Happy V.D.

Phredd's Pengwynne

This rendering was created in a slightly different manner. My paramour, Pam, provided twenty photos and I turned them into this. Interested? Provide links to at least 20, no more than 40, pictures (veachglines@gmail.com) and I'll make one for you.

digital rendering by veach st glines — 2009

I realized what death was...I...would end completely. And the real tragedy was that all the wonders I'd seen and smelt and felt would die with me. I couldn't bear it. And from that moment to this I've struggled to record as much of it as I can. — Katherine Dunn, from In Her Own Words

3d attempt

Entering the range of 1980's scrambled cable-porn signals (you know you did).

ghost in da bloggzing-machina

This is my second attempt to upload my latest digital rendering. (Whaa?) After blogger hated my first try so much it gave me a 404-razberry, I reduced the size and it gave me this. Makes me recall FAX machines and printers running low on ink. But as I usually capitalize on 'goofs'...(and try to turn them into goofinade), I offer this. Mostly because with digital, one can no longer count on the camera/camera operator/photodeveloper messing up a print in a real good, what-an-amazing mistake, way. It's comforting to know it's still possible.

But I think everybody should write. I think those people with stories who don't write should be stomped on. — Katherine Dunn (Portland author)

A Meme for February

Thanks to Irb at Click... Click... Click... BANG!!! for this, Use only one word meme. I send it to no one, I like to challenge my own brain (but feel free):

1. Where is your cell phone? - off

2. Your significant other? - amazing

3. Your hair? - disappearing

4. Your mother? - septuagenarian

5. Your father? - cremated

6. Your favorite thing? - fellatio

7. Your dream last night? - odd

8. Your favorite drink? - ICBM

9. Your dream/goal? - Gallery

10. What Room are you in? - Bed

11. Your hobby? - film-watching

12. Your fear? - 2012

13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? - alive

14. Where were you last night? - Fringe

15. Something you are not? - wealthy

16. Breakfast? - rarely

17. Wish list item? - Smart-car

18. Where you grew up? - Midwest

19. Last thing you ate? - Fritter

20. What are you wearing? - orange

21. Your TV? - 1080p

22. Your pets? - feline

23. Friends? - strange

24. Your life? - uncomplicated

25. Your mood? - up-beat

26. Missing someone? - Gus

27. Your car? - nonexistent

28. Something you’re not wearing? - jewelry

29. Your favorite store? - Powell's

30. Your favorite color? - #20

31. When is the last time you laughed? - Lunch

32. Last time you cried? - #26

33. Who will resend this? - meme-lovers

34. One place that I go to over and over? - sleep

35. One person who emails me regularly: - dv81too

36. Favorite place to eat: - Y

37. One place I would like to go right now? - camping

38. One person I think will respond: - #33

39. One TV show I watch all the time: - Stewart

War Story (that's not a real war story)

A couple people remarked about my 6 Dec post (in which a song lyric rejuvenated some withered neurons in the 1990-stacks of my turning-greyer matter). They said they liked, ‘The part with the murder’s statement...it made me want to know more...how come you don’t talk much, about stuff from when you were an Agent?’

True—I don’t routinely share ‘war stories’ because they usually fail to contain a key interest-bearing element (beginning, middle, or ending) and leave the reader hanging. There’s only so much to glean from a completely non-fiction story. Eventually the “what happened then” question receives the “damned if I know” answer.

However, in this rare 15-watt interest (from people who decline to post comments) I offer a slender slice of the true:

On an overcast Saturday Georgia morning my beeper vibrated at me to call the Military Police Desk. “Mister Glines, you’re the Duty Agent today, right?”
“Yes Sergeant, whachya got?”
“Female soldier. Here at the station. Just walked in. Said she wanted to report being raped. I asked her where it happened—so I could send a patrol out to protect the crime scene—she said it happened last year in South Carolina. I... uhmm, immediately called you.”
“Have her escorted to my office by a female patrol officer or investigator. I’ll call you once I know more. Thanks.”

* * * * * * * * * *

“Hello, I’m Special Agent Veach Glines.” I stepped close and shook the dry hand of the woman in her late twenties wearing clean jeans and a white logo jersey under a Members Only jacket. Her dark hair and fingernails appeared well groomed (one small barrette, a couple of rings, not a nail-biter). She was wearing a small amount of makeup (empty ear piercing holes); eyes didn’t appear to be red—good eye contact with me—no notable smells (of alcohol or poor hygiene).
“I’m Sergeant Wanda Pseudonym.”
“Please, call me Veach. Is it OK to call you Wanda?” I asked as I escorted her from the lobby to my office where I had her take a seat and then excused myself to talk to the patrol officer who brought her over, as well as get a soda. I offered to bring her one too. She accepted.
“Diet, if you have it.”

