Memorial Day.

My schedule and my flitting attention span prevented me from noting the following while it was still Memorial Day, but hey.

Last year my Uncle Smitty gave me a canteen/mess cup dated 1918. He knows I'm a student, so to speak, of the Great War, and knew that a gift like the mess cup wouldn't be lost on me. It most certainly wasn't, because I use it on almost a daily basis for consuming just about anything but coffee, because hot liquid + aluminum = burnt lips.

It's not using the cup that makes it meaningful, however. It's the very history of the thing, which is almost a hundred years old now, and the story it might tell. Was it ever issued to a doughboy unlucky enough to be sent to St. Mihiel or the Argonne Forest? If it was, what kind of hell did that fellow go through, and how often was he lucky enough to have something hot ladled into his canteen cup? Was he doomed to be planted in foreign soil, or to come home to a parade and maybe later march with the Bonus Army, where he'd be shot or beaten by his own countrymen? My particular cup is reasonably battered, but that may have less to do with its use during WWI than the fact that it's probably been through dozens of hands before it reached mine. What would its original user think of someone like me picking it up every day and filling it with yogurt or okra and peppers or soymilk? Whatever happened to the factory workers who created the cup? How did the soldier or Marine or line worker who handled this cup spend their last days? What did they think of the War to End All Wars? Of the barbed wire, the rolling barrages, the French widows, the German conscripts in oversized feldgrau uniforms, the American isolationists, Woodrow Wilson, Prohibition, the League of Nations, the vengeance of Versailles?

Just like last Armistice/Veterans' Day, I'm opting not to politicize this "holiday," but rather take a moment and think about those who came before me. I recommend y'all do the same, and do so with open hearts and critical minds. You might not have a scuffed canteen cup to ruminate upon, but you don't need one. You've got America and its soldiery, past and present, and everything that came at the points of their bayonets- for good or ill- and that's more than enough.

Here's to my pops, my uncle, my granddad, my great-uncle, and my friend Richard Patton. Two of 'em are dead, and one of those I never met, but all of their stories, in one fragmented way or another, are ones I hope to tell sooner or later... not to make any point other than that humans are fucked-up, good-hearted, unbelievably resilient yet fragile, and utterly unique creatures.

Let's hope I never have to add another veteran to this list, but if I do, here's to hoping they turn out to be people as admirable as the veterans I already know.

"We are the sons of Satan, we are free"

While all the dates haven't been announced yet, I do believe I'll have to travel outside of Texas later this summer to see Venom. Fuck time, money, and having to sit through another shitty Devildriver opening set, I wanna see V-E-N-O-fuckin'-M! Who's with me?

Trivialities sometimes add up to something meaningful. Sometimes.

The story I'm working on for the next meeting of ye newe writing grouppe is kicking my ass. It's bizarre writing about a daughter I don't have, much less one who knows she's a purely literary creation and resents me for it. It was much easier when she simply made a minor appearance in Axis Mundi Sum.

I've realized lately that my listening habits have become downright flaccid. If it's not on my hard drive or in the box of LPs directly next to the turntable, I haven't listened to it in a while. I've spent the weekend thus far rectifying this abominable situation, with good results. There's still a metrick fuckton of stuff I need to get to, however.

Christ, sometimes I feel like punching myself in the mouth for thinking that shit like this is even slightly consequential. Instead of fucking up my teeth further, I opt for being thankful that I'm still in one piece- physically and mentally- and have unfailingly amazing folks to call my friends.

Why walking is better than driving, reason #777

Walking home from getting drunk at Poison Girl, I ran into a couple women who ended up being excellent conversationalists. We sat in my driveway, drank some shitty wine, talked about religion, and then off they went, leaving me to indulge in the awesome record that is Bruce Dickinson's The Chemical Wedding.

Strangers rule.

Metal rules.

Here she comes, my beautiful world!

Aloha, folks. Another Thursday night/Friday morning finds me here again, rejoicing that I don't have to go to work for the next three days, full of hope and in possession of enough books, tobacco, music, and alcohol to get me through the wee hours. Which, I reckon, aren't that wee for yours truly; I've been living in them for almost two years now, so the wee hours for a wight like me are probably more like eight or nine o'clock in the morning. Anyway, stupid ruminations aside, the long dark night that is the work week is over, and a beautiful, warm day of freedom is dawning.

