please. don't hurt yourself on my rapier-like wit.

what have I been up to?
well, I'm glad you asked.
I have been:

1a. listening to opera CD's chosen randomly/based on the cover from the CapHill library's fine selection.
1b. not liking the opera I'm listening to.
1c. being wowed by some opera singers' incredible talent of singing notes higher than the piano.
1d. still not liking opera on a whole.
1e. being ok with not liking the opera/considering reclassifying the library's selection from 'fine' to 'totally not my cup of tea.'

2a. committing to memory the following: ABCDEFG. this seemingly basic activity is requiring my attention 5 days a week from 8am to 850am, and still it is hard.
2b. but it is good.
2c. and inspiring me to:

3a. really get crackin on my music career starting with bringing into reality the newest of new ideas for a conceptual band. ready? it's gonna be called HUMAN CLAW. it would require me to move to easternish washingtion and learn to love/play/shred death metal. and find a small handful of other folks to join me. preferably those of british cockney descent because nothing is funnier than a play on words that gets cancelled out aurally, and thereby doubled in hilarity, all due to a thick accent that is inherently funny due to its borderline incomprehensibility to begin with.
3b. or I'll just sell my idea on ebay.

***

in other news. . . my neighbor, Basketball, is slowly destroying/devouring the pair of orange swimming goggles that I put in the hallway's unofficial designated freebox area, starting with the black head strap. apparently, there can be only one black and orange creeper in the hallway, feline or otherwise.

welcome back!

good gravy it's been a while!

much has occurred since early august. for instance: I have new digs. I am renting out a weathered beach house on the hill owned by Peter Peter Jennings, brother of BABYSEAL. things I am acclimating to: direct sunlight (well, weather permitting), a kitchen with cabinets, floors I wear shoes on, a bed I do not have to climb a steep ladder to get in, and neighbors who love 430am LadyTron. all in all, a pretty sweet deal. even the LadyTron was tolerable/cancelled out by two things: the turning on of my small fan and this dream I had:

I was in a store. department store I think, not a food store. and I was in my underwear. light grey (not heather grey, like dirty tshirt grey. 'cept without the dirty part) boys boxer briefs. and some kind of tshirt. I was with two who were possibly friends: Dude and his GF. I was standing there, not looking at anything 'cept maybe down at my underwear. Dude was at a clothing rack looking at clothes and he looks over at me and says 'Hey, I like your box.' I was slightly embarrassed, not because he was referencing my underpants but because of his unintended double entendre. GF and I were on the same page cuz she looked at me kind of embarrassed, then at Dude, then back at me and said, ''Box' is what men call Boxers,' to try and cover for him. so I looked Dude standing there, oblivious at first but slowly catching on, and said to his face something to the effect of, 'That's cool. 'Box' is what women call their vaginas.'
then I woke up to the bass beats of LadyTron with moon light streaming in my window.

huzzah! stay tuned for more updates/stories/announcements/whatever you call something that is like an opinion but differs in that I am right regardless.

much love.

More on Camping

Not to be confused with Moron Camping. Something I do not partake in, thank you very much. But since we are on the topic of to be improved upon ways of doing things, I shall indeed take this moment and the next, muchisimas gracias, to expound upon several items of notable interest.

First off, twice it has been called to my attention that my newly acquisitioned tent resembles something of a coffin. I have no photos of it to upload at the moment so you will just have to take my biased word that it does in fact not look anything like a coffin. It is Tan and Red. Coffins are Black. Case closed. And if any celebrity look-a-like comparison is to be drawn, it shall be my me here now: my coffin- ack! now you have me saying it. ahem, my TENT resembles a Star Wars X-Wing fighter:

. . . Minus the X-Wings, of course. And the obscenely large hand.

And it should be noted that it took me a good 3 minutes of internetting to find that image and learn that it indeed belongs to the realm of Star Wars.

3 minutes is like forever in space.

More if you have gigantic fingernails to buff, paint, polish.

Back to my story.

So, while my inaugural camping outing was sufficient in the crazy weather category for my little star fighter away from home to prove its worth in the midst of a deluge the likes I have never seen before in my life, my second outing served to illuminate the fact that nylon and mesh fail big in the sound proofing department. Not that I had high hopes for a quiet night situated how I was. Cuz really, camping within 50 feet of a giant-hand sized bonfire + about 150 inebriated peoples cavorting/zombie staring/hippie dancing all around it was more of user error than anything else.

What else.

One last note. Mosquitos. God made dirt and dirt don'- OW! m&therf#cker! is what I have to say about that. My tent was superb at keeping the little f%kers out. (or in, as the case was one unfortunate night. it's like we, mosquito and I, snuggled up and fell asleep at the same time, slept through the night peacefully, only to die/wake up at the crack of dawn with me slapping myself in the face to kill it as it kissed me good morning sunshine.) Hippie Bug Spray, on the other hand, far, far away from the first hand, did not exactly get an A in that subject. Hippie Bug Spray is like more of a suggestion of repelling than actual protection. A passive aggressive one at that. 'Hey, uh, I know you survive on stabbing me with your proboscis and all, and - OW! oh, sorry, didn't mean to startle you, I know you have family to feed and you're really - OWIE! F&CK, sorry. you're a really nice bug, insect, whatever, but maybs you could not do - OW! MOTHEROFGOD, uh, that. if you could not do that, for the rest of our hang out, that'd be really swell.' I mean, a nice non chemical smell and environmental concern goes a long way, but not as long as itchy bumps all over my extremities it turns out.