I got three sodas. I gave one to the patrol officer who I positioned in a nearby office (with the door open and her MP radio off). I explained, “No one else is here today, so I need you to be able to hear this entire interview; when I’m done with her statement, you’ll sign it as a witness.”

I didn’t tell the MP the most important reason she was seated where she could see and hear my office was—if it ever became necessary—she could testify that I didn’t sexually assault this woman. Anyone reporting a year-old personal assault crime was a massive question mark in my mind.

I gave a diet soda to Wanda, got all her identifying details, and asked her to tell her complaint non-stop, from beginning to end. I explained that I’d take notes and ask questions later—once she was completely done—to fill any needed details.

What follows is her statement and my follow-on questions. I’ve deleted the completely unneeded portions (like what she ate, why she was in the hospital, etc.) and altered all identifying features:

I, SGT Wanda Pseudonym, am assigned at Fort Realwet, North Carolina, but I’m now, currently, stationed here for temporary training. This morning, I was eating at the mess hall when SFC Bull passed by my table. Until then, I had forgotten—I’ve heard it called repressed memory—but as soon as I saw SFC Bull, I remembered that he raped me last summer. At that time, I was in the hospital at Fort Kindahumid, South Carolina where he was on staff. I don’t know why he is here, now. Over the weeks that I was there in South Carolina, he and I talked and got friendly, mostly when we were outside together in the smoking area. One Sunday, he asked me if I wanted to come to his room and watch a movie. I decided because he was a Sergeant First Class that I could trust him and agreed. Once we got to his room, however, he began touching me and kissing me and trying to take my shirt off. I told him to stop, but he didn’t. He got me down on his bed, and, you know those padded leather straps that hospitals have to restrain violent patients? Well he started to buckle my wrist down to his bed with one of those, but I twisted away, and made it to the door, but couldn’t get the door open. He then grabbed me from behind and threw me back on the bed and used the weight of his body to hold me down while he strapped down my wrists. Then he took off my pants, lifted up my top, touched me all over, and had sex with me vaginally until he came. After, he unstrapped me, and while I got dressed, he told me not to tell anyone because he would deny it. He said, ‘I’ll say you came to my room voluntarily and had consensual sex with me. Everyone will think you’re a slut. Just keep your mouth shut.’ I went back to my hospital room and went to sleep. I eventually forgot all about it until this morning when I saw him, and then I went to the MP station.
Q: What time of day was it when you entered SFC Bull’s room?
A: After lunchtime, in the afternoon.
Q: Did you ever have consensual sex or any form of consensual fondling with SFC Bull, either that day or any other day?
A: No. Never.
Q: Were you ever in his room at any other time, before or after that day, for any reason?
A: No.
Q: Did you talk to him as a member of the staff after that day?
A: I don’t think so, but I don’t recall. Maybe I did. But if so, it was small talk. I don’t know.
Q: Did you scream, or yell loudly, before he began to force you to have sex?
A: No.
Q: Why?
A: I was afraid he would get violent and figured that if I yelled, he’d punch me.
Q: You said you made it to the door once, why couldn’t you get it open?
A: I grabbed the handle and pulled, but it felt like there was someone outside holding the doorknob, so the door just pulled out of my hands and then SFC Bull grabbed me again.
Q: Did you ever see, or hear, someone else outside in the hallway?
A: No. I assumed someone was out there because the door was pulled out of my hands.
Q: Did you tell anyone about this, then or now?
A: No. My husband knows, now, because I told him this morning. But that’s all.
Q: Can you describe anything specific about SFC Bull, like a normally-hidden tattoo, which would support your allegation?
A: Yes. His penis bends, in a very extreme way, to the left.
Q: Are you saying that when he is erect it points away from his body to his left?
A: Not just erect. After he got off me it wasn’t hard and it was really bent to the left.///end of statement///

About half-way through SGT Pseudonym’s statement, I had the MP call another patrol to locate, detain, and transport SFC Bull to my office. Once I finished with SGT Pseudonym I had the MP take her back to her car and began with SFC Bull.

