February » 2008 » Pragmatik

Anatomy of Restlessness.

I am finishing up Bruce Chatwin‘s Anatomy of Restlessness. Being jobless and stuck in my apartment most days while Mrs. P is at work, I found this book both thrilling and depressing. I am a big Chatwin fan, but I especially enjoyed this posthumous publication because of the honesty of a few of the pieces, such as “I Always Wanted To Go To Patagonia” and a letter wherein he spells out the plan for his great book on nomadism/restlessness that never got written. I mean, Chatwin was a little…pretentious at times, such as when, in The Songlines, he spelled out how awesome his black notebooks were in such detail that an Italian company was able to reproduce them ten years later. I mean, I confess an addiction of sorts to those little treasures, so I think this is a good thing. But in an interview, maybe. In the main text? Pretentious? Or maybe brave? A little soul-baring? Chatwin says that the man he was talking to looked at him, when Chatwin told him about his precious notebooks, as if he had never heard anything more pretentious. Did that happen, or did old Bruce imagine that in some kind of self-consciousness?

Maybe even when he is fictionalizing his “stories” he was still honest to some degree, more so than one would believe when I started writing this post. Maybe he was a complete liar. I don’t know. Either way, you should still definitely check out this book. Or anything else by Chatwin you can get your hands on. I found this book, first edition, sitting on a stack when I walked into Normals one day this fall, after looking for that book for a long time. I exclaimed out-loud, “I’ve been looking for this! It’s like it was here just for me.”

But now I am restless. Very. When I read the first essay last week, I went shopping when I was pretty sick (and got sicker) because I could not stand the idea of staying home all day after reading something like that. Is that sad? I have finally gotten around to filling in a travel journal from our research trips in fall 2006. They were a bit of a pain at the time, when I was trying to get a dissertation written. But now I wish I could go back to New Haven for another chilly Friday morning wishing I brought something other than sandals. Or to New York for a thunderstorm on Broadway, ducking into the largest Barnes and Noble I have ever seen. Or to Boston, within a mile of where I lived for two years, remembering all things I loved and hated about that place. Hours at my favorite cafe’ there.

For now, I have to settle for books and other people’s experiences. And, of course, remembering my own.

[Larger images here.]

Sloshing through mud.

Dan, trying out his new fenders at Druid Hill Park. He had to use the water fountain and his sport bottle to get enough mud to make his brakes work. It was awesome.

Hillary Clinton is a crone?

Is Hillary Clinton a crone? Beats me, but I don’t think I could do the “party-line” thing and vote for her. I don’t. I think she would be a terrible President. Yes, I said it. She seems like a pretty mean person to me. Unless, of course, she has always hidden her identity and is, in fact, a cuddly sensation. Now she goes so far in trying to smear the image of the man who’s beating her pant-suited butt that she actually makes fun of him for being a better speaker than she is. This is freshman locker room crap, and I imagine she would do worse to John McCain and prove very bad things about the Democratic party.

And let’s not forget that she was only a Senator for a few years longer than Obama, and the whole Whitehouse experience? Yeah, she didn’t do that, Remember? That was the other Clinton. My wife thinks that claiming credit for something your husband did is very “un-feminist.” I don’t know. I think it’s just lying.

There are some ridiculous things being said about a lot of issues and events this time around, like always. Someone very close to me said he would never vote for Obama because “he says the war was a bad idea, and that dishonors the troops.” I mean no offense, and as I love the guy that said this, but what? Is denying the truth a good way to honor brave people who died? Or making things up after the fact to make the war seem like a good idea to save some people’s careers and the Republican party? I said of someone else we know that she only voted for Hillary because she is a woman (behind her back, of course, because I can be as mean of someone losing a primary — no he di-int). My wife said, “At least she’s voting Democrat.” I don’t care if she’s a Democrat. Voting for your party is something illiterate hicks can do. If she is the best we can do as a party, then, hell, I think I’ll find another party.

Please no hatemail if you are a supporter. I mean, don’t go all Hillary on me.

Winding his watch.

Last night, I was walking home on Roland Avenue.Â I saw a man sitting in a very modern car, with the engine running.Â After a mouthful of fumes, I thought to myself, “What is this creepy guy doing sitting in his car?”

Yes, people sitting in their cars with the engine running kind of creeps me out.

I looked, and amidst all the colorful lights and dingies and flingies and beep-beeps [I imagine], there he was.Â Quietly winding his watch.