Anyway.

I put on Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus a little while ago for the first time since shortly after I purchased it. It's so easy to forget what a complete genius Mr. Cave is- I know, I know, that statement is completely bogus. It's impossible to forget what a genius he is, but it's easy to not listen to his records all the time, at least these days.

Enough.

I hope to be in Memphis sometime within the next two months, spending time with a woman I've loved for almost a decade now, a woman I haven't seen in person since we were teenagers, a woman who I've planned things with almost every year since '98, only to see those plans fall through for whatever reason. Who knows if Memphis will happen, but I do know that our friendship won't dissipate if Memphis never materializes.

All right. See y'all later.

That's right, I'm an idiot!

Way to go, you fuckin' moron, by leaving the beer in the freezer for twelve hours!

"These endless days are finally ending in a blaze"

Because I am

a) an unrepentant Buffy fan
b) constantly trapped in the past
c) occasionally, albeit grudgingly, willing to appreciate musicals
and
d) really like the various sentiments put forth herein,

I present you with the lyrics to my favorite song from "Once More, With Feeling," the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I haven't delineated who sings what, certain shared lines are omitted by whomever compiled them for the net, and I've cleaned up the punctuation, but if you're that curious, go watch the episode in question.

Enjoy, folks. I know at least one of you will!


I touch the fire and it freezes me
I look into it and it's black
Why can't I feel
My skin should crack and peel
I want the fire back

Now through the smoke she calls to me
To make my way across the flame
To save the day
Or maybe melt away
I guess it's all the same

So I will walk through the fire
'Cos where else can i turn
And I will walk through the fire
And let it...

The torch I bear is scorching me
Buffy's laughin I've no doubt
I hope she fries
I'm free if that bitch dies
I better help her out

'Cuz she is drawn to the fire
some people (she) will never learn
and she will walk through the fire
and let it...

Will this do a thing to change her?
Am I leaving Dawn in danger?
Is my slayer to far gone to care?
What if Buffy can't defeat it
Beady eyes is right, we're needed
Or we could just sit around and glare
We'll see it through it what we're always here to do
So we will walk through the fire...

So one by one they turn from me
I guess my friends can't face the cold
(What can't we face)
But why I froze... not one among them knows
And never can be told

She came from the grave much graver
First he'll kill her then I'll save her
Everything is turning out so dark
(Going through the motions)
No, I'll save her then I'll kill her
I think this line is mostly filler
What its gonna take to strike the spark?
These endless days are finally ending in a blaze
and we are
Caught in the fire
The point of no return
So we will walk through the fire and let it
Burn
let it Burn
let it Burn...Showtime!


R.I.P. Tara Maclay.

Curricular activities.

Last week I got the files containing my pops' book on the battle of Stones River, which I have taken it upon myself to proofread, edit, and hammer into camera-ready shape so that it may be published sometime later this year. It's a slightly daunting task, seeing as how the book is approximately 850 single-spaced pages, but I look forward to giving it my best. I took care of the first chapter's today, and if I stick with it, I should have the job completed by no later than the end of the summer, which is also when I'd like to have the first draft and cut, respectively, of Unheimlich and All Right finished. It's gonna be a busy summer indeed, and I'm not counting the writing I'm gonna force myself to do for our burgeoning circle of literatteurs.

It's great not wasting time doing or thinking about jack shit other than the things I like wasting time doing or thinking about, though I could go for a beer right about now.

Gallons of sweat never tasted so good.

Two days' worth of the Chaos in Tejas festival, walking around Austin, driving for hours without air conditioning, and riding my new bike (free, courtesy of Holly's folks and Matt's willingness to ride it home) has caused me to sweat almost continuously over the last day or two. It rules. Exercise, crust punk, good company, records, ten thousand thirty-second crushes on cute girls, a vegan potluck, and more have contributed greatly to my well-being.

Man, being able to cover a mile in no time flat on my bike, which I've named Shari Lee after a friend of mine, is fuckin' great. Now all I need is a basket or some panniers to carry shit in.

Maybe I should return to academia.

Coming soon, if I remember to write it: my reading of the lyrics to "Pit of Zombies" by Cannibal Corpse as a metaphor for the experience of having a shitty job.

Uninteresting musings, part the millionth.