This coming weekend will be yet another chance to escape to non city space in my tiny space fighter. Being the type of person who hops in on adventures when other people have already made the plans, I cannot tell you exactly where I am going or what the conditions shall be. But rest assured, I will be warm, dry and at the very least, engaged in some kind of mediated conversation with native bug life.

***

On a side note, it should be known that my soon to be ex-neighbor (what is this? mor'on that later. . .) is playing Christmas/New Years songs. It is mid August. I'm not saying, I'm just saying.

Other fact of note, today, August 16th, is the anniversary of the death of Mr. Elvis Presley.

Which is also the anniversary (#2) of the near death of Mr. ilvs strauss. And while singing harmonies with the king of kings and the king of all other things sounds really dreamy, this prince is pretty happy to be here to see another year. So a Happy New Year it is.

I'm gonna start a blog about sleeping bags.

Why? Because apparently I have a lot to say about them.

Exhibit A - the last blog.

Exhibit B - this blog: I was at Aryeye last night shopping for a tent for my trip that I leave for in a few hours (did I buy a $300+ tent? No. Did I come away with a greater knowledge of tents/appreciation for friends who have lent me tents in the past? Yes.) and whilst admiring the different color schemes on the tent field guide poster, I overheard some customers exchanging some words about sleeping bags with a cashier mid transaction. I, without taking my eyes off the tent diagrams, perked up my ears and took a step closer lest I miss a single word. The conversation went something like this:

cashier: . . .men's sleeping bags zip on (one side), women's on the (other).

young man: why is that?

cashier: so you can zip them together.

woman presumably mother of young man: oh I didn't know that.

young man: you thinking of getting some action on the mountain?

ok maybe it's not his mom: (no words, just a bevy of looks directed back at the young man, at the cashier)

I ceased listening after that. I was in shock! Gendered sleeping bags?! Yes, I understand that people have different body types and a gross generalization can be made for those of female biology vs those of male biology, but to limit the union of two sleep bags to those of opposing body types - this is a barefaced outrage! What if I want to be warm in the woods with my Lady Friend? Is this faceless Aryeye to be our remote chaperone/cockblock? And what if two dudes who share a love of nature but not each other's bits, hike up in the mountain together, sharing snacks, stories, platonic shoulder massages, only to find themselves underprepared for unexpected cold weather and need each other to stay warm through the night, to survive? Are we to let them die, together in the tent yet so far apart in their individually zipped up sleeping bags?

I.

think.

not.

So. This to you I propose: gay - I mean Unisex- sleeping bags. One shape. Zipper down both sides so you can keep your side of the futon. Comes in pink with a black dot or black with a pink dot. Galaxy print interior either way*. Can also be zipped head to toe, head to toe, (ahem, not for what you are probably thinking) so that the dots on the bags make a kind of perfect yin/yang symbol when in union. Each one comes with a glow stick, some sage, chapstick. Oh and they're super light and can pack down into a small pouch that doubles as a fanny pack.

People, it's time we all get on the same page: the revolution will be egalitarian, stylish and toasty, toasty warm.

*warm gays in Space!

july 12, 2011

on this day

some people were born,

other people died,

important pieces of paper were signed.

somethings were lost,

other things were found,

it was probably hot.

I sleep in socks.

nearly a month has gone by and my blog has suffered inversely to how much i have been sleeping in sleeping bags. were it truth that too my suffering were inversely proportional to this alterna-bedding i have been subjected to. alas, it is not so.

my sleeping bag. i purchased it approx 7 summers ago for purposes of surviving 3 weeks turned into 3 months of lovely living in the woods of northern california. just prior to my shopping expedition, i watched the movie 'alive' with some buddies. for those not in the know, 'alive' is a dramatization of a true and dangerous and super unintentional expedition taken by a team of, uh. . .soccer players from. . . somewhere not in north america when their plane crashed into some south of the equator snowy mountains. or, to be more suscinct/contain more than just an inkling of fact: In October 1972 a plane carrying a Rugby team of 45 from Uraguay to Chile crashes in the Andes.

basically i walked into the camping gear store and bee lined to the negative below zero bags. my survival in the woods would not be a question. as it turns out, zero degree doesn't really factor in in northern california summers, the nice sales person assured me. so instead i went with light and compact, a stylish number with a higher up in the double digits range of comfort. perfect, i thought. and it was. for the first 2.5 months. and then it wasn't. summer was slowly whittled away by the approaching darkness of fall/winter and took with it my sleeping bag's ability to produce any iota of warmth. i survived with an extra blanket, a wool jacket, long johns, and a few nips of the old whisky. i made it through the last bit of my stay, packed up my bag and thought of it not really in the months/years that followed.

fast forward to two weeks ago. me and buddy marisa and her gluten free girlfriend wound our sweet way to the washington coast ala shi shi beach. it. was. awesom.e. except for one small detail: the hours between 10:30pm and 7:00am*. i, not having a gf gf, nor anyone else with which to intimately share my dehydrated beans with, bunked solo in a two person borrowed tent on a too short thermarest and aforementioned summer fun sleeping bag. but let us closely examine the nomenclature here.

