Mount Pseudoephedrine

We ride somewhere behind the light
We starve and are starved for by night
We burn our strange dance through the sky
Among wailing banshees…We sing

Your Sadness It Is Quite Lovely…

It’s Saturday night in Chicago. I’m listening to When the Devil’s Loose by A.A. Bondy and going mad with time and wine. As usual, I’ve been thinking about a lot of things, too many things. I’ve been thinking about where I am, where I’ve been and where I’m going. And for some reason today, I can’t stop thinking about a Bondy show I was at on June 18, 2009. I was so lucky to be there.

Bondy ended the set standing on the floor with the crowd, in the middle of the circle we formed around him. He sang three songs, and we sang three songs. It was one of those magical moments that you carry with you, for comfort and forever. It’s there when you need it and when you don’t. But of course, you always need it.

I’ve talked with people who were at the show on that summer night, people I didn’t know until after it, and the tears that filled their eyes are the same ones that washed over mine. We stood around Bondy like one might stand around a fire, tossing in some sick and heavy longing, and watching it rise into a gorgeous and drifting smoke.

If there’s one thing this strange place has supplied me with no shortage of, it’s longing. It’s everywhere I look, and everywhere I close my eyes. A good amount of longing is essential to anyone who really wants to do anything, I feel. But I’m not talking about that kind of longing. No, the kind I’m talking about would spill out over thousands of miles and overflow the world.

But it’s within this longing where the beautiful music starts, where faraway cities become home, and words become gods. It’s within this longing where things grow wild and sweet on a Saturday night, even with the understanding that no matter where you go, there’s no escaping the horrors of a Sunday.

I don’t want it all, but the things I want, I want real bad.

Observing Change: Sam Cooke and the Civil Rights Movement

Albums around here play for days, sometimes weeks, often longer. Right now it’s Sticky Fingers by The Rolling Stones. Before that it was a February 23, 2008 Dax Riggs bootleg. For weeks, and weeks before that it was Live at the Harlem Square Club, 1963 by Sam Cooke.

When done right, a live album captures a moment in time. It’s ageless, alive, and forever travels in a sealed jar the size of the world. This is true for any album, but it’s a purer and more potent truth that swims the depths of a live album.

Live at the Harlem Square Club was finely cut from a high-grade Sam Cooke performance on January 12, 1963. All you have to do to hear that nothing outside the room that night mattered to anyone in it, is listen.

It became the soundtrack as I prepared a piece for Gapers Block about Sam Cooke. I listened to it while I read and wrote, but also while I worked, worked out, ate, slept and breathed.

The album can be found traveling all over this jar the size of the world. The Gapers Block piece can be found here: Observing Change: Sam Cooke and the Civil Rights Movement.

I love your eyes, and your smile.

No Train to Stockholm

A small part of me is home now. A huge part of me never made it past the fog-heavy dusk that swallowed the snow-covered mountains and trees, somewhere beyond the pulse of San Francisco, but behind the lights of Denver. The bummer began to take hold in Nebraska.

Got home yesterday. Don’t feel much like writing today.

Then We’ll Twist Off Each Other’s Arms

Tonight I submitted 2,000+ words to Gapers Block for a feature that will run next week. Tomorrow morning I’ll wake up to darkness and fly to San Francisco. I’ll go to City Lights and buy a book. Then I’ll go across the street to Vesuvio, and have the first beer I’ve had since sometime in December. I’ll read my book and drink my beer. I don’t know yet what I’ll do with the rest of the day. But this part will be good. That much I’m sure of.

Then I’ll sleep. Or not. It really doesn’t matter. On Sunday I’ll walk out again to darkness. This time in Fisherman’s Wharf. I’ll walk down a quiet city street and catch a bus to Emeryville. From there I’ll ride the California Zephyr east through the Sierra Nevada and the Rocky Mountains. I’ll ride the full 51-hour route back to Chicago. I’ll listen to music. I’ll listen to some songs a lot. I’ll listen to “Rocky Mountain Time” over, and over again. I’ll stare into the day and out at the night. I’ll write. I’ll read from my new book, and from some old ones. I’ll sleep. Or not. It really doesn’t matter. I’ll drink another beer.

