Sarah Ellison's Lady Di

A well told story is good no matter where you cut it.

(cuts from Vanity Fair's September 2013 cover story)

Tiny Song #1668 - Renaissance Man

How does he do the things he does?

Where does he find the time?

What special powers has he learned?

And which reside in his bones?

Tad Neuhaus, bass

Joanna Dane, vocals

Visions of Sappho: Someone

sounds by Tad and Joanna

words by Sappho

Thoughts on a Sketchbook Left Inside the Porch Door, #2

* anonymous drawing dated 11-26-78

Thoughts on a Sketchbook Left Inside the Porch Door, #1

* anonymous drawing undated

My Favorite Homophone

sounds by

Tad Neuhaus

Joanna Dane

Isn't It About Time I Posted Something To My Blog?

Has anyone noticed that I haven't posted to my blog in over two weeks? Is this a record? How would I feel if it were? Isn't my second blogiversary coming up next week? Should I wait to post until then? Will people think I've given up? Why is it that I can only write questions? Do you think, like Kenneth Goldsmith, that the written word is undergoing a revolution, much the way painting did with the advent of photography, a rethinking that will completely change our idea of what a writer is and does? Have you considered that every image and sound on the internet is, under the sheen, text, and that this text (even when written by machine) and the manipulation of it (even when manipulated by machine) will become the new art of writing? Does this sound disturbing? Or refreshing? Why do we cling to our habits and beliefs, especially when everything is changing? Will the neighbor ever be done mowing? Will I ever write another novel? Why didn't people discourage me? Or did they? Is it possible to write an entire novel with only questions? Should I try to find out? Would anyone ever read it? Or would it become a curiosity piece? Would I get interviewed by Terry Gross? What if I wrote the entire novel with questions that have already been written and posted to the internet? Is that plagiarism? Is it possible to ask a question that hasn't already been asked? Could a person read a novel written only in questions and not want to strangle the author? Why are we so obsessed with lawn mowing? Will my husband be upset if I don't make dinner? Will he be upset if I do? Will he read this blog post? Who could possibly stand to read this far? My parents? Charlie Parr? Why does his music make so many people cry? Could he be some kind of a prophet? Is it true, like I told him, that we will meet again? Why is it the new habit to put just one space at the end of a sentence? What are the kids up to in the kitchen? Should I be concerned? Should I end with a statement? Or would that ruin it?

What I've Learned From Steve Martin

When you're a young magician, best to have a few jokes memorized.

Being on Johnny Carson doesn't mean you've made it.

Being a magician does not preclude you from being a comedian does not preclude you from being an actor does not preclude you from being a writer does not preclude you from being a musician does not preclude you from being a fine art collector.

Being not funny can be very funny.

If everyone thinks what you do is inaccessible, you must be on to something big.

Getting a standing ovation from a sold-out crowd even before you say one word boosts one's confidence.

If you are open to hearing what the local band has to offer, you might just find everything you need.

Two page NewYorker articles garner more attention than two hour movies.

Tweeting can be fun.

Doing musical collaborations with beautiful talented women makes a man feel young.

You know you've made it when they start laughing before you even say hello.

If you do something for 50 years, you get really good at it.

Full Plate

High Dive

At the pool, a man with a giant belly and thick legs and a hard chest jutting beyond his nose, his back thick with rolls, climbs the latter to the high dive on tip toes and walks to the end of the board as casual as if he were walking to the store.

His kingdom of fleshy sun stroked pilgrims splash and dive and holler far below, paying him no attention.  The life guards sit in their tall chairs ambivalent behind their dark glasses.  He bounces, once, twice, the board yielding to his weight, and hearing a gasp as the board snaps straight, he flies through the hushed awe, his body a molecule of wonder as he falls, separating wind from water, the crashing at the gate, he is encased with the punctuation of his grace.

He emerges to hear the final breath of their collective admiration, as he flashes a smile at the life guard who acknowledges him only by wiping his splash from her face.

If You Give a Woman A Beach

As I sit in the shade, I think I should be swimming. While swimming, I think I should be playing in the sand with the kids. While playing in the sand with the kids, I can't help but think I'd rather be sitting in the shade. While sitting in the shade, I think I should really take this opportunity to read a book. But as I'm reading, I'm distracted by the concern that with my nose buried in a book, I'm missing out on the day. So I put the book down and take a deep breath and look out over the beautiful scene. And then I think, really, I should be swimming.  

Visions of Sappho: Who But She

]

]

Then on the night she was gone

]

boarded

]

And who shall know the truth

Whether she was taken

Or given.

Whether she was liberated or forgiven.

]

She shall not be forgotten.