'summer'- ok, yes, it was one day past solstice.

'fun'- yes nad (ack! why can't it just auto correct that!?) - AND no, yes AND no. while carrying a few pound bag in a bag full of other things that did not weigh a mere few pounds was grand, cursing the ocean windy weather whilst maintaining a lonely full body fetal crunch position for approx 8+ hours was not. the root of this problem? the seemingly arbitrary 'range of comfort' designation. it's printed on the case of the bag as follows:

48degree – comfort

41degree – tolerable

30degree – extreme

ya right! a friend later explained that the general degree ranking is the lower limit of how cold it can be outside before you experience hypothermia. based purely on empirical evidence, i am wont to side with her wholeheartedly. i wont, too, to purchase a new warm sleeping bag. one that is not akin to sleeping in a glorified wind sock.

but what is this?! all this blathering on a singular minor albeit really uncomfortable stretch of time in what was a perfectly amazing camping trip experience! what has gotten into me? well, first let me attempt to account for this negative nelly business by claiming it a fair warning to those about to leave their urban affairs warmed with nothing more than a little cheapy nylon body bag. peoples, the extra pound or 3 is totally worth the full night of sleep. also, to my credit, the ocean beach herself is beyond explanation. i mean, what words have i for this?

or this.

or this?

i rest my case.

*this only on the first night. the second night, i wised up and wore all the clothes i brought with me to bed. i wasn't exactly warm, but, blessed be the sea, i did not freeze. also, the chilly first bites of both nights were filed down slightly by me taking the advice of an unnamed (read: can't remember who told me this) person who, with the wisdom of a thousand wise persons, to take some rocks that had been heating by the fire into the sleeping bag with me. i felt like kinda like a lizard sunning a rock for heat. except it was dark, we were not in the desert and the rock was the size of my heart, warming my ribs from the outside.

deedley deedley don't

Whilst cleaning my glorious 160 square foot apartment just this morning, I unearthed a smallish, unlined notebook, slightly moisture warped and tinted with dirt. My notebook from the first folklife I worked 5 years ago! What luck, what a staggering find! I immediately stopped my dusting and neatening and thumbed thru it. Standing there in my flip flops and cleaning shorts, I tucked the dust rag into my back pocket and prepared for a short and satisfying jaunt thru ye olde memory street. Mostly what I found were pretty generic notes on canopy misplacements, missing fence fabric, and where and when to meet a particular vendor. Interesting! Almost as interesting was to notice the steady decline in legibility of my particular scrawl. As days and hours progressed, my notes to self become increasingly fragmented, dare I go so far as to say belligerent. Toward the end, where it looks as if I or someone within my close vicinity had actually mistaken the bound paper to be edible, there is a brief, barely legible timeline of my last days working. Since there is no way to summarize the events in an accurate manner, I will include them here for you in their full entirety. Dear readers, beware, the account which you are about to be privy to is as riveting as it is harrowing. They can only but hint at the deplorable shape to which I was reduced to by prolonged exposure to folk music and very very little sleep. Read on, if you dare.

daY 9

8am why am i hear?

11am why ar all these people her?

201pm i am

415pm still

556pm here

740pm why

909pm?

dy10

11:09am i listned to a banjo busker, and it made me cry. i love that bajno.

11:10am i hate that banjo plyer! i wanna hav sex wit banjo player!

11:14am and then smashed banjo against brick wall. hungry now.

11:18am just ate banjo player. . flossing teeth with banjo strings. . . need nap . .

5:16pm where am i? i stomcah hurt . .

7:21pm sp kdkfl ma ma skm diuiiiiiidiiiiiiidiiiiigiiiiireeeeeeddontttt!

Mercy! My brain must have somehow blocked those memories soon after, thereby allowing myself to subject myself to those same conditions every year since! I count myself lucky to be alive! . . that or I have somehow, over the years, reset my dials to accept the above as 'normal.' Or at the very least, 'just another festival.' See you at Bumbershoot?

siempre

am i white

i look white

i feel white

not always

my neighbor gave me athlete's foot. and other pedestrian bones of contention. . .

practically a month passes by and this is what i have to report? well. . . yes.

i am different now than i was in the past. how can i tell you ask? consider the following: i use to work events on the production crew which consisted of around 2+ straight weeks of work, ridiculously long hours, and lifting heavy awkward things. i survived with enough energy/drive/crazy to do it again. and again. and again. this year, howevers, i only worked 5 days of ze festival of folk music and i am just now, 3 days later, kinda coming to my rested, hurdy gurdy free senses. has my tolerance for bluegrass/folk/deedley dee music taken a sharp dive over the years? maybe. my appreciation for sleep and home time has most definitely steadily increased over those same number of years. file under 'positive life change.'

and while we are at it, file please the following grievance under 'tell me this is a temporary (read: curable) life change.' ok, so i don't know for sure if my amateur diagnostic is dead on or not, but i swear the skin on my toes were not peeling before i moved into this place. i share a bathroom with 4 other residents and god help me i swear i am the only one not raised in a barn, or whatever structure of origin where it is not just accepted but extolled to get the bath mat completely soaked after showering. the bath mat has come, slowly over the course of the past year of my residence here, to take on the appearance of a square, blue, low nap petri dish. this is, needless to say, gross. and what am i to do about this biological aberration? well, throwing it in the wash comes to mind first and foremost. but that would require wrestling my righteous sense of indignation to the grown and coughing up the monies for the $1.50 wash + $1.25 dry. a mighty match indeed. until the outcome of that battle is announced, i shall spend my time soaking my feet in a home made* concoction of approx 4 - 5 pH whilst sharpening my dagger eyes for the next time i espy those who share my general address.

on a side note, in an earlier email to friend, i fully typed the word 'dude' into the 'to' box. my friend's name did not come up. does my gmail not understand me when i speak in slangy reference to my buddy? me thinks gmail is due for another upgrade. . .

until then, best to you all.