And when I get back, I’ll hold what escapes me now. Then I’ll throw it somewhere I can’t see. And then I’ll start again.

Goatwhore Interview & Photos

On January 20 I interviewed and photographed Goatwhore for Gapers Block. Photos are below. Interview is here. I love you everywhere.

The Tunnel Musicians of Chicago

I recently spent some time interviewing, photographing and recording a few musicians in the CTA tunnels. It was an incredibly inspiring and rewarding experience. I met some good people. We talked. I listened to what they had to say and to what they had to play. I was moved by both. I got the impression they enjoyed the experience as well, and I sincerely hope they did.

It was all part of a piece I was working on for Gapers Block, and it was posted to the site today: The Tunnel Musicians of Chicago.

And It Stoned Me (part 2)

Chicago, IL: I slept. It was about 8:30am when I woke up on Saturday. I listened to Portland for a few minutes as it did the same. I watched the sun paint itself onto everything. It was a different day in a different place, but it started like they all do. It made me want to earn it and I already felt behind. I don’t think I’ll ever catch up, but that won’t stop me from trying. I got myself together then headed out.

I stopped for some tea at the first coffee shop I saw that didn’t look like a bar. For some reason a lot of them do. I read from Kapuściński’s Imperium and wrote in my notebook before leaving. I wanted to get to the big hill I’d spotted the day before. There were some things I hoped to see, on it and from it.

As I started up it, I realized I was entering Washington Park. Washington Park is a public park with many acres of forest and trails. It wraps some of the cities attractions. I guess I got there at a good time. I saw the sun screaming through the trees. It was beyond visual. It turned down the volume on everything else. It was deafening. Silence itself is something I run from. The things that silence are what I chase. And there we were, face to face. I moved slowly and took pictures.

I kept moving up, and stumbled across the Oregon Holocaust Memorial. How stark and grim. How beautiful and sobering. I just stood there for awhile before I could bring myself to lift the camera. The centerpiece of the memorial reads:

Beneath this rock are interred soil and ash from the six killing-center camps of the holocaust: Chelmno, Treblinka, Sobibor, Belzec, Majdanek and Auschwitz-Birkenau.

All around the memorial are sculptures of personal objects, lying on the ground as though left behind. I walked past a violin, a teddy bear, a baby doll. Wherever I stepped, I was literally stepping in all that pain and suffering. I really don’t know what else to say about it. It’s intense. It’s a reminder. It’s history. It’s awful. It won’t wash away and I’m glad I saw it.

I kept moving up, and found the International Rose Test Garden. The garden houses over 7,000 rose plants. They’re sent from all over the world. It was founded in 1917 and served as a safe haven for roses grown in Europe during World War I. Hybridists sent roses from around the world to protect them from the bombing. If you can’t see the irony in men killing men while protecting the flowers from each other, you don’t have a pulse.

As I walked through the garden I saw a man and woman sitting on a bench. They were surrounded by large trees, sunlight and roses. They looked like they were the only 2 people on the planet. I got the impression that, in their minds, at that moment, they were. I still can’t decide if it looked more like the beginning or the end of the world. I guess it kind of looked like both.

I saw a different couple lying on the ground, looking out at the trees. They were sharing a joint. They seemed to be making plans, high and happy. I saw a man far from any trail I could see. He wandered into the dense forest. He didn’t seem like he wanted to be seen. I saw a stunning view of the Cascades. I saw Mount Hood. That was one of my goals for the morning. Next time I plan to walk all over that volcano. I never did see the man come back out of the forest.

I wanted to keep moving up, but I decided instead to head back toward the city. It was already afternoon and I had a feeling the silence might catch up with me. I stopped at a couple record stores along the way. I’ve been looking for a particular Ronnie Lane album that seems to have disappeared from space and time. I didn’t find it. I will one day. I’ll walk past many more record stores before I’m through here.