He was clearly shocked and honestly did not know why he had been arrested. I advised him of his rights for the offense of rape. He waived his rights and profusely continued to deny ever knowing or engaging in any sexual contact with SGT Wanda Pseudonym. I talked with him for a little over an hour. Eventually, SFC Bull invoked his rights, refused to talk any more, and declined to provide a written statement (which didn't matter; all his statement would have contained was: 'I don't know anyone by that name and I didn't rape anyone'). But, during our initial conversation, this important verbal exchange occurred:

Q: You act extremely nervous, sergeant. You can hardly sit still. Why? What’s up?
A: I...you are accusing me of rape, sir. I’m upset. I never. Shit why does this shit always happen to me? I would never force a woman to have sex with me, man, I get as much as I want all the time. I’m not...that’s just not me man. No fuckin way.
Q: What if I told you there was one simple means for you to absolutely prove you are telling the truth?
A: What way? I’ll do it for sure. What way? Anything.
Q: Let me take a picture of your penis.
A: Huh? What are you talkin about?
Q: I need you to agree to let me photograph your genitals, sergeant. Consent in writing. And if you don’t match her description... well, then we’re done here.
A: OK. No problem. I mean, it’s kinda embarrassing but I’ll do it.
Q: Oh, one more thing, Sarge, you said ‘why does this shit always happen’ just a minute ago; what did you mean by that?
A: Ahhhh, yeah... nothin, well..., Shit. I assume you can look it up anyway; I was involved with the police ahhh... before... for somethin else I never fuckin did.
Q: What kind of something?
A: I’d rather not say.

Since I didn’t want him to revoke his permission to the photograph, I left to get the camera and run a background check (something I normally would have done much later).

* * * * * * * * * *

I took a picture of SFC Bull’s penis. It looked like it had been slammed in a car door. If he stood at a urinal and pissed—without pointing and aiming himself straight—he'd miss the porcelain and soak the person standing to his left.

* * * * * * * * * *

The background check revealed a sexual assault victim’s complaint from three years previous. This is a portion of the victim's statement, which I had faxed to me from Fort Kindahumid, South Carolina:

...and SFC Bull entered the bathroom behind me. I told him to leave me alone, but he was drunk and all putting his hands inside my underwear and bra. I pushed him away and tried to leave the bathroom but I couldn’t. Someone from the party was holding the bathroom doorknob on the other side, making it so I couldn't pull the door open. I banged on the door but the music was really loud and noone could have heard. SFC Bull then grabbed me and pushed me back against the sink, but I kneed him, hard, in the crotch. He stopped and bent over—and I opened the door. No one was on the other side at that point and I left the party and...

* * * * * * * * * *

Epilogue That's NOT An Epilogue: I charged SFC Bull with rape and released him to his Commander. The Staff Judge Advocates office began Court Martial proceedings. The case was reassigned to someone else in the office for completion.

About nine months later, I saw SFC Bull accompanied by a defense lawyer and learned he had just taken a polygraph examination. I learned SFC Bull passed his lie detector test. The examiner told me SFC Bull admitted to having consensual sex with SGT Pseudonym, and stated he hadn’t admitted it, previously, because he knew he'd get in trouble for having consensual sex with a hospital patient (the coincidental door-holding information from Fort Kindahumid, South Carolina, was never brought up by the polygraph examiner).

* * * * * * * * * *

SGT Pseudonym was scheduled to be re-interviewed. I offered my assistance. This is the pertinent excerpt from her second statement:

...because I was having difficulty with my marriage at that time. Things were going really bad with my husband and me fighting. When I saw SFC Bull in the mess hall, I remembered having sex with him, and I thought about—even though it wasn’t rape—it was against regulations for him to have sex with me, so I decided to tell my husband that I just remembered about being raped. I figured he would feel all sorry for me. And, well, it worked. He did. He treated me different. But, unfortunately, my husband got all mad and made me tell the police. I didn’t want to—and told him I didn’t want to go through all that. But, he insisted and I knew I’d have to either lie, and say I was raped to the police, or tell my husband that I was lieing to him just to make him feel sorry for me. So, I lied to you and said I was raped.
Q: In your story, you explained details about resisting, including that someone was outside the door, holding the doorknob. Can you explain that?
A: That never happened. I made it up.
Q: Based on what?
A: You asked me to describe what I did to resist. I told you I tried to fight him off and got to the door but then I realized I couldn’t say it was locked; because I was inside, right? And you would have wondered why I didn’t just turn the knob and run out...so I decided to say the door was being held from the outside. At the time of our interview, I figured it was a good way to say...to explain...why I couldn’t get out of his room.
Q: What about the rest of the details? Did you fabricate all of it?
A: Not really. He really had those restraints, it’s just that we used them for fun—you know. I agreed to go to his room to have sex, so all the parts about struggling and saying, ‘no, stop’ that part was all made up. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it to go this far. Are you going to have to tell my husband?///end of statement///