*oh yeah, 'homemade,' according to the internet, equals either A) apple cider vinegar or B) urine. presumably human.

The Christian Cure for the Common Cold

I am under the weather. How far? Definitely more than 3 inches, nowhere near 6 feet.

Earlier, after bailing on all my evening duties, I sat at home trying to figure out ways to A) make myself warm and B) get the germs out of my system. I have been following the prescribed 'drink more fluids than you thought humanly possible' route with very little instant gratification other than that which is experienced after peeing out aforementioned obscene quantity of fluids. Another regenerative axiom floated into my brain: sweat it out. Do not picture me in a low cut tank top and striped shiny shorts ala Richard Simmons. Nor create any mental images of me wearing a candy bright leotard with matching head band a la Jauanita de la Fonda. I am swaddled in regular attire (read: what I would normally where to go out in the dead of winter. save for sheep fur lined boots). But, seeing as I was having difficulty getting my body temperature to, what's normal these days? 37degrees celsius? with layers of an entire flocks worth of wool, plus a freshly filled water bottle (those red rubber things that old people/actors on cold medicine commercials have) (a friend gave me one years ago as a gift and it truly is the best thing ever) (on cold nights), I needed to seek out new strategies.

My nose and urinary tract were already in overdrive, what other floodgates do I have left? (No, I'm not sorry I asked. I am specifically referring to the dismissal of clear liquids of the platonic variety. Besides, it was kinda retorical of a question.) Then it came to me: my eyes. Well, tear ducts to be specific. I know! I thought to myself, I will cry this cold out of my system! Ok, now then, question: how to make myself cry without stressing myself out. Answer: sad movie. Think, ilvs, think, what movie made you weep effortlessly, uncontrollably? Dancer in the Dark. Oh, wait, that movie also made me extremely depressed. That and I don't have 2+ hours, I wanna cry now! and feel good about it! Then it came to me. . .

That freaking Christian lion you tube video.

For those of you who missed it (and for everyone else, you should probably watch it again), please take this moment to visit:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=md2CW4qp9e8

Well, tell me I don't need to convince you the wonders it worked. I freaking bawled the head cold right out of my face for however many minutes makes up around 5 maybe more viewings of that video. I feel a hundred times better. Way better than a stupid netty pot. Not as time intensive or messy or expensive (provided you have free internet access) or embarrassing (provided the free internet is not accessed at your local branch of the Seattle Public Library).

And now that I have stumbled upon this miracle cure, I shall recommend it to all who feel slightly unwell or in low spirits. And I hope life treats you kind, and I hope you have all you dreamed of. And I wish to you joy and happiness, but above all this, I wish you love.

And excellent health.

Happy Belated Birthday/Belated Easter (Beaster?. . . ) !

to you! to me! to my sister! to my three newly hatched neighbors!

I love easter! There are bunnies and chocolate and new things and it's close to my birthday! This year my birthday was in fact on Good Friday. And I kinda love Good Friday. Because it reminds me of me. Allow me to explain.

My sister and I, along with having the same birthday, have the same initials: I.V.S. Her middle name is Vanessa, mine is Veronica. One day we decided to ask our parents who we were named after. Neither were family names, at least not that we recognized. So who were these significant people? Mom turns to my sister first: Well, you're named Vanessa after Vanessa Redgrave. Ah, the illustrious, distinguished, English actress! Wow, that's cool! Especially in light of the fact that my sister's passion in life is acting! Pretty amazing how that worked out. So then I started thinking, wow, I wonder what my name means for my future? Then my Mom turns to me and says, Well, ilvs, we named you Veronica after St. Veronica. Of the Stations of the Cross.

Now, for those of you not raised Catholic, or remotely familiar with this little bit of liturgical lore, the Stations of the Cross is like an illustrated time line of the final day or so of Mr. Jesus Christ. Starting with his condemnation, thru the whole schlepping of the cross bit, and ending with is inevitable crucifixion. Along the way from point A to point B, he falls 3 times. Somewhere between fall number one and fall number two, he meets a kindly, pious woman, who takes pity on his plight and offers him her veil to wipe his face. He does so, returns the veil (pretty sure he said thanks), and on it, left an imprint of his face. That woman is St. Veronica.

Wow, Mom, that's a hell of a story. So, wait, I'm destined to . . what, swab the face of my guru?? Hmmmm. . . So then I turn to my Dad whose standing there, for some kind of something and he just kinda shrugs and points back at my Mom. Thanks, Dad, Mom. Thanks. Really looking forward to that.

***

I told this story to my bff the other day, and after a slight pause she commented, Well, you do clean a yoga studio. Oh. My. God. She's right! I have spent countless hours of my life wiping off yoga mats. Destiny oddly fulfilled! Now how long before I either invent new pants (strauss, levi) or compose a symphonic masterpiece (strauss, richard/johann)? Time will tell, time will tell.