I stopped for a veggie sandwich at a café downtown. I wanted to be alone with my own thoughts, a book and a notebook. No such luck. The guy working there was dead set on talking to anything in front of him, interested or not, breathing or not. I listened politely and nodded my head, inserting my bits of horribly flawed wisdom into the few pauses. He seemed like a nice enough guy and I didn’t want to be rude. As I struggled through my escape route, he said something that made the verbal assault worthwhile. He said something that I’ll never forget. He asked me how he could lose. He asked me how he could lose when he’d already won. He said he’d already won 28 years ago. I assume he was 28 years old. That will stick with me.

I went back to Stumptown for a cup of coffee and the noisy solitude I was looking for. I sat by a window looking out on the street. I looked through some of my pictures from Washington Park. I read from my books and wrote in my notebook. I had a great cup of coffee as I watched the people walk by. A man walked by wearing a heavy glove and a Santa-suited cat on his shoulder. The world keeps getting smaller.

I left Stumptown and walked past Satyricon, the small club where Eyehategod would be playing later that night. I was considering going and wanted to get my bearings. Eyehategod is an infamous New Orleans sludge metal band. I grew up very heavily into the music of New Orleans, and Eyehategod were definitely a big part of my diet. There’s something very dangerous about them. Whatever it is, they’re covered in it. They’re covered in it before the music ever starts. And when it finally does, they cover you in it. If there’s a sketchy part of town, which of course there always is, they’ll find it and play there.

The closer I got to Satyricon, the more the city’s shine seemed to fade. There was a sequence to it, a progression, an increased grittiness. By the time I walked past the club, the people’s eyes had become very harsh. I saw 2 men talking and surveying me over their shoulders. They moved apart. One of them looked at my camera, then back at me. I probably should have put it away earlier. His eyes were wide and wild. He asked if I was “some sort of photographer or something.” He said it in a way that was more parts confrontation than question. I told him I wasn’t really. At about the same time, the other man caught my attention. I guess I caught his too. He was pissing on the sidewalk and staring at me. I kept walking.

I’m not sure if I was bored with the beauty from earlier, but it was then that I decided to go to the Eyehategod show.

And It Stoned Me (part 1)

Chicago, IL: It’s 9:49pm. I’m home and in between watching documentaries on my laptop. I’m wearing many layers of clothes and sitting underneath 2 blankets. It’s cold in here. I didn’t turn my air conditioner on all summer, and I’ve gotten it into my head that I’m not going to turn my heater on all winter. For some reason this makes me feel good. I like seeing what I can get by without, then making a habit of it. Self-refinement leads to self-worth, and I’m a sucker for both. Whatever the temperature is in here, it’s a great one to be active or asleep in. If I’m not doing one of these things, then I should probably go somewhere else.

One week ago I was in Portland. I’ve been meaning to write about it for more than a few days now. I wanted to do it sooner, but I was still picking up and sorting the pieces. As much as I try to set goals and make plans to reach them, I’m constantly reminded that a big part of the plan is ditching it. Words to me are like floods. They’re nothing until they begin to overflow.

I landed in Portland with a sense of familiarity. I have mixed feelings about things that become familiar, but this one felt mostly good. I really took a liking to the city when I was there last. It was good to see it again. I’d certainly been thinking about it. I walked off the plane and remembered the airport. I barely remember walking off the plane the last time, but I very much remember walking the other way. I remember sitting and writing while waiting for my plane, and not wanting to leave. Every detail of the place felt like it was being burned into me. That all came rushing back this time around, but it felt colder and more used up. Of course, I was moving in the opposite direction.

I remembered the train. It made 2 stops before it dawned on me what I didn’t remember: my stop. I sent a text to Liam, one half of my hosts, who reminded me that it was Galleria/SW 10th. I sat back and enjoyed the ride. There were moments when the sun and mountains moved together through the windows. It was so powerful. I found myself wondering how the glass didn’t break.

