on this side of the Milky Way Galaxy? I intend to:
  • Applaud more
  • Blog more
  • Create more
  • Dive more
  • Exercise more
  • Fuck more
  • Golf more
  • Hike more
  • Ignore less
  • Joke more
  • Kiss more
  • Love more
  • Meditate more
  • Neglect less
  • Ogle more
  • Paint more
  • Quibble less
  • Read more
  • Sell more
  • Tank more
  • Understand more
  • View more
  • Walk more
  • Xplore more
  • Yammer less
  • Zig more (Zag less)

I challenge everyone who reads this to treat it as a meme (if you go in for that sort of thing; and if-n you can't figure out the rules, make em up).

Book Selecting & What Not to Read

I read in fits and starts. Fiction can be a wonderful escape and non-fiction is a simple way to learn things; so, I’ll gorge myself by devouring a half-dozen books and then fast a few weeks with nary a page-snack.

I shop in bookstores like this:
  • I scan New Arrivals for authors that’ve proven themselves wordsmiths to my satisfaction.
  • If I find a new Andrew Vachss (let's say). I open it to the copyright page; 1st printing within the last few months?–buy it without scanning a word (back covers and flap jackets have become mini-movie trailers, which should all begin *warning spoiler alert*).
  • If I discover it was previously published (two decades ago, say) but I don’t recall the title, I scan for an introduction or a ‘new afterward by the author,’ and read a bit to determine if this is a previously read novel.
  • Still can’t determine if I’ve read it?–sit and read the first few pages.
  • Then, I scan genre sections that I prefer; presently Sci-Fi, Graphic Novels, Non-fiction, small press. (Here, I actually expect the book to jump up and down and say ‘pick me pick me’).
  • I eventually shop for authors recommended by book-umpires that I trust. (e.g. Chuck Palaniuk not-so-vaguely recommended Katherine Dunne’s Geek Love, in his book fugitives and refugees.)
  • I may resort to reading the first few pages of books that have won awards. (I’ve learned, however, that the Pulitzer is rarely an indicator of reading I’ll enjoy, but the Hugo, Nebula, and Bram Stoker’s almost always are.)
  • Lastly, I hunt and pick. Reading bits of randomly selected books–for reasons I can’t guess at (probably just because the covers are interesting).
Occasionally, I buy books from the internet (when it’s cheap and the weather outside is frightening).

I bought Muffy: a Transmigration of Selves after reading only a few internet blurbs (shame on me). None the less, I applaud the author, S.T. Gulik, for:
  • Teaching me to never buy a book written by an untrusted author without holding it in my hand (this will determine if I’m being fucked at the drive-thru).
  • Seeding interesting reviews on the Internet about her own book–when extremely incompetent in the writing department, be good at marketing.
  • Being an imaginative twelve-year old who accomplished an enviable feat of self-publishing for a junior high school student (a fact, I surmise, solely from the writing).
Real published authors–versus writers who print their own shite–are proofread by editors and publishers; most people can’t edit their own work to save themselves a tarring, feathering, and run-out-of-town-on-a-railing. Gulik is proof of this.

If you can’t hook me by page thirty, you don’t get read. Here are a few examples of Muffy’s totally-terrible first thirty:

...large, doughy breasts. [cliché]
...sweet childlike voice... [cliché]’re pure as the driven snow. [cliché]
...ain’t nuthin worse than an uppity whore. [cliché]
...she saw for the first time the true face of evil. [cliché]
...a tsunami of nausea came crashing down upon her... [cliché]
...that looked more like a horrible train wreck than teeth. [cliché]
...howl of anguish which resembled the sound a cat makes when it’s in heat... [cliché]

...rusty green bench...; ...door soundlessly becomes one with the wall...; ...Muffy awkwardly fell upon the waffles, devouring them...; ...arched as painfully as it had been before. [all very trite adverbs]

...usually sobs and convulses for hours after an encounter...this time had been different. [mixed present and past tense, and use of passive voice]

She squeezed the animal tighter until it began to feel its bones splinter. [mixed point of view inside a sentence]

...she caught a glimpse of a small figure silhouetted in the doorway. It stepped out of the light and shut the door. At first the room was without form and void and darkness was upon the face of the girl. She could hear her captor’s footsteps as they circled her in the darkness... [jarring change in the writer's tone of voice]

“My name’s Sarah, what’s yours?” Muffy tried to speak but her mouth . . . the blue haired one saw the problem and... [misuse of pronoun convention; once a speaker is identified, don't use a pronoun]

She could only stare at the dog that was now licking at a puddle that was developing around the garbage can. Drunken gaiety gave way to anger as the feeling of being insulted grew in his belly. [mixed point of view inside a paragraph; ‘Drunken’ should have begun a new paragraph]

Some of the vastly-various verbs, and horrendously trite adverbs, surrounding almost all of the dialogue: Muffy remarked, Muffy sneered, he demanded, Muffy mused, Muffy nodded gravely, Muffy awed, Muffy squealed, Muffy grunted inquisitively, Muffy said in awe, Muffy whined, Muffy assured, Muffy pouted, Muffy declared, she asked proudly, she said with a giggle, Muffy asked in awe, Muffy cooed, Muffy continued to coo, Muffy nodded happily, Muffy pleaded, Muffy giggled. In fact, Muffy almost never, ever, just said or asked.

