Three things I think about often which I want to know more about later.
Moths – I like moths because they smash their faces into light bulbs. Pretty basic metaphors, oh yes, I am a fan of those. The Pandora moth will willingly walk into a flame. Sometime I wish I had more of these powers. To will myself into danger. When I travel I collect stories of people making mistakes. One half of me hears the story and thinks, Oh goodness, I’m certainly glad to have insurance and a place of my own at home, while the other half hates that I cannot stay awake for thirty hours, endure hangovers heroically, and not have shaky hands when I get angry. Somehow, reading about the strange habits of insects and animals in science-made-fun type books relaxes me into appreciating my safe and flameless lifestyle.
Frederico Garcia Lorca – Lorca I might only like because he was in the Clash song, “Spanish Bombs,” and the Clash I might only like because their s/t album was the first non-MTV group I listened to, although the album I’m thinking about now is actually London Calling. The song “Spanish Bombs” is track 6 on London Calling.
It is a love-lost song from the POV of a casino owner who hears a bomb going off outside his window, and he cannot decide whether maybe it’s contemporary violence or maybe he is actually caught in the Spanish Civil War. Anyhow, “Frederico Lorca’s dead and gone” is a lyric, and from there I bought Lorca’s Selected Verse and in 8 years of owning it understood none of it until maybe a year ago. To the point, I love the sound of his name, Lorca, his illustrations are spooky and easy to reproduce, and he writes lines like “woodcutter / cut down my shadow.”
Windows/Romance – These are two bigger topics I’m trying to decide how I care about. I’ve drawn hundreds of windows in my notebooks. The painting of Goethe looking out a Roman window raises my spirits when I see it. Looking out windows in hotels and homes that are not my own, particularly during snow or rain is very satisfying. There is a Hallmark card inside of me that makes me drawn to deep sentimental shit like windows and atmosphere in art as established by weather. Bob Dylan is like that, too, in his autobiography and his songs. There’s a passage in his Chronicles #1 where he has to dredge his legs through a flooded plain to get to Woody Guthrie’s house to ask the family for access to some unreleased songs. I think when he reaches their front porch covered in mud he meets the daughter or son or mother, and upon asking, Can I see those songs? He told me I could see them, they just say, Nope. Close the door. How dies any of this matter? Only in the way the following things loosely connect.
1. I enjoy the fall, or movies in which the fall is featured prominently.
2. Neruda’s poems, provided they are not just about sex.
3. How fun travel is as a thing to plan and plot. But upon getting to the destination, how you must realize that you are just as likely to get a headache, feel intensely lonely for an hour or so, or have swass when trying to enjoy some magnificent building. And have fun as well.
4. The Ramones and how they are absolutely a pop group, but one with songs about being afraid of the dark and loving household drugs.