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.