Can an average adult not say to them self: hey, this book is full of disgusting clichés and perverse grammatical usage. I won’t read it. And put it back on the shelf? (which is a slightly altered excerpt from Gulik’s own interest generating introduction-disclaimer). Although I would never consider myself average–yes, I can. And I can write about it all over the Internet so others are informed about a very poorly written book.

Stranger than Fiction: True Stories

Stranger Than Fiction: True Stories Stranger Than Fiction: True Stories by Chuck Palahniuk

rating: 4 of 5 stars

[Page 220:] ...brinksmanship, the tendency to leave things until the last moment, to imbue them with more drama and stress and appear the hero by racing the clock.

"Where I was born," Georgia O'Keefe used to say, "and where and how I have lived is unimportant."

She said, "It is what I have done with where I have been that should be of any interest."

[Pages 156-157:] People who come to interview (Marilyn) Manson, his publicist asks that they not publish the fact that he stands whenever a woman enters or leaves the room. After his father was disabled with a back injury, Manson bought his parents a home in California and supports them. When checking into hotels, he uses the name "Patrick Bateman" the serial-killing character from Bret Ellis's novel American Psycho.

[Page 56:] As a white man, you can live your whole life never not fitting in. You never walk into a jewelry store that sees only your black skin. You never walk into a bar that sees only your boobs. To be Whitie is to be wallpaper...

[Pages 31-32:] ...Heidegger pointed out how human beings tend to look at the world as a standing stock of material, ready for us to use. As inventory to be processed into something more valuable...he called this world of raw natural resources bestand. It seems inevitable that people without access to natural bestand, such as oil wells or diamond mines, that they'd turn to the only inventory they do have—their lives.


Make your own at Make A Flake.

I usually work in a direction until I know how to do it, then I stop at the time that I am bored or understand — I use those words interchangeably; another appetite has formed. A lot of people try to think up ideas. I’m not one. I’d rather accept the irresistible possibilities of what I can’t ignore. — Robert Rauschenberg (1925-2008)

Snow Portland

Today was the first snowfall, at all elevations, in and around Portland. Nothing better than a warm fireplace, hot toddies, and the ambient sound of cars spinning their tires and crashing into stationary objects to remind one of first snowfall treasures.

Meteor Showers

The Germinid Meteor showers should be in full streak tonight.

I wanted to do something that had no purpose. It didn't have to fit with anything else that I was doing. Something without rules. — Robert Rauschenberg (discussing his multi-media work: 1/4 mile or 2 furlong piece).

Uniquely absorbing

Don't start playing the Demo of Auditorium unless you've got some time to waste.

Jeffery Lewis Video

Sometimes something is just so good, the only thing to do is tell others. Thanks, Bobby!

I think maybe chance works better in a situation like music because music exists over a period of time, and you don't maintain constantly; you can't refer back from one area to another area. — Robert Rauschenberg (1925-2008)


digital rendering by veach st glines — 2008

They think it was a gesture, a protest against abstract expressionism ... or just a pure act of destruction—vandalism ... but, it was poetry. — Robert Rauschenberg (1925-2008; discussing his 1953 work: Erased De Kooning Drawing)

The Sacred Book of the Werewolf

The Sacred Book of the Werewolf The Sacred Book of the Werewolf by Victor Pelevin

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
The world works in a mysterious and incomprehensible fashion. Wishing to protect frogs from children's cruelty, adults tell children not to crush them because that will make it rain - and the result is that it rains all summer because the children crush frogs one after another. And sometimes it happens that you try with all your might to explain the truth to someone else, and suddenly you understand it yourself. (pg 316)
...the American film The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen...gathered together all the supermen of the nineteenth century. (There is)...nothing original about it. An economy based on brokerage gives rise to a culture that prefers to resell images and concepts created by others rather than creating new ones. (pgs 11-12)
...if someone says something memorable to us, we almost always repeat it in conversation with other people, regardless of whether what was said was stupid or clever...mind is simply a tennis racket you can use to keep bouncing the conversation from one subject to another for as long as you like. We give people back the ideas and opinions that we have borrowed from them - reflecting them from another angle, giving them a different spin, sending them into a vertical climb.