How strange.

Watercolor’ed last week.

[Larger.]

Along with the small spending limit for gifts, we thought we’d have fun with V-Day this year with the help of homemade cards. I pulled out the Moleskine watercolor book a friend sent me a year ago and a watercolor set I got for Christmas in 2004 and set to sketching. What I wound up using for the card was a roughly-brushed heart and wash deal that I almost tossed. This is the corner of a bad little woods and sky sketch that my wife stole and took to work, only to return it when I had a hissy fit. A total hissy fit. I don’t think I can paint like I used to be able to.

I was, however, happy with the Moleskine watercolor paper. The original sketch books just let the water run and never soaked anything up, at least in my experience. Which is not to say that I don’t like that paper for making cartoons about funny things I read about and people I don’t like. The color and texture of the Moleskine watercolor paper are both just right for some quick dabblings. The pages are cut at the edges for removal, too.

Especially considered the sketch/notes nature of Moleskines, it was nice to have paper so welcoming to the watercolor. Regular Moleskines don’t take thick inks very well, but I always assumed this was because of their origin as notebooks, where ballpoint ink or pencil makes the most sense, on the go, in a pocket, waiting for a train or a lover.

Photo Friday: Art.

Rocking out.

My fingers have not hurt this much since 2000 or 2001, back in the days of Dan, Paulie and Johnny Star rocking out on a regular basis to the heights of our Rock Days. Some clubs (Cafe’ Tatoo, Ottobar, Gopher Hole, etc.) and private parties. Nothing huge. But the rocking was huge. If you wanted your rafters dusted and heavy objects to fall from your shelves, you asked us to jam in your living room for ten minutes, prior to the poh-pohs shutting us down.Â Our frontman got crowds into our funk songs and headbanging with the dark songs, with bass chords and Dan shredding picks and strings.

Triumphant rock.

Then I went to graduate school, and we all got older.Â Even playing for the past year, we have not rocked like we rocked last night.Â My skin is coming off, and every muscle in my fingers aches like a thumb-wrestling champion.Â Cookie skin.Â My thumb looks like I dragged it under my bike from playing 4-string bass chords sans pick.Â I have blisters on my bass pumping fingers.Â Typing this hurts.

Awesome.Â With permission, maybe I’ll host and post some snippets of Rock.Â One of these days.

I’m a little deaf today, too.

Awesome.

Happy V-Day 2008.

[Larger.]

Happy Valentine’s Day, from a happy little Valentine. I know, tons of people hate this holiday. It’s Hallmark, the Devil, the Man, the Machine, yes. I am sorry. But.
I don’t care.

I love Valentine’s Day.

That’s easy for someone with a soulmate to say.

I know.

I am sorry if I break your heart with my exuberance, I really am. I will give you chocolate and a hug, if you require. French press of coffee and another hug.

We are off tonight (after Mrs. P. gets off work, actually) to what I consider my (maybe not the; I don’t know) most romantic place to eat in North Baltimore, the Papermoon Diner. I went there on my first real Valentine’s Day date when I was a teenager. From there we proceeded on a double-date with my brother to watch A Pyromaniac’s Love Story, a film chocked full of mid-90s optimism and impossible romance. Too bad it’s not on DVD and that I don’t have a VCR. I own a VHS copy, which I should digitally convert and offer the world on my website until the Man shuts me down.

So many acronyms.

The Papermoon does not remind me of a person. No, it’s a feeling. I miss the 90s and our feel-good apathy and when coffee made you almost cool. Now we are all afraid and all over-caffeinated. You can get good coffee at freakin’ McDonalds. Geez. There is nothing special about drinking strong coffee after dinner anymore and knowing what’s in all those fancy drinks.

But I digress. We insisted on a $20 price limit for gifts this year because whenever we decide on no gifts, we both break that rule. Twenty bucks is for sweet presents. Thoughtful things. It was my idea for homemade cards. So I pulled out my watercolors yesterday and painted extensively for the first time in over ten years, decorating the craft paper gift wrap and making a card complete with red ribbon and superglue all over my hands. Mrs. P. made me a giant cookie card. Yum and dang.

I hope I am not the only one to have a nice V-Day.

[Also for Photo Friday: Infinity.]

Tackle skaters.