I saw a man with what I thought was a monkey balanced on his shoulder and hand. The man had on one of those heavy gloves you might see a bird or animal trainer wearing. The monkey was spotted and wearing a Santa suit. It turned and looked at me. The monkey was a cat.

I walked off the train and toward Powell’s. Powell’s is an amazing bookstore, and one of the greatest places I’ve ever been fortunate enough to spend time in. It’s like a museum, but you can touch and handle everything. You can take it with you, in more ways than one. I could spend an entire day there and fall asleep with a smile on my face, if I slept at all, dreaming of doing it again. I can’t say that about too many places.

Powell’s is also where Liam and I planned to meet. We spotted each other out front and began walking toward his place. The conversation we started in May continued almost immediately. JoAnne, the other half of my hosts, joined in as soon as we walked into their apartment. It was good to catch up with them. They told me they were getting married. I was happy to hear it and very happy for them. It doesn’t seem like the bad idea I’ve seen so many times before. It’s not something for me, but it feels good to see other people getting it right.

I remember my dad used to keep a list of people he’d met while traveling. It was mostly sports figures and “celebrities” that I’d never heard of. I don’t have a list like that, but if I did Liam and JoAnne would be on it, underlined, circled and highlighted. They are made of something very fine and pure. We all are. It’s a shame how many have turned it into something black and cancerous, but we all have it.

After grabbing a bite to eat with Liam and leaving my unimportant bag behind, I headed out on my own with the important one. It’s a walk I feel I’ve taken a million times before, but still not one I’ve taken enough. I try to keep on the move as much as possible. I try to keep learning and improving. I walk through scattered locations and at times stumble into good people. We have our time together. It’s time I value very much, but then I have to keep moving. I’ll always end up walking down the streets of cities not my own, on my own.

I was walking back to Powell’s when I spotted a big hill in the distance. Before I knew it I was walking toward the big hill. As I got to the base I realized it might take a long time to make my way up it. It seemed like a great way to spend a morning, so I decided to save it for the next one.

I stopped for a cup of coffee at Stumptown before sinking into the abyss that is Powell’s. Stumptown is an independent roaster that does great things. Their Direct Trade approach to coffee purchasing is admirable. They go to great lengths to produce great coffee. And in doing so, they do great things for coffee growers around the world. The entire cycle is beautiful. There’s an art and a humanity to it, an integrity, and a great cup of coffee. Mine was fantastic.

I walked out of Stumptown and into Powell’s. I spent a good deal of time wandering through all the rooms, but most of my time was spent checking out the travel, history and photography books. They had a James Nachtwey book that I wanted to see, but it was in a locked case. I knew I wasn’t going to buy it that day, so that’s where it stayed. I’ll get my hands on it one day though. Nachtwey is a war photographer and the subject of the aptly titled documentary, War Photographer. He’s an enormous inspiration to me on many levels. His dedication and devotion to his craft flattens me. It’s the kind of passion I obsess over.

I sat for awhile in the café inside Powell’s, writing in my notebook and drinking tea. I also read from my copy of Ryszard Kapuściński’s Imperium. I just discovered Kapuściński recently, and he’s quickly becoming one of my favorite writers. He was a Polish journalist and photographer who did a lot of travel reporting. Imperium is a personal report of his travels to the Soviet Union. He wrote with such clarity and a chilling beauty. I can’t get enough. I purchased another Kapuściński book before leaving Powell’s for the night.

The evening ended at Deschutes Brewery. I met Liam and JoAnne there for dinner. The food was good and so was the conversation. It was a good night. I drank the same gluten-free ESB as I did the last time I was there. That was also a good night. I remember sitting outside reading Broken Summers by Henry Rollins, and listening to Scout Niblett’s cover of Van Morrison’s “Comfort You.” I can still hear that song the way I heard it that night. I can still remember exactly what I read from Broken Summers, and the way it cut through me like a knife. I can still see that night’s sky as though it was still right in front of me. Damn, that was a great night. I wasn’t trying to recreate it. I just wanted to taste it again.

Take as Needed for Pain