]

Who shall ever know

]

]

]

]

]

truth

]

]

and light

]

] who

] but she

The Blue Painting

I found the blue painting in a box under the stairs

and spent the afternoon wondering what to do with it.  

I could cut it or glue it or write words all over it.

Or I could simply leave it how it is.

Does every piece of paper have a destiny,

the way Michelangelo believed of marble?

Can there be a right or a wrong when it comes to such things?

Aren't there songs that are better sung out of tune?

Merry Pranksters

Why do the children no longer listen to me?  

Have I done something wrong,

or have I done something right?

Another Lesson in Storytelling

At the university, sophomore year, I signed up for a 300 level labor relations class.  I wanted to be interested in that type of thing. The professor was a tough old man who, the slowest of us slowly realized, was a famous expert in his field. The reading list was long and extensive and included the professor's seminal book. He didn't assign specific readings, wanting us to read out of curiosity and thirst for knowledge rather than obligation. Unfortunately, I was curious about other things and thirsty for experiences not found in those books.

We were required to write a 30 page paper and make a presentation. Two days before I was scheduled to give mine, I was playing ultimate and got a hard flung frisbee smack across the bridge of the nose. So when I stood in front of the class, I explained that I didn't want everyone wondering how I got a broken nose and two black eyes instead of listening to my presentation. So I told what had happened. Professor Hill sat with an attentiveness he had never given me. But after I explained, his shoulders drooped and his scowl returned. "I was hoping for something a little juicier than that," he mumbled.

And then we all struggled to pay attention to my feeble presentation.

Herbert Hill 1924-2004

Homage to Bret McKenzie

Sign Here

I got a bite from a publisher

Who refused to grant me copyright
(among other necessities)

So I declined to sign.

I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt
To believe that their intentions were wholesome
Two young women poets
Heading a literary non-profit.

But then it occurred to me
Even though this is who they appear to be
Maybe they are not
Why do they tell me things that are not true?

Are they ignorant?
Or are their intentions more sinister?
I'd like to think it's the latter
If someone wants to screw me over
Then maybe the work is good enough to land a proper publisher.



Thank you Uncle Norm for all your expertise and insight.

Here Sign

I hang the clothes thinking about my first garden. The rabbits are eating everything. Except the pumpkins, Roseanna reminds me. She planted them, and they are doing fine. I try not to lose heart. Instead I dream up an episode showing us making a meal out of rabbit. I'm afraid I don't have the chutzpah to pull it off. Andrew just laughs at the prospect. But the neighbor is immediately on board. He gets a trap from his garage. I film him bating it with an apple and setting it in our yard.

Then, we go to a friend's house for dinner. The friend asks how episode 8 is coming along. I tell him I just started filming, that I'm primed to get it done this week, confident we have a good start. I excuse myself to use the bathroom. While pulling up my pants, my camera lands in the toilet. Have I stepped into a Charlie Kaufman movie? I reach in. My instinct says, "Rinse," so I do. My instinct says, "Try turning it on," so I do.  I rejoin my friends and sit in silence waiting for the courage to tell what happened. The first thing Jim says, "Whatever you do, don't try turning it on." Already done. A dozen times. Jim says, put it in a bag of rice anyway. That was Saturday night. Still no sign of life.

Maybe it's a portent, that I need to upgrade my equipment.

Though I know there are some who would prefer I see it as a sign to forget the videos altogether and return to something more reasonable.

This morning, the apple is gone from the still set trap. What more sign do we need than that?

Photo taken with the neighbor's phone.

Discovering Shockrasonica

There is a woman I know nothing about except that she lives in a house on East Mifflin Street, 

and that might not even be true.  

But it is there where I shook her hand and saw something of myself, 

had I made different choices, had I been less full of wanderlust and more full of resolve.  

She asked how I found out about the show.

She was genuinely surprised to hear that I read about it in the Isthmus. 

I never was too good at playing it cool,

 and I went around the house telling everyone how thrilled I was to discover that we are not alone, 

that Tad just might be right about the 2020's being the age of Improv. 

Here was a house full of people experimenting with sound

and listening.

Here were musicians touring the country,

the world,

with their noises and ideas.  

How many other discreet venues exist?  Is there one in my neighborhood?  

*Joel Shanahan @ Shockrasonica 6/14/13

This is how it feels to find a key to a house that resides in a dream.  

This is how it feels to realize that there is a rumbling underfoot,

A movement in the making.

This is how it feels to finally stumble upon something

I've been looking for

that I had no idea was real.