* * * * * * * * * *

Real Epilogue: SGT Pseudonym was not punished for the many tens of thousands of dollars of unneeded investigation costs, nor for attempting—and almost succeeding—to send a (relatively) innocent person to prison. SGT Bull was non-judicially punished; receiving a fine for about four hundred dollars for ‘Engaging in intimate contact with a patient’ and for ‘Mis-appropriation of government property’ (a pair of medical restraints).

I don't know: if her husband ever learned the truth. I can't explain: the 'coincidence' with the door being held from the outside. I do know: this was the strangest rape allegation I helped investigate.

Perhaps the strongest evidence that women have as broad and deep a capacity for physical aggression as men is anecdotal, and—as with men—this capacity has expressed itself in acts from the brave to the brutal, the selfless to the senseless. — Katherine Dunn, author of Geek Love

We are all too human

On the political sickbed, society rejuvenates and rediscovers its geist (after gradually losing it by seeking and preserving power). Culture owes its peaks to politically weak ages.

This quote is from Nietzsche's book Menschliches, Allzumenschliches (Human, All Too Human) which he published in 1878. Although his use of the word geist can vary to mean 'intelligence', 'wit', 'mind', and 'spirit'; I think our society's spirit is it's overall demeanor. This quote is very pertinent today.

The current positve American cultural attitude and our difficult but eventual economic recovery caused by an eight-year loss of America's geist would not be possible, if it were not for the previous administration's unhealthy and politically-weakening attempts to seek and preserve power.

In this 131-year-old light, I wish to say: THANK YOU, PRESIDENT BUSH.  Trump.  {you can just, please yourself here, and fill in the authority figure of your nightmares and of the other half's dreams}.

Portland OR — Reasons (#1)

Proximity to MOM and POP

A dozen rational reasons to enjoy living in Portland, Oregon: number one

Mountains, Ocean, Meadows, & Parks, Orchards, Playgrounds—the outdoors is really the main reason to love it here.

• Mount Hood, OR and Mount St. Helens, WA: Both are visible on clear days, both are 90 minutes away, and although both offer hiking and outdoor exploration, Mt Hood offers wonderful winter recreation areas (the Timberline Ski area on Mt. Hood has the only year-round ski resort in the continental US).

• The Pacific Ocean is two hours away. The Oregon coast is 363 miles long and the entire coast, by law, is public land. Because there are no private beaches, it’s possible to drive your car onto every beach with an access point. The longest driveable beach in Oregon is 17 miles long (110 miles away, in Washington, there is a longer one).

• With many hundreds of city, county, and state parks you are never more than a half-mile from a public green-space. The largest urban forest reserve in the US (51,000+ acres), is Forest Park—it is 8 miles long and contains 70 miles of trails. Once you begin hiking in this densely forested area, it’s impossible to remember you’re inside a large metropolitan city.

• Within a fifty-mile radius of Portland, there are hundreds of orchards and fruit/vegetable farms (U-pick seems to be available for everything) as well as dozens of city fountains that are not only for watching (in warm weather everyone climbs in, dips their feet, or splashes through).

• The Oregon outdoors is a playground for everyone. Add to this list two major rivers (Columbia and Willamette), waterfalls, gorges, an uncountable number of streams, creeks, lakes, ponds, marshes, dune areas, a dormant volcano in the center of the city, as well as quite a few nature preserves scattered everywhere and there are thousands of answers to the question, "where do you want to go-do this weekend?"

[NOTE: There is a unkept secret that 'it rains all the time' here. When people ask about the amount of precipitation (and how we deal with it) I've heard others foolishly try to quantify the 'all the time' portion. What I've learned, however, is qualification of: 'it rains' is more informative. If you've experienced the monsoons of the American southwest, the thunderstorms in the midwest, or the torrential downpours in the eastern or southern states, you know rain. Real rain—for those who have no understanding of the term (native Portlanders)—is a large quantity of water falling hard enough to soak your clothing all-the-way-to-the-underwear if you're stupid enough to dash to your mailbox without an umbrella. That is rain. Here? It drizzels some. It sprinkles other times. Some days it can be misty-foggy for hours and hours. Mostly, it never rains. When the weather forecast says 'rain,' I no longer bring a raincoat or umbrella. If I walk two miles 'in the rain'—the roots of my hair will be dry. It can be dismally grey here for many daze. It can be chilly and windy and damp-moist for weeks. There may be precipitation slowly drifting downward and accumulating on the ground a lot of the time. But. It. Rarely. Really. Rains.]