Hell yeah. Demilich is touring the States soon, and they're coming to Houston on a Sunday, which means I don't have to miss out and thereby regret my decision to go to work instead of indulging in death metal.

Even cooler, word is that Venom- V-E-N-O-fucking-M- will be in the US later this year too. No dates have been announced yet, but I suspect I'll have to travel quite a ways to see them. The only other band these days that I'd do the same for is Bolt Thrower, who may tour later in the year as well. Better start hoarding cash and vacation days, self.

In other nifty metal news, I learned, mere hours before Herr Luftschiffhauptmann informed me of the same, that vests like mine are referred to in certain foreign lands as "kutten" (singular: "kutte"). On the topic of said vest, I don't miss the sleeves at all, though I need to find a home for the patches that still cling to them like sewn-on parasites, and come cold weather, I'll have to resort to the DDR Polizei overcoat or Bundesrepublik army parka my brother left behind (the former was already mine, purchased nine years ago in London, but it was essentially stolen from me).

Sunday evening will be the first meeting of the local writing group Andy took it upon himself to set up. I have no idea what I'll bring to the table, but I know I don't want to just read a chunk of Unheimlich. Another problem is my lack of printing capacity- I reckon I'll have to have someone else print something, or write whatever it is out in longhand. If I used a fountain pen, I could say "How very Stephensonian of you, Smith."

Finally, I've been cramming a lot of reading into my maw lately: Peter Singer's Animal Liberation, Peter Lamborn Wilson's Escape from the 19th Century, Guy Sajer's The Forgotten Soldier, more of Kierkegaard's The Sickness Unto Death, Ron Rozelle's Into That Good Night, Gordon Prange's At Dawn We Slept, various magazines, and the usual array of online articles.

We are down to our last handful of cartridges. Fix bayonets!

Succumbing to sleep.

I wish there was some way of quantifying how much of my outlook on life has been directly influenced by heavy metal. Perhaps once neuroscience has reached some amazing level of complexity I can have Matt perform an über-brainscan that'll satisfy my thirst for self-knowledge. Then my life will become a Voivod song.

Here's to the several cups of Czar Nicholas II Premium Nostalgia Tea I imbibed throughout the day. Without you, o liquid memorial to horrific, backward autocracy, I would have succumbed to alcohol-induced naps long ago, but instead I wrote a lot.

And now, dear reader, I'm off to the Dreamlands... which, as far as I can tell, have been gentrified to all hell since the days of HPL. Fuck the bourgeoisie and their demand for convenience over aesthetics and meaning.

Attention, humans: you're not all disappointments.

I don't recall what I was looking for, but last night I ran across a trio of articles written by one person on Witches' Voice, a Wiccan website. I was impressed enough to take down the author's info and contact her this evening. We had a brief conversation, nothing heavy, but when she signed off I remained impressed.

It's so good to meet people, albeit online, that are well-spoken and thoughtful, especially if they're younger than I am. It's also good to know that some people, like my friend Cheyenne, are on the verge of giving birth to the next generation, and that they'll probably be good parents. I eagerly embrace any sign that up-and-coming humanity isn't setting its responsibilities, dreams, and hopes aside, which is why the last few hours have been such a comfort.

I'd also like to wish a happy birthday to my beloved friend Amanda. Had I not called her yesterday, I'd apologize for being late with my congratulations, but I'm not, so that's that.

Here's to all of you. Thank you for being good human beings, and, as Kinky Friedman says, "may the god of your choice bless you."

Waking up.

Dear Bill,

At long last, I've figured out what I'm going to do with my life.

I recently read that my heroine and crush of twelve years, Justine Frischmann, is apparently attending Naropa University over in Boulder, Colorado. Colorado is closer to Texas than England, so this is my chance to make my move, by which I mean possibly see Justine walking around campus and swoon. Perhaps she'll see me and rush over to help; perhaps she'll ignore my fainting spell; perhaps she'll laugh; perhaps she'll just sneer as beautifully as she did in the video for "Connection" and keep walking. Whatever the case, I may be able to die a happy man, though, honestly, I'd prefer just to pass out and get a mild concussion.