Two Women

One woman had a mother who didn't seem to care what her daughter did or didn't do. The daughter grew up determined to prove that she could be successful anyway. She pushed herself and worked very hard and had a good salary to prove it. But still she was always unsatisfied with her achievements. If only her mother had pushed her to do great things, then she would have become someone truly important, like a doctor or a senator. So when she had her own daughter, she decided it was imperative to push her to achieve great things, things she could have achieved if only she had been pushed to achieve them.

Another woman had a mother who was determined that her daughter be wealthy and highly successful. The daughter grew up resentful of her mother's unyielding pressure.  She quit school and joined a commune and found a form of happiness that her mother never understood.  Regardless, she always felt an underlying sadness caused by the disappointment she detected every time she talked to her mother.  So when she had her own daughter, she decided it was imperative to allow her the freedom to be whoever it was she wanted to be.

Both women wanted to have a better relationship with their own daughters than they had with their mothers.  Neither woman did.

My First Garden, Episode 6: "Hokey Dokey"

My First Garden, Episode 5: "Just Some Cockamamie Idea"

'

My First Garden, Episode 4: "Willy Nilly"

My First Garden, Episode 3 - "A Diagnosis"

Is This What It's All About?

Words don't come as easily as they once did.  And when they do, they arrive fragmented, not because over time they have deteriorated, like those ancient papyrus papers that hold the fragile remains of Sappho's poetries, but because they are born that way, fragments of thought, bites of ideas, slivers of images, all fragile in their newborn way.  Maybe I can teach myself to write again, to rediscover the patience required to sit and sit and sit, to not jump at the slightest distraction, to not become discouraged by silence, to retrain myself to rearrange the fragments, to accept what comes as it does, to learn how to sew again.

Where is the need born, to stitch the random events of our lives into stories?  Why are certain story arcs satisfying, while others make us frustrated? Why is it cruel to end a story before its proper conclusion? Why is it so unacceptable to end without some glimmer of hope or change in a character's disposition?

These are things I've been thinking about, the things that keep me from making a single clear and uninterrupted statement.  Words don't come as easily as they once did.  How easy it is to believe that with practice we become more competent at what we do, how hard it is to accept that this is not always true.

Have I forgotten what it is to play?  Why do we do the things we do?  Does it all come back, as I've heard it said in a film I once saw on public television, does everything we do revolve around reproduction, of patterns, of cycles, of DNA, of ourselves?  Do our stories mirror our desires, the simple desire to love and be loved, to open ourselves up like flowers to the sun?  Does the story arc exist in this form because it mimics sexual encounters?  After all, I've heard it reported once long ago on public radio that when we listen to stories told, our brains release the same chemicals that are released during acts of love which we learned at some point, whether from a book kept under the bed, or a conversation overheard, or a film strip in a shuttered grade school classroom, we learned at some embarrassing point that all of this grows out of an aching need, out of a primal desire, an unalterable indefatigable microscopic drive towards reproduction.

These are the things I've been thinking about, the things that keep me from making a single clear and uninterrupted statement.  Please excuse me.  I've wandered far from where I thought I was going.

My First Garden, Episode 2

Note:

If you are one of the lucky few who receive blog post announcements via email, it has been pointed out to me that videos appear as black boxes.  If you would like to view the video hidden in the black box you must visit the blog site.  I realize this is not always easy.  I appreciate your patronage.

Bigsley and Bernadette: Welcome Home

Believe me, Bernie, it's not what it seems.

I just sat down to relax five minutes ago.

My First Garden: A Study in Perseverance

Miss Toklas Always Does That

According to Janet Malcolm in her book Two Lives, "It is generally agreed that without Alice Toklas, Stein might not have had the will to go on writing what for many years almost no one had any interest in reading." And apparently with Alice, Gertrude was like a child, completely incapable of taking care of her most basic needs.

The walls of their Paris apartment were covered with art work by Picasso, Matisse, Cezanne, Renoir. They threw many parties attended by Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Joyce, Pound, Wilder, as well as Matisse and Picasso. Gertrude presided over the parties, while Alice presided over Gertrude.

When Gertrude Stein got tired of not getting any recognition, she set out to write a best seller. Gertrude  wrote a novel posing as Alice writing her autobiography. In it, Alice is always going on and on about what a genius Gertrude Stein is.

Gertrude wrote (according to Mabel Dodge in Intimate Memories) "automatically in a long weak handwriting - four or five lines to the page - letting it ooze up from deep down inside her, down onto the paper with the least possible physical effort; she would cover a few pages so and leave them there and go to bed, and in the morning Alice would gather them up."

Alice

Tad Neuhaus, bass

Joanna Dane, vocals

Gertrude Stein, words

Thoughts About Music #38,574X