I debated about bringing my organ shoes and a few scores along on vacation. In the end, I decided not to. My therapist. Dr. Birky, has been encouraging me to think about the benefits of some extended time without daily practice. He cited the examples of turning a horse out to pasture after intense training or a professional athlete deliberately seeking out a period of rest. So what the heck.
I only brought my guitar along for vacation. Eileen and I are holed up in a motel in Whitmore Lake. Eileen chose this place because it’s close to the weaving shop she likes, Forma, and it’s much cheaper than the Ann Arbor motel we have stayed in before.
We ate at the restaurant across the way from our motel last night. The martinis weren’t all that great. The food was okay. The important thing is that we are getting some time to relax.
I noticed that in my collection of real books (as opposed to ebooks) that I brought along, I have no novels.
This is a bit odd. I am still reading Alan Moore’s Jerusalem but I opted for the ebook on vacation. I do like having a book in my hands better than on screen but you can’t beat the convenience of ebooks.
I finished Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders recently. That was one of the novels I am currently reading. I brought along the ebook because I keep thinking about the book. Saunders has a bitter little piece in the latest New Yorker: Little St. Don | The New Yorker
I am very tired reading Trump pieces where the main content is a rehashing of Trumpian propaganda. But Saunders is worth reading if only for smiles at his clunky fake scripture about St. Don.
I finished this fine book of poetry in time to turn in the library’s copy before leaving town yesterday. Parker rocks in my opinion. Here’s some examples:The President Has Never Said the Word Black
to wonder if he is broken.It is not so difficult to open
teeth and brass taxes.
The president is all like
five on the bleep hand side.
The president be like
we lost a young boy today.
The pursuit of happiness
is guaranteed for all fellow Americans.
He is nobody special like us.
He says brothers and sisters.
What kind of bodies are moveable
and feasts. What color are visions.
When he opens his mouth
a chameleon is inside, starving.
Another Another Autumn in New York
out of a martini glass
I feel untouched by
professional and sexual
rejection. I am a dreamer
with empty hands and
I like the chill.
I will not be attending the party
tonight, because I am
microwaving multiple Lean Cuisines
and watching Wife Swap,
which is designed to get back
at fathers, as westernized media
is often wont to do.
I don’t know
when I got so punk rock
but when I catch
myself in the mirror I
feel stronger. So when
at five in the afternoon
something on my TV says
time is not on your side
I don’t give any
shits at all. Instead I smoke
a joint like I’m
a teenager and eat a whole
box of cupcakes.
Stepping on leaves I get
first-night thrill.
Confuse the meanings
of castle and slum, exotic
and erotic. I bless
the dark, tuck
myself into a canyon
of steel. I breathe
dried honeysuckle
and hope. I live somewhere
imaginary.