Let me remark modestly that my simulated thought almost always turns out better than the original... Who serves all these shots? One of the people?...

I'll have to wait until I have a conversation on this subject with some intelligent person. Then we'll see which way I drive the ball. That's the way I've been discovering the truth... (pgs 136-137)

Portland OR — Reasons (#4)


A dozen rational reasons to enjoy living in Portland, Oregon: Number four.

There are three Wal-Marts for 2.1 million residents of this city and its two dozen suburbs (the suburbs in Washington don't count because of reason number ten). There are some big-box stores (positioned near the Washington border, again see #10) and of course there are chain stores and chain restaurants and chain fast-food point is more about the gestalt of the consumer mindset (of which 'only 3 Wal-Marts' is merely the grabber).

The abundance and diversity of: green-grocers, vinyl record shops, cafe's, small businesses, independent stores, boutiques, art galleries, antique malls, vintage/retro-clothing stores, diners, used CD stores, non-franchise restaurants, et cetera — contrasted against the relative paucity of empty store fronts — indicates this consumer mindset is extremely vibrant. The nine-months-out-of-the-year, weekend-craft/art/food/music market is the flagship of this rare but fantastic mindset.

Every time I've moved, my work has changed radically. — Robert Rauschenberg (1925-2008)

Review of the working copy: Public Enemies

Got invited to screen a big-budget film scheduled to be released next Spring. It was something I'd never done, so after IMDB'ing keywords on the invitation (1930's gangster film) and coming up with: Public Enemies, directed by Michael Mann, and starring more than a dozen well known actors and actresses (Johnny Depp is Dillinger, Christian Bale is Melvin Purvis), we hastily rsvp'd our acceptance of the invitation.

We arrive 1/2 hour before the time we were told to be there and stood in line for 90 minutes.

It took 30 more minutes to pack the 500+ of us into non-stadium theater seats that were uncomfortable in 1984.

Five more to explain the few things that were yet to be fixed in this working copy (the sound is not finished, some special effects are missing, the sky and colors are not 'punched up' yet, blah blah).

Two hours and fourty minutes later, I'm handed a sheet of paper with questions on it:
  • What was the first thing you thought when the movie was over?
    Fuck, it's hot. I'm glad it's finally over, now all I have to do is get this stupid paper filled out.
  • Did you know before watching this film that Dillinger was shot outside a theater in Chicago?
    Ahh, yeah, This is—like—the fifth movie to re-tread this same ground. But I'm sure there are some sixteen year old fans of Pirates of the Caribbean and The Dark Knight that will learn it next spring.
  • At the beginning of the film did you know that Billy Crudup was J. Edgar Hoover?
    (This makes me think the director knew long before he began filming that Billy wasn't right for the role) I didn't know who he was until someone called him by name; why didn't you get Toby Jones?
  • Rate the following list of actors and the roles they were playing; five is best, one is worst.
    Most got a three. Johnny was sadly, bad, and got a two (I think Robert Downey Jr. would have killed the role). Giovanni Rabisi (only in the film for ten minutes) got the only four.
  • Would you recommend this film to your friends?
    Even if you chop an hour off of this huge turd, I doubt it.
  • What did you think of the ending?
    Besides, "Yay it's finally here?' It was waaay muddled.
  • What were the best things about the film?
    The settings and costumes were accurate and well staged, the shoot-outs and chase scenes were realistic, it hits all the "historically accurate" points that have already been hit before.
  • What were the worst things?
    I saw two earring holes in Dillinger's left earlobe (make-up and continuity both get an F); Stephen Dorff, Leelee Sobieski, Emilie de Ravin, and Lili Taylor, were each in it for about two whole minutes (some didn't even have lines!)—what an amazing waste of talent. The script was awful-terrible: when placing words in people's mouths why not have them say interesting things?
Overall I know that Mr Mann is capable of some good films, like: The Insider, Heat, Manhunter, and Collateral. I also know he's directed some quasi-shite: Miami Vice, Ali and the Keep.

This may be enjoyed by younger viewers who have not seen Warren Oats' Dillinger (1973), or John Tirney's Dillinger (1945), because they adhere to the creed: "if it was made more than ten years ago it's not worth seeing," and they'll be satisfied with mediocre dialog and so-so acting.

There is little to no profanity (weirdly missing), not much blood (just a little), and no nudity in the film (the only sex scene is 15 seconds of Depp and Marion Cotillard, Dillinger's girlfriend, in bed clothed). This must have been intentional in order to get a PG13 rating; the target audience is high schoolers.

I will see it again in 2010, on DVD, because I'm interested to see how much polish that turd gets.

, , , ,

...dogs begin to smell her...