The secret of realizing the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment of existence is: to live dangerously! Build your cities on the slopes of Vesuvius! Send your ships out into uncharted seas! Live in conflict with your equals and with yourselves! Be robbers and ravagers as long as you cannot be rulers and owners, you men of knowledge! The time will soon be past when you could be content to live concealed in the woods like timid deer! — Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)

snapobamicon

Thanks to Catherine for this snappit of hypertexture du jour. Make your own at obamicon.me.

The best friend is likely to acquire the best wife, because a good marriage is based on the talent for friendship. — Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)

The Yiddish Policemen's Union

The Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Chabon is the master of metaphor, simile, analogy and description-with-flare. His alternative-history, speculative fiction, murder mystery is wonderful. This is NOT a quick-easy read; pages go down like massive overstuffed apple fritters and after a few too many it is wise to allow digestion time.

Winning both the Hugo and Nebula Awards, this is a book for writers and serious readers, because The World Science Fiction Society (Hugo) and the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (Nebula) are, mostly, writers recognizing good writers (and give, collectively, two shits what the general public likes).

I call Christianity the one great curse, the one great intrinsic depravity, the one great instinct for revenge for which no expedient is sufficiently poisonous, secret, subterranean, petty—I call it the one immortal blemish of mankind. — Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)

Sketch of Portland

digital rendering by veach st glines — 2009

Man believes that the world itself is filled with beauty—he forgets that it is he who has created it. He alone has bestowed beauty upon the world—alas! only a very human, an all too human, beauty. — Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)

Portland OR — Reasons (#2)

Ingrained Optimistic Long-Term Outlook

A dozen rational reasons to enjoy living in Portland, Oregon: number two

Every city may be a melange of windswept scents, familiar neighborhood sounds, preferred flavors, and an ever-present feel under one’s sole—combined with spaces wrought by people and time; but the “thing about” Portland (easy to know but difficult to glimpse) is that a conglomeration of intelligent decisions (past and present) were made by people, concerned about individuals and their 'rights' (never easy), which has formed this city’s je ne sais quoi element. Maybe some of those decisions can be appreciated in these snippets?:

• In the 1970's a two-mile section of highway adjacent to the Willamette River was demolished; in its place, a 22-block long/29 acre public park was built.
• The Oregon Lottery has grown since 1984 to encompass: video lottery machines, keno, scratch-its, megabucks, and powerball.
• Begun in 1917, the International Rose Test Garden covers 4.5 acres and contains over 7,000 rose plants of approximately 550 varieties.
• Although domestic partnerships and civil unions are legal, Oregon still has not legalized same-sex marriages (like the more forward-thinking states of Massachusetts and Connecticut).
• Crystal Springs Rhododendron Garden, a 9½ acre garden adjoining Reed College, features more than 2,500 rhododendron, azalea, and companion plants.
• Oregon's Death with Dignity Act allows physicians to assist certain terminally ill patients (who request it) to end their lives with a lethal prescription.
• Oaks Amusement Park and Skating Rink has been open since 1905. The Oregon Zoo has promoted conservation since 1887. Founded in 1944, the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry is one of the nation's leading science museums.
• Capital Punishment (currently by lethal injection) is legal in Oregon. The death penalty is a jury-option for the crime of Aggravated Murder only.
• Hoyt Arboretum, a 187-acre refuge with 21 trails covering 12 miles and containing over 1,000 true species, began in 1930. All specimens have been grown from seeds collected in the wild.
• Recently Oregon joined the smarter-half of the US by banning all smoking in every public location, including bars and restaurants.
• The Portland Classical Chinese Garden opened in 2000. Almost an acre in size and located in historic old town Chinatown, the teahouse brings together the beauty and symbolism of the garden with Chinese traditional tea culture.
• In 1973, Oregon became the first state to decriminalize cannabis. Possession of less than an ounce is a misdemeanor (like a traffic violation). Medical marijuana is legal.
• The 5.5 acre Japanese Gardens have delighted visitors since 1967. All five: Strolling Pond Garden, Natural Garden, Sand and Stone Garden, Flat Garden, and Tea Garden, are peaceful and tranquil.
• Carrying a knife of any length (switchblade to sword) is legal—as long as it’s not concealed. Oregon is a shall-issue concealed pistol license state, and has very few restrictions on where a concealed firearm may be carried.
• The Keep Portland Weird slogan has its roots in:
  
