Moon Time

Louis CK has a great joke about how cellphones make it impossible for us, and kids especially, to cultivate an ability to just be alone. Just be a person doing nothing. 

And I think education and English and arts ideally should be the opposite of a phone. It should help you reach the difficult rewards of being alone and doing nothing. We are really alone.

And I'm not saying that English is about becoming an anti-social person or that it is better than phones and technology and immediate gratification because you can't win that battle and I've probably already lost it myself.

What Louis CK says is that the reward of really experiencing tremendous lonesome sadness is true happiness and joy. I think that's true.

It's a really hard sell though. It's really scary to admit to yourself how alone you can be and it's becoming easier and easier to head off that feeling. But I think it's easy to go the other direction too. To say that everything is hopeless and irreparably awful and stop digging.

 Here's an attempt at a terrible analogy. Just this last December, I rediscovered an all-time favorite game of mine, trying to balance a broom on its end in the palm of your hand. If you've never done it before, it's all the thrill of dancing with all the neck-cramping fun of playing a video game demo in Wal-Mart. Anyway, the fun of it is the constant adjustments you have to make to keep the thing standing up right. You'll never find a spot where you don't have to move to keep the broom balanced. There's no definitive 'answer'. 

from https://normandyloveshumphrey.wordpress.com/2014/03/14/lunch-lunch-lunch-no-tv/

Now, it would be easy to constantly bring up your other hand and steady the broom and it would be even easier to just let the broom fall on the floor and leave it there and proclaim the futility of the exercise all together. The hard thing, the only thing that makes the endeavor worthwhile (to me), is to keep moving and adjusting and focusing and thinking about keeping the broom balanced with one hand or one finger or whatever.

So, what is balancing the broom in that analogy? I think it's true happiness. Or an authentic existence, which isn't always necessarily happy. And, unlike the pointless broom game which doesn't make much, I think art can be a product of that balancing. It can be a reminder or an urging of a difficult process that doesn't accept an easy answer. That

something good comes from the bad, a song is never just sad, there's hope, there's a silver lining.

All English offers to me is a process. A way of constantly creating and recreating a world you truly want to live in. And once you start that process the only thing you can do is keep going and going and going and going.

If you're already completely happy 100% and never lonely for a second, great. You have no need for English or learning. If you're so assured of the futility of existence and the meaninglessness of life then that's also great, you have no need for English or learning. But if you live in a world that has serious problems and you are lonely and unfulfilled for some reason, like me, but you believe that something can be done about it, something that involves your energy and effort and creativity, even if it only brings about a resolution for brief moments, then English and learning can probably help you with that.

Hungry Tabbit

What are your dream characters?

Mine's in the desert. Always has been. There's a raggedy rabbit--skin and bone.

What does he want? 

He--

Why does the worn wooden sign beat against his ribs?

He's hungry, probably. His ceaseless drudging dreading trudge slouches toward the Blob of All Plenty.

The Blob!

Full of terrible joy, rainbow brites, mad daisies, mush balm, hot vinegar wheels, clanky toms, and boom-boom nugrits. You know, dream machines.

Poetry Glowatree

The age-old story of prideful twigs using occult magic to raise their lovers from the dead reimagined as a verse from a Dylan Thomas poem. Don't walk, run to see this delightful family comedy answer all your questions about mortality and stick magic.

Interockstar

When Rivers Cuomo says in the song, 'El Scorcho', "watching Grunge leg drop New Jack through a press table", he's not just talking about professional wrestlers. He's talking about the power of the sound of spoken words. On like a muscular, articulation level. It's a powerful, crunchy, violent line arranged in pairs of gritty words. "watching grunge"- "leg drop"- "New Jack" "press table". No other part of the song even provides context for the literal meaning of this part. So, what? Why do this? To me, it's not just a question of 'catchiness' or something that gets stuck in your head. It's fun because it is actually satisfying to form those syllables in that order. Like saying 'fifty-nine ninety-nine to ninety-nine ninety-nine' quickly or Pete Holmes's 'get some beers, Pierce!" or any poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins or whatever Reggie Watts does. It doesn't just play in your head like something catchy. You get the joy when you make those words with your own mouth. So, you know, that's a great way to pass on information when the speaker gets rewarded for repeating it. Use it for entertainment or mind control. It's a win win.

The little bittles

"I'm scared, daddy!"

"I'm too important to die!"

The Most Likely Explanation

The beat-up burgundy Geo Metro slowed to match pace with the runner. The runner looked down and to the side as the car pulled into view. The winding road cut through a hilly grassy countryside. Rolling down the window, the driver asked, "Excuse me, do you run on this road often?"
"No, not very often."
"You haven't seen a golden retriever around here in the past month have you?"
"No, I have not."
"Well, thanks. Sorry to bother you." The car accelerated.
"No problem."

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As the aged vehicle struggled to climb the steep hill, the driver, a man in his late 50's with a silver bowl cut, a permanent squint, and several missing teeth, reached into his glove compartment. He pulled out a faded black-and-white photograph and gazed into the eyes of the young woman smiling at whoever was behind the camera. His eyes closed tightly as he said, "Don't worry. I haven't forgotten. I'll never forget what he did. And I'll never stop until I find that monster and make him pay."

********************************************************

The grain silo cast a long, ominous shadow across the fields of yellowed grasses in the early January afternoon. Perched atop the silo sat a large, athletic, blonde dog with a wide smiling face. Its eyes like hollow pits gazed with contempt at the champagne-colored valley. The beast's head rose and fell as it barked but neither the top hat, nor monocle, nor over-sized cigar were disturbed. Its angry shouts seemed to say, " Oh Gregory. The game has only just begun." The massive paw mashed down on the glowing red button beside it and the sun was extinguished in a flash.

*********************************************************

From out of the darkness that the runner plunged hopelessly through, nearly sprinting, he heard the distinct sound of villainous dog laughter.

"MWAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA! HUAHUAHUAHUAHUAHOOOOOOOOOO!!"
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But seriously, that guy is really worried about his dog, you guys.

What the People Really Want

Your joy means nothing to me. Leave me to smolder like an angry foot steeped in the rotting decay of a stump. I shine like a split bowling ball in the evening sun stuffed with gizzards and insincere Valentines. The candy has been eaten--bitter as the robot that excreted it so many years ago.

HA!