At times, my mind combines a memory with something happening in the present and I get a mini-eureka moment.

A few nights ago, out with my paramour singing karaoke (yep, guilty pleasure #43) someone with too much of the king of Belgian beers in him, begins a male pop-standard krooner (a song any low-voice can belt out at zero-dark-thirty after driving is no longer an option). He sang as I read the screen over his head:

When the dogs do find her
Got time, time, to wait for tomorrow
To find it - to find it - to find it
When the dogs do find her
Got time, time, to wait for tomorrow
To find it... to find it... to find it

Where ya going for tomorrow?
Where ya going with that mask I found?
And I feel, and I feel
When the dogs begin to smell her
Will she smell alone?

And I recall assisting on a death investigation decades ago, in Georgia, where a husband murdered his wife, drug her body out into a copse of trees behind their housing complex, camouflaged it with a small quantity of leaves and twigs, and then continued his daily routines. He called in-laws (this is pre-cellphones) asked to speak with her, informed them she'd left after an argument and would turn up there soon, '...tell her I apologized and she should come home...'.

Kids found the body after a few days. He confessed. Part of the end of his statement is paraphrased here:
I couldn't leave her in the house anymore...the smell was gettin too bad...the dog was always sniffin at the door to the room. ...figure I'd be able to buy me some time if I put her outside.

What were your plans in regard to the time you were buying by putting her outside? (An effective interrogation technique when a pause gets too long: frame a question using previously stated words.)

I wasn't. ...didn't think bout nothin. I need some time to find a plan.

Did you find a plan?

No, you guys showed up before I had a chance to.

[Name] it's been more than a week since then, (another technique: always avoid saying 'since the murder' or 'killing' or even 'death') you went to work, talked with people, all kinds of things; in all that time you didn't come up with any idea of what you were going to do?

Well. I knew I needed to do somethin soon. But I thought I'd have more time.
I learn from wiki, today, that Scott Wieland of Stone Temple Pilots allegedly wrote the lyrics to Plush after reading a San Diego newspaper article about a woman's body in the woods. The song was recorded in 1992. The crime I reference above occurred in 1990.

Is this just another example of nothing new under the sun, or, every idea that can be thought has already been thought? Or, in this case, acted out and said?

The artist's job is to be a witness to his time in history. — Robert Rauschenberg (1925-2008)

, , , ,


This was a first for me. Although I've had a few memorable nightmares as a child and a couple scary dreams as an adult; never something like this:

I wake up (I'm on my back) and look to my right. There is a short boy, maybe seven years old, standing next to the bed; less than three feet away from me. In the darkness, I can clearly see his outline, darker than the white section of wall which separates the darker closet door and the darkest open bathroom doorway. Someone has entered my house, my room, my sleeping personal space without me hearing them...I scream a no-word holler. He freezes (he may have been walking toward the bathroom). I roar again. Trying for maximum volume, maybe I'll scare him away. He winces a little. I shout, "who are you!?" (I'm beginning to sit up). He moves away maybe an inch or two. Louder, again, "who are you!!?" and lunge with both hands for his throat.

I wake up. My pointing fingers have just hit the wall. My eyes feel like they were already open and I sit back on the bed as the thought: 'I just bellowed awfully loud, everyone must be awake,' is buried by the knowledge my voice feels un-strained, in fact, it feels un-used at all. My heart is racing. Not a creature is stirring, not even the cat. My focus centers on the bathroom, where the familiar dim glow of a nightlight incongruously bumps my now-obvious dream memory of 'the darkest doorway'.

That little ghost almost scared the piss out of me—I'll bet my going for his throat gave him a bit of a pause, though.

Portland OR — Reasons (#5)


A dozen rational reasons to enjoy living in Portland, Oregon: Number five.

Many cities have some of these effective, "green", and positive transportation qualities, and some have many of them, but only Portland has all:
  • Fully integrated metropolitan-suburban bus system.
  • Major light-rail system connecting many eastern, western, and northern suburbs (growing to the south).
  • Trolley-cars covering the downtown area.
  • Extensive bicycle paths, lanes, and secure parking areas (some covered). A very "bicycle/alternative transportation (alt-trans) friendly" environment.
  • Bicycle racks on the front of most buses and inside all train cars.
  • Laws permitting/promoting alt-trans on most public streets and sidewalks (skateboards, roller-blades, Segways, scooters, etc.).
  • A convenient international airport connected to every transportation system.
  • A huge fair-less downtown zone where all public transportation is free.
  • No sedan chairs and footmen, which is a shame, but there are always bicycle carts downtown (at all hours).
Ideas of...relaxed symmetry have been something—for years—that I've been concerned with because I think that symmetry is a neutral shape as opposed to a form of design. — Robert Rauschenberg (1925-2008)