. . . but I ain't got wings. . .

Ok, so I haven't left my house yet, nor crossed off any of the items on my to do list. But I have been watching the craziest thing outside my window.

I just posted about the squirrel that was pushed off the roof of my neighbor's house (ok, so it's two and a half-ish stories, not three). I thought it was a squirrel fight, but oh was I mistaken. I'm watching a mom squirrel teach it's kid to take a fall. Those other squirrels where just showing that it is possible.

Momma squirrel is as we speak, dragging baby squirrel up the tree (holding the not so little one by the leg in her mouth) for round two of 'jump off the roof before I push you off.' Yikes, Mom! I mean, I guess if you're gonna learn to take a fall, you gotta fall, but holy crap that's a jump. I suppose that is a lesson learned in 2 maybe 3 tries. Meanwhile, other baby squirrel, presumed sibling of disinclined descender, has been perched on my neighbor's first-ish floor window sill for the past hour or more, scared motionless. You got way far less to jump my little friend, but, man, I feel ya.

So, lesson for today: learning basic life lessons, like falling and trusting you're gonna be ok, sounds a lot like all hell is breaking loose. And in the end, falling from a roof top and walking away a little stunned is way better than starving on a window sill, wide eyed and petrified. Now if I could just get my neighbor to play Tom Petty's 'Learning to Fly. . . '

animal freakin' planet

I just watched a squirrel fall from the roof of my neighbor's three story house.

There was a whole lot of chirpy commotion outside my window, the tree limbs waving about frantically, my tiny wind chime clamouring for my attention. I jumped to my feet in protective mode: a robin has made her nest right under my window, on the ledge created by the water pipe that runs along the outside the house like an afterthought before feeding into my kitchen. She's tucked in behind the pigeon spikes, which may deter the squirrels, but leaves her totally exposed otherwise, the tree still bare this early in spring.

I noticed her hanging around a few weeks ago but it wasn't until I looked up after parking my bike to the tree one day that I noticed her yellow beak and tail feathers amongst a circle of twigs. Peaking over the sill from inside, she flew away at the sight of my gigantic head, a perturbed magician, revealing three perfect little blue eggs. Babies! My neighbor is having babies! This is awesome! If I had a camera I would set up some kind of webcam, or at least get a still shot of it. Somehow, holding my entire laptop over the next to utilize the 'photo booth' program does not a good idea seem. So for now, use your fertile imagination.

But the squirrels! what the eff? There were two that fell off the roof (pushed?) by one parent squirrel who remained on the roof with a younger squirrel. I saw the first land but turned my eyes when the second one caught air. Both were fine, landed on their feet/bellies with the daintiest of thuds. I suppose they aren't that heavy to begin with*, and nature has probably built in some kind of safety feature in the way of high impact shock absorption, seeing as they live in trees and fall out of them sometimes. But then the two on the roof were joined by a crow who was bullying the youngin'. At which point the robin came back and pushed on the crow in a premature maternal 'don't eff with that baby and don't eff with mine once they are born' kinda way. Basically, all city wildlife hell broke loose on the roof top for about 45 seconds. I'm really hoping they got it all out of their system cuz I'm totally looking forward to baby birds waking me up in the a.m. I just hope they like funk music, cuz my neighbor is gonna give them an earful.

*ok, so adult squirrels are actually pretty heavy, deceptively so. how do I know this? I've picked one up. by the tail. to move out out of the middle of road, for starters. until the time comes that I learn that they increase in density post mortem, I shall remain duly impressed by their agility and strength.

Lift Off in 5. . .4. . .3. . .

Hello!

Welcome to the flyer for my show! It's coming up super quick!

This Friday the 8th, next Friday the 15th and the following Friday the 22nd. All at 8pm, all $8, all all-ages (tho the first show is a little mature in theme towards the end).

Proceeds go towards video documentation so that I may put this on the internet in full view of the world!

And Arabica Lounge is a sweet sweet coffee shop.

Let it be known that parking in that area is atrocious.

I will be performing my Slide Shows, all 8 of them in this order:

8th

SPRING FLOWERS

DANIEL DEMON AND EVIL EVAN

WHAT I THINK ABOUT WHEN I'M AT WORK

(+ Special Guest)

15th

LOUD BREATH

MY EURO VACAY

(+The Old Lily Family ie my band!)

22nd

MARGARINE IN THE DARK

UNTITLED

THE NEXT GENERATION

(+Birthday Cake!)

Tickets at the door, or reserve them thru me!

Hope to see you there.

xo,

ilvs

Bathe in my Brilliance

I am prone to enjoy a variety of activities. Including but not limited to brainstorming genius ideas for new projects and then never following thru with them. I spent many an hour well spent in the past coming up with new names for dream bands I would someday assemble and then front. (Like the all-wimmin medieval acoustic folk band called: THE MINSTREL CYCLE. All the songs would be sung in round and rest assured there would be no shortage of crushed velvet.) This exercise is followed the difficult task of choosing to file these ideas under CONCEPTUAL or FANTASTIC, but never ever, under any circumstances, under AIN'T NEVER EVER GONNA HAPPEN.