  1. Voodoo Doughnuts, open 24 hours for unique pastry treats and wedding ceremonies.
  2. For indoor, glow in the dark, pirate-themed, mini-golf, try Glowing Greens.
  3. We have an annual Adult Soapbox Derby, and yes there will be injuries.
  4. Exploring the Portland Underground or Shanghai Tunnels is weird-worthy.
  5. Of course, this list would not be complete without including the smallest park in the world.

Art is not merely an imitation of the reality of nature, but in truth a metaphysical supplement to the reality of nature, placed alongside thereof for its conquest. — Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)

Unauthorized Portrait of MontiLee

I perused a photo of Ms MontiLee Stormer a week ago on her blog at Little Black Duck, noticed it was a particularly attractive photo and moved my eyes and brain forward. Yesterday I was "tanking" (meditating in a sensory deprivation tank) and the photo kept pestering me. Why? It could be that she is peeking around expertly disheveled loose hair and her lip color is slightly caught in her scarf — reminiscent of Lisa Bonet in Angelheart (...We don't go round murderin people allright Mister Angel?..) maybe it's a combination of the back and top lighting with her hand held just so, or that the fleur de lis pattern on her long-johns draws the eye back toward a stuffed bear who is also peeking around a pair of TV rabbit-ears. I just can't figure it out. So I do what it is I do...to rid me of my daemons.

This digital rendering was compiled from photos in her photostream. The only rule I set: use only photos of MontiLee with no others (cats or stuffed animals from a fair don't count as others and were included); a little over 20 photos were poached from her flicker site.

As the creative process took less than three hours (more a sketch) an overall theme of creepiness came to the surface. I don't know why. Point of fact: although there is an angular man's face apparent in the upper right, and a few other vague faces elsewhere, they are all artifacts of the compilation; honest, Nosferatu and his fiends were not in any of her photos.

Note to MontiLee: I apologize for not getting your permission first, but I don't think an apology is required for my 'creepy' description, because, well, you are a little creepy and that's just what floated to the surface here.

I smile when she looks at me because it’s how I was taught: you acknowledge when acknowledged. She then taps her husband on the shoulder, leans in and says in a stage whisper they probably heard in the stockroom, “Never seen one like her before.” He turns in a shuffle, and his feet drag dirt across the floor in a circle to face me. He then shuffles back to the cashier and says, “Nope.” — Excerpted from "Never seen one like you before" by MontiLee Stormer

The Story Behind the Sign

A many few years ago there was a night spent in a drinking establishment with a handful of co-workers (the story begins).  A many few beers had gone down and we were walking back to the house of the nearest member of the intox-o-me-cated (mine).  As we were walking I noticed a sign stuck in the grass betwixt sidewalk and street.

Although I dis-recall what the sign was proclaiming (which may have more to do with beers than years) I remember it was just like a realtor's temporary signage—black metal angle iron frame jammed in the ground; top-edge about waist high.  So I said..."this sign is hil-air-i-ous.  I want it."  And I began to reach down.  My friend stopped me.  Instead of don't-steal-the-sign he said, "Let the strongest man here get that for you."  Then he bent, gripped the bottom edge of the metal sign, and lifted with his knees—not his back—in a practiced clean-and-jerk motion.

The sign didn't budge a millimeter.  Of course he sliced all eight fingers; six to the bone and the two pinkies only half-as-deep.

I only retrieved this memory from long-long term storage once I saw this (photo-shopped) picture while poaching for my last digital rendering:  sharp edges.

Epilogue:  we got him to the hospital, he got stitched and bandaged, his wife hated me from that night forward, because—obviously—it was all my fault, and...I still can't recall what the sign said.  I think it was something like:  PORN KILLS.

sharp edges

digital rendering by veach st glines — 2009

He who fights monsters should see to it that in the process, he does not become a monster. And when you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you. — Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)

Larytta music; körner union video

Thanks to Centripetal Notion, for this kanimaleidascope—the first hypertext effluvium art of 2009 worth sharing.

There is one thing one has to have: either a soul that is cheerful by nature, or a soul made cheerful by work, love, art, and knowledge. — Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)

Finate

digital rendering by veach 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 Christmases...in 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]
...you’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 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.

Snowflake

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)

wholw

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)