So, yeah, I'm going to give up all my other pursuits- writing, making All Right with Andy, learning Chinese, writing comics with you, etc.- so I can meet, and maybe even woo, Justine Frischmann. If I succeed, I will visit you wherever you may be with Justine in tow. If I fail, well, I suppose I'll have to continue my admiration of Ms. Frischmann from afar, with only my Elastica albums and a nasty lump on my skull to remind me of my brush with feminine awesomeness.

Yours,
Dave

Heirlooms of the future.

Some things I'd like to pass down to my kids, should I ever have any, and should they not turn out to be complete ingrates:

My State of Texas belt buckle, which was my pops'.
My dictionary, which was given to my pops by a girlfriend he had in the '60s.
My samovar, which my pops got while serving in Russia in the early '70s.
My record collection (once I'm too dead to listen to it myself).
My unpainted Ral Partha lead miniature of an illusionist.
The plaid blanket my parents bought me as a kid in Rome.
The Bible my mom gave me in 1994.
The proof copy of Axis Mundi Sum, if I ever get it back from Cheyenne.
The Finnegans Wake sigla ring Sara made for me, but only after I'm dead.
And more.

I don't know why I get such a kick out of theorizing about parenthood, given how incredibly unfit I currently am to take care of anyone but myself (debatable) and the ferrets (they seem content, but if they could talk I'm sure they'd complain- I wonder where they are right now?), not to mention my distaste of almost any kind of relationship right now that doesn't involve me and books.

I blame it on writing my fictional future daughter, Moxie, into Axis Mundi Sum years ago. Fuckin' self-fulfilling prophecy.

Rifle drills.

The SKS rifle is one hell of a good workout tool, and a solid firearm, at that.

Ex libris finisterra.

The all-call for actors and actresses who want to be in All Right has begun. Say the word if you're interested.

I acquired more books in the past three days than I usually would in six months, and many of them were free (thanks again, Ashley). It puts me in a quandary, though, because I keep picking up one book after another and wanting to keep reading it, only to put it down and check out another one. This could never happen if I went back to school, where I'd be forced to read. Where's the fun in that?

Anyone ever wonder about their composure should the world end? Not abruptly, but just slowly enough to give folks time to wake up (literally, since lots of people are bound to be asleep when the news arrives) and think. I think a lot of us believe we'll be stoic, and/or cling to our loved ones, and/or be frightened to the point of shitting ourselves and praying to gods we gave up long ago, but are these our only options? Would glorious indifference fall under the "stoic" reaction? I suppose that if this scenario ever occurs, there won't be anyone left to analyze and write about the human results, so it's a moot point in the long run, but an interesting thought for the time being.

The thought game above stems indirectly from something I pondered earlier this evening, namely the attraction of post-apocalyptic scenarios as displayed in film and literature. Is it mainly a Eurocentric (i.e. white) fascination, or is it universal? Do Taoists worry about the end of the world as we know it? African animists? What about people that know nothing of nuclear weapons or eschatological religions? See, this would be something to pursue were I to become a student again, but that ain't gonna happen (and not only because I can write "ain't gonna" with no trace of irony or shame, as I just noticed- what's with tonight's refusal of further education, anyway?). I'd much rather have these kinds of discussions on porches, and disseminate the findings via the rest of the folks I was jawing with.

I think it's time to go buy cigarettes, or maybe just keep listening to Moonspell.

A few days well spent.

It's been a good weekend. Got to see a lot of my friends, buy some records, cook for folks (well, one person, though I would've cooked for a lot more if my attempt to help out with Food Not Bombs hadn't resulted in failure due to the absence of FNB at the Bill Hicks Resurrection Lab and the library), go dumpster diving, read, write, talk to my mom and pops, get my People's Library card from Sedition Books, start work on All Right, see V for Vendetta, and be idle. Not once have I succumbed to the usual Sunday night dread of Monday afternoons.

I dare say that I'm almost happy.

Last minutes before the millenium.

Moonspell, Sentenced, Opeth. Pounding hearts, flying fingers. High ceilings. Final familial cohesion. Books on Saturday. Coffee. Dry toast. Frozen pizza. Cigarettes by the front door. Possums in the garage. So much more.

My nostalgia knows no bounds.

This is what paydays are for.

I budgeted all the necessities and outstanding fiduciary obligations out- food, phone bill, cash to England for the Live After Death LP, gas (a first in ages; Christ, I hate cars), credit card payments, booze/tobacco, savings, etc. etc., and still had money to buy rad shit from AK Press and Havoc Records. I even have some left over to fund All Right, which starts filming this weekend.