More recently, I have given careful thought to potential blogs I could start. Including, but not limited to, and in no particular order:

1-RUNNING FOR DIFFERENT REASONS – wherein I chronicle my attempts to figure out why people I encounter out on my run who are running devoid of proper running attire and the accompanying look of determination/pain/glee that I wear proudly, are running in the first place and where to exactly. I would accomplish this by sharply straying from my path and running after the person(s) in question, loudly collecting my data between gasps of breaths. This would mostly serve to satisfy my curiosity and could potentially be quite interesting to the casual blog reader. Provided the non-runner runner stops/does not impede the course of the interview by any hitting or calling of the police.

2-I'M NOT GLUTEN FREE BUT MY GIRLFRIEND IS – I'm patting myself on the back for the amount of clever points I'm racking up on the title alone. And then scratching my head on how to actually follow through with this one seeing as my life is devoid of any person resembling a girlfriend let alone a gluten free one. The closest most gluten free woman in my life right now is my mother. And 'I'm not gluten free but my Mom is' does not for interesting blog make, in my single and would not like to be that way forever opinion. Also, I came to the realization that, because my mother is gluten free, I might just be prone to those same sensitivities myself making the title of my would be blog doubly, even triply false.

3-YOGA FOR ASSHOLES – Not what you think. (and pardon the misspelled sanskrit that is to follow) But really, what are you thinking when you read that anyways. . . This blog would be a personal narrative of my journey as a fledgling yogi, in two phases. Part one would focus on my struggles with figuring out how a normal human twists and bends themselves into odd shapes without expelling air from the now fully compressed system, with much attention on my intense focus on those particular muscles exactly that are responsible for me not fully embarrassing myself/making ujai breath an unpleasant experience for everyone. Part two would take the reader thru the annals of my more dedicated yoga practice as I try to solve the puzzle of how to pinch no or very little fabric of my yoga pants betwixt the flesh that hugs my sits bones as I pass thru chataranga and emerge ever gracefully into full up dog. A riveting account indeed.

But never fear, dear readers, these ideas, while perhaps never destined to see the full light of day (tho the potential exists still), come from a fully active idea factory called: my brain. Where there is one, there shall be more. Like ants. Or roaches. Only more awesome.

food is to dogs as poetry is to me

I may or may not be setting myself up for disaster. (The thesaurus lists 'calamity, tragedy and act of God' as possible substitutes. The last one may be not the surest fit, but it sure is funny. Read on.) A natural disaster, as it were. I have taken it upon myself to read more poetry. When I visit one of the many architecturally open and welcoming branches of ye olde Seattle Public Library, I swing past the sometimes small but always mighty poetry section and pick a small handful at random. For a minute it started to feel like a chore. So I found my hands reaching for the colorfully inviting kids poetry books. My stringent adult brain kept intervening, guiding my hand toward the more mature, sensible, generally smaller in size soft backs that are unflinchingly devoid of fun bright collagey water color crayon images. Then I'm like, fuck it, I wanna read the bright color poems with overt rhyme schemes. And guess what, they rule. Also, they tend to not be depressing downer poems. Bonus! But I digress. . . Oh yeah, so I still get the adult poems (er, adult as in 'mature' not as in 'explicit' . . . ) but now I balance the scales with giant thin hard back fun poems. Once home, most of the books end up in my room, with one or two non kid poem books finding their temporary quarters in the bathroom down the hall.

And here is where my dilemma arises. I read poetry in the bano. (how do you put the tilda over the 'n' anyways?) (spell check offers 'banjo' as a possible alternative) (And yes, I'm totally trying to divert you from forming any mental images of that last un-parenthesied sentence.) The thought occurred to me today that I might just in fact be setting up some kind of unfortunate Pavlovian response: when I read poetry, or should this get taken to an extreme level, am even lightly exposed to it, I should pray to the good Lord that there best be restroom, private, public or otherwise, in the very near vicinity. This response, in it's pre-onset stages, strikes me as funny. Ask me again in another few weeks. . . And should you find yourself in a situation where you are perhaps reading poetry and I am perhaps sitting in the audience in plain view listening intently, please take the look on my face to be nothing more than a physiological response to my inner workings and not a direct critique of your art.

check out bird's lament

Over a week has gone by and I have nothing to say? Nonsense. I've just been busy in preparation for my soon to be officially announced shows next month.

. . . And there goes another half hour. I think I just figured out how to put some music on this puppy. This puppy being the blog in general. Check out the link above. Lemme know if this works. This is what I've been working on the past day or so. If you have not heard Moondog, the Viking of 6th Ave (not Moondoggies, they be different), I highly recommend.

And GarageBand is actually pretty fun. 'Cept that it cuts off the titles of the samples you use, so 'Bird's Lament' became 'Bird's Lame.' Very funny GarageBand, very funny.

Ok, off to work. Best to you all.

lookin' funny/funny lookin' - part 1

I'm watching my upstairs neighbor's cats. Because they asked me to. They are away and fond of their cats, I am near and fond of any cats. It's a win-win situation. Motorhead is the cat whose shadow I once mistook for an owl. We are, for all intents and purposes, best friends. Godzilla, the fluffy not fat but who's to say really because she won't let me touch her with a ten foot pole, however, looks at me like I am an alien. That's ok. I am comfortable with my human form. Being stared at wide eyed by a hissing black ewok would be unnerving if it weren't so cute.

