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.