It may seem to the uninformed that I'm not doing anything with my life, but I don't know anyone else who's simultaneously writing a novel, proofing an 800-page book of Civil War history, working on a movie, and sketching out short story ideas, all the while trying to maintain a relatively newfound vegetarian diet and an exercise routine based on rifle drills, push-ups, stretching, and lots of walking.

Then again, I don't know anyone who just singed their fucking hair with a lit cigarette.

"We Made It" : April 2005 as "Here's How It Happened" : May 2006.

I doubt anyone remembers the Jesu-soundtracked short movie script about mass suicide I posted here about a little over a year ago (go through the April '05 archives if you're interested), but I spent the latter half of tonight's work night thinking about it. This time, however, as I played the movie out in my head- and started writing a short story based on the idea- all of the suicides were on-screen, albeit as tastefully done as blowing one's brains out or choking down fistfuls of pills can be, i.e. lots of pretty silhouettes, bright red blossoms of blood, und so weiter. The newest iteration of this scenario has a little backstory to it, and the Jesu song has changed from "Walk On Water" to "Friends Are Evil" (an amazing song, with an amazing title and amazing lyrics). Once I get a rought draft of the story written, I'll probably post it here. Ideally, I'd be able to film it one day, although I seriously doubt I could find the cast, crew, and equipment necessary to show an entire cityscape full of people offing themselves.

No, I'm not contemplating suicide. I read The Myth of Sisyphus years ago, and settled that basic existential dilemma back then. Sorry to let anyone down.

"And all the stones I've thrown
they come back twice as strong
And all the stones I've thrown
they tell me nothing lasts

And all stones you've thrown, they come from your highest throne
Pass them on to me below
they remind me nothing lasts"

A couple slightly abstract remarks on immigration and individuality.

I should've gone on strike today (well, yesterday). Not so much out of support of immigrant rights- which I do believe in, on a human level, but a brief comment on that later- but just because it was May Day, the world's Labor Day and a memorial day dedicated to the Haymarket anarchists. Instead, I compromised my deep-seated, if often poorly expressed, belief in the solidarity of regular folks, for the sake of a fucking paycheck. Way to go, self.

I was talking to my pops about the recent spike in immigration debates, and I said that one of the unspoken reasons for alarm among American citizens is the fact that within a few decades, the majority of the United States won't be white. Pops agreed, although he didn't view my statement the same way I did.

The way I see it, an America wherein white folks don't constitute a majority of the population is an America where there may very well be a greater potential for change than exists now. I could be wrong, of course, or right in the wrong way, i.e. change definitely occurs, but for the worse, due either to immigrants bringing their own political practices with them (possible) or a backlash from "real" Americans against the encroachment of "foreigners" (more likely). Whatever the case, the importation of foreign political/social models can't be more detrimental to the US than the ones that were brought over by Europeans, such as the Protestant work ethic and racial supremacy (and the children of such an unholy union: Manifest Destiny and American pseudo-colonialism carried out via capitalism).

That said, I'm not going to defend bullshit cultural mores and customs simply because they're non-Western or non-white. The "family values" lauded by American conservatives are much stronger elsewhere in the world, and often to the detriment of those directly involved. I'm too fond of personal freedom, wu-wei, and self-realization to advocate, say, Hispanic or Chinese filial piety over the well-being of the individual. I've seen first hand what can happen to folks who grow up in households run by patriarchs/matriarchs, and while I'm all for respecting one's elders, buckling under pressure exerted by one's family- or blindly rebelling against it- does no favors to anyone. The same goes for devotion to nationality, race, or the state. I'm proud to be a Texan, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna put my admiration of the Lone Star before human decency.

So, yeah, immigration. I'm all for it. But I'm far more in favor of people taking off the blinders of church, state, race, and nationality and becoming the human beings they should be. This is where a Kierkegaard quotation would be appropriate, but since the Magister was highly apolitical and preferred to focus on the relationship between God and the individual, I can't think of any. All I can do is mirror him in a secular way and say that everyone's relationship to a higher power, divine or otherwise, should be rooted first and foremost in doubt. Only then can we start to see where we really stand in the world; only then can we take the first steps towards changing ourselves and our surroundings.

De omnibus dubitandum est.