On my way to Geode's, I passed a dead bird on the sidewalk. And by passed I mean took a giant step to avoid stepping upon, by bird I mean the partial remains of one. Two more steps and I stopped, turned back. No creature deserves that kind of indignity. Not having gloves of any kind with which to move the bird with, I scooted it with the toe of my boot. In the process, I lost my balance and stepped on the wing, almost snapping it. Finally placing it on the grass by the white picket fence, I looked up to see if anyone was watching me. At the exact moment that the fear 'people are gonna think I'm crazy' crossed my mind, I espied Bo Oddessy walking up the sidewalk on the other side of John St. He is dressed rather tame today, a bright orange knit cap, grayish pink wool coat, and tan kilty skirt. I know the twinkling sounds surrounding him are emanating from a fanny pack hidden by the folds of his coat, though, I like to think that it is his white beard making that sound. He turns the corner, I turn back to the bird. In lieu of a proper burial (or perhaps this is proper enough), I drag a few wet leaves over the bones, hold them down with wet twigs, top it off with a dewy feather. I stand up tall with my respects and for a moment, this bird and I are all that exist.

how do we not have more words for GRAY?

native winterland peoples have a ton of words for snow.
college peeps have just as many for the act of vomiting.
how is it, in the land of no sun ever, that we have but one word for the color that paints our every day existence? yes yes we have several words and descriptors for rain (light, wet, mist, downpour, shower, etc etc). but what of the clouds? it is always just CLOUDY. and the sky, it is always just GRAY. (Side note: Portland, I realized, is more gray than Seattle. how possible? you might ask. because it is flat and there is more unobstructed view of the gray sky. more gray sky equals grayer.) so might I suggest, for variety, we start getting a little more specific on this protective winter blanket we are tucked under. what about 'warm duvet gray'? tho with the rain, slight chill and no-nonsense mood I'm in, perhaps 'wet pavement gray' is more apt? (Portland skies could be 'magnetic gray' to many, 'dorian gray' a few maybe including me.) Some days, I will admit, it feels a little 'cinder block gray,' others lean towards 'silver lining gray,' though sometimes with a little effort called meditating and positive thought.
how is it volumes upon volumes of poetry, song and other literature have not been written on the subject? maybe it has and there's just not enough light that comes into my room for me to see the words on the page very clearly. perhaps it is not the most motivating of muses out there. is it the personification of confusion of neither here nor there? or the manifestation of balance of light and dark? a subtle sort of happy medium. 'stone partition gray' or 'cathedral gray,' 'solitaire gray' or 'campfire smoke gray'?
this day, this day like yesterday, the probable tomorrow.
gray gray gray.
dirty sock cardigan sweater. charcoal smudged figure drawings. matte finish laptop covers. the buttons on my cell phone, the fluff of dust in the cuff of my pegged pants.
gray gray gray, you've made my day.

duck. duck. goose.

stopped at the light at 12th and pike yesterday morning on my way to work, I witnessed the strangest, no- most magical thing. a goth/punk fellow walking his black lab, followed by half a dozen black crows. they were milling about in the trees, following him a few paces behind, diving down, hopping about, flying back up, eating whatever hansel and gretel crumbs he was spilling in his wake. I thought maybe they were gonna get tired after he crossed the street. but they followed him and his dog when he turned down the block, and again as he turned by the park. I thought maybe about going up to him and asking 'do you realize you are being followed by half a murder of crows?' but I did not, and kept biking.

closer to my work, there is a fountain, normally filled with water, as fountains are apt to do, but in that moment, devoid of it's usual cache, the cement was rain wet, the submersible light fixtures exposed. so, too, drying out, were tens of coins, a rough glittering of mostly copper, some silver. I thought maybe about stopping, collecting them all, gathering up people's wishes and setting them free (er, reappropriating them), but I did not, and kept biking, circling the fountain once more before beelining it to work.

is magic still magic if it remains observed? or is there a participatory element that completes the equation?
I heard the word MAGIC on your lips.
I saw the word MAGIC on the book you pulled down.
it sits in my ears, lays flat against my eyes.
I can almost taste it.

tea break, a stretch.

I'm staring out of my kitchen window at my neighbors house across the street.

Their windows like mirrors against the gray siding, reflecting gray skies and I see transparent trees warped and bloated.

Usually.

Today I can see inside: no one is home, or the lights are just off, and a giant crucifix is afixed to the gray in this light wall. Someone's bedroom? Jesus must be half my height.

Outside, one level down, the porch light that shines a lightning white streak across my pillow at night has closed it's eyes.

One house over, an empty terracotta pot, brightly painted with enthusiasm, sits to the side on the middle concrete step. It sports some shades of green, but none that match the moss of the stairs. Nor is there chromatic reference to the yellow of the house.

Further down, midway down the first flight of stairs, a crow with wide legged stance flicks a leaf belly up. Other crows spot the trees that lace the visual field that hangs over the street.

I refill my mug with warm water from the once hot kettle and settle back to my desk.

I am doing something wrong

I, generally speaking, am good at endeavors I engage in. I am a careful observer; my brain's wheels, they turn constantly. When it is my turn, I can deliver with ease. My scores from on line aptitude tests put me in the upper crust percentile of people who take on line aptitude tests amongst other things. All this gum flapping is not intended as a brag, but as a metaphorical slab of color correcting white balance with which other things can be held up to and seen in high contrast, as demonstrated in the above not so metaphorical photos.

wtf.

These plants at one point were healthy. Lefty came from a healthy clipping off a plant at the yoga studio. Righty, from the conservatory plant sale. It's probs been now a solid 4 or 5 months of demise for these two, who went the way of my other plant, long since gone tho I tried to repot and pretend it was just going thru a seasonal change and not the ultimate change of dying, and whose photograph shall not be shown here for that very reason - there is nothing left to photograph save for dirt and I trust that, tho professional naturalists you perhaps are not, you, readers, know what dirt looks like.

Taking myself out of the equation, a short list of possible reasons for demise exists, which include but are not limited to:

-there is no direct sunlight in my room.

-the sunfilled bathroom where I relocated Righty is, in stark contrast to the rest of the building, icy cold, save for when someone baths and the humidity level and heat jump 1000%.

-they drank too much of what was given to them.

- . . . ok that last one is a stretch. apart from sunlight, it seems these domesticated plant beings are solely dependent on moi. this is unfortunate. for as my life progresses I am coming to the realization that the green on my thumb is just paint. and washes off. sigh.

not all is lost (er, in this case, dead), tho. I have three plants left. one is doing quite well, despite its rough start (2 of the 3 sprouts kicked it within 2 weeks of living with me), and the other, well, how do they put it? has opportunity for growth. I suppose that makes for two of us.

until then, I shall tend to my remaining flora and stick to the low light/moderate temperature plants. until the time where I can get this green paint to stick permanently.

whoa, happy new year! what is that noise?

it has been a minute. and for the next minute I shall take the opportunity to quietly discuss a certain sensitivity of mine: my sense of hearing. if there was a quantitative scale with which to measure hearing capacities, which I'm sure there is (ok, quick wiki research reveals yes. it is called the RMS (root mean square) sound pressure and is measured in Pascals. numbers times 10 to the -5 power are not as snappy sounding as the common quantitative measure of visual acuity, say, 20/20. or 6/6 if you belong to the church of metric.), I would reveal mine hear and perhaps there would be a moment of mostly metaphorical and maybe even some literal silence while you stand amazed at what couldn't possibly be true. I have excellent (tho at times selective) hearing. an odd blessing at times. I can hear, coming up my stairs, if my neighbor down the hall has the tv on, the high pitch whine is like an invisible laser to my brain. I can hear my phone ring (it's on vibrate) in a crowded room, my ears able to discern its particular cry out of the din of public enthusiasm. it comes in quite handy for many situations. and not so much for others.

exhibit A: my living situation. I live next to a pack of wild animals who spend their waking hours (which subsequently become my waking hours) galloping laps around their apartment, while operating loud kitchen machinery and listening to every episode of every season of every tv show imaginable. and when they are not doing that, they are moving furniture. I would like you to believe that that is just a common homespun analogy, but, ok, well it is. but also it's like they are the reason why that metaphor exists. I have woken up, middle of the night, confused, frightened, and ultimately irritated, to loud noises and earth quake motions. who the heck rearranges their apartment at 1 in the morning? ah yes, my neighbors. and it seems their inspiration was piqued once again at 7am. tho I can't imagine the results where worth writing home about seeing as their laborious process involved so much incomprehensible blathering and inefficient, or shall I say localized, carriage of unseen items. ear plugs alone are not enough to block out perpetual NoiseFest '11. and a polite request on my behalf to them to not move their furniture so late at night or early in the morning is out of the question. it is obvious that they love the feng shui. I shall not stand in the way of Love. although losing sleep over it is apparently not beyond the realm of reality.

and ok, really, it does not take the hearing equivalent of 20/20 vision to hear my neighbors every stomp, so my point is just that I am sensitive to all things auditory. including, but not limited to, accents. or more specifically, dialects. which leads me to. . .

exhibit B: the mists of avalon. this book has been on and off my reading list for years. since high school when I witnessed a theater friend of mine carry it around for the better part of a year. it is a hefty endeavor, plowing thru that literary milestone. and I, for one, do not have that kind of time. I do, however, engage in certain activities where my listening capabilities are free (I am speaking of art), and an affinity for books on tape. so thank you seattle public library for loaning me the great work of genius that is mists of avalon on cd.

it takes place in britian. a fact cemented in stone via all their fancy lilted manner of speaking. I have found, in the past, that if I am around an accent long enough, I pick it up unwittingly. I'm like a refrigerator to a magnet. I'm not sure how I feel about that analogy. regardless, I found myself the other day, faced with the fact that within some moderately pedestrian sentence spoken in my own personal affectation, a single word of very british pronunciation slipped in line and marched out with the rest of them like it was the most normal thing in the world. I don't think anyone else noticed. and I was more or less amused by it. and I'm only just finishing Book 1 (of 4 books) that make up the entire arthurian drama, each book consisting of approx 12 cds, each of which are approximately one hour in length. according to some (wikihowtospeakwithabritishaccent), that is more than enough time to master the art of fooling people into thinking I am not of this land. that last sentence would be a lot funnier if I could actually read it aloud to you, faked british accent and all.

so for the time being, you must imagine it, and maybe the next time I see you, you will find yourself asking yourself 'where in the name of the goddess has ilvs been that she talks thus?' again, funnier if you could hear it with the accent on it already.