Why not? A cop in Baltimore did. But, then again, he didn’t get away with it. His fat ass is suspended. Sorry about the fat comment. But. Geez. You should see how skinny the Army made my brother get. And this guy…I mean, I tug my own little gut around everywhere I go, but come on. And he’s supposed to be a cop on foot. Shouldn’t that imply that he could catch a bad guy? It looks like he had trouble taking this kid down. Watch the video for yourself.

This is exactly what we need. With the crime problem in Baltimore, we need asshole cops that pick on little kids. That will solve everything. Skating is, you know, so much more important to stop in this city than drug dealers killing innocent people when they are trying to kill each other. I remember living in Boston, with a much lower murder rate than in Baltimore. The cops there, at least the ones I came into contact with, were just scary. I got yelled at once for cussing loudly in Quincy. Gee, I wonder if the scary cops you wouldn’t even spit in front of and the lower murder rate were related at all. Maybe being afraid of the police is a bad thing. But still, out-of-shape cops picking on teenagers is not exactly going to win the BCPD any respect. I haven’t exactly met a lot of, I don’t, good cops in this city. Some, yes. Mostly not. And I grew up here.

Mayor Dixon has expressed disgust. She’s right. Maybe she’ll shake up the Poh-leece some more.Â I hope she does something to this jackass, who is totally making it easier to blame her and her administration for crime, like the local martyr Republicans like to do.Â “We just can’t get a Republican Mayor elected in this city.Â It ain’t fair.”Â Wow, way to complain about DEMOCRACY, dudes.

K&P at LS.

I have chili cooking, and the smell is making me hungry. The smell of habanero and a touch of cinnamon. Wow. Yikes. Thinking of food, here is a photo of my sister-in-law and her boyfriend at dinner a few weeks ago.

Blue bottle flame.

[Larger.]

This is from a few years ago. With several attempts at filling a Pepsi bottle with fluid from a Bic lighter, Dan and Paulie produced this cool blue display at Dan’s house in Hampden.

Photo Friday: What Is That?

Two Baudelaires.

[Larger.]

Do not adjust your screen. That is in fact a photo of two copies of the same book. Baudelaire’s Intimate Journals. I received a copy of it in June 2003 when I finished my MA from an old friend. I was excited about getting to read what I wanted to read between grad programs and was generally giddy about starting my PhD program. I finally read Kerouac that summer and listened to a lot of great music.

I was in a funk often during the school year of 2002-2003 wherein I was feeling very shallow, materialist, boring and cold. I worked too hard (really, I used to do that), lusted for things like more jeans than a person can actually wear and an army of coffee cups. I tried a number of things to get myself more, I don’t know, more alive.

One of these things was that, during the spring of 2003, I read poetry every single day. I found those cool little Pocket Poets series books at the Harvard Bookstore (no relation to the school) for like $4 and built a stash. Perfect for taking on the subway, when I was underground with no people and spring to look at. I read Whitman because I always liked his work. I was enjoying Rimbaud‘s younger verses, perfect for April and May. I got into Baudelaire at the recommendation of a friend, and I found something very moving.

I’ve talked about Baudelaire before.

One day, I swear I will learn French. I have that software; you know the one. I will tell everyone that it is for my eventual trip to Paris. But it will largely be so that I can read Baudelaire in French. Rimbaud, too. And watch Amelie.

Anyway, my favorite passage from this book made it’s way into my dissertation, during the chapter on enemies bringing out the best in us:

A man goes pistol-shooting, accompanied by his wife. He sets up a doll and says to his wife: “I shall imagine that this is you.” He closes his eyes and shatters the doll. Then he says, as he kisses his companion’s hand, “Dear angel, let me thank you for my skill!” [Baudelaire, Intimate Journals, pg. 37.]

With spring coming, you might want to pick up some of the books I was talking about and which I wrote about very shortly after I began blogging. Read it here. You can sometimes find them cheaply at the physical locations of Daedalus, if you’re in the Baltimore area.Â My stack has grown to around twenty volumes these days, though I don’t get to read much poetry lately. Don’t get to because I’ve been reading a whole lot of fiction. I’ll dig into my tiny poetry books soon, though.

By the way, my blogging history turns four tomorrow. Make me a cake please.

RIP, Sheldon Brown.

Sheldon Brown passed away. I was coming back from a bike shop in the summer, and I swore I saw Sheldon Brown riding on a folder up on Falls Road, past the city line. I thought, what the hell, and emailed him, not thinking I’d get a response. But I did. He sent me a cheerful few emails (telling me that it was not him and me saying what a boon it would be to Baltimore cycling if it had turned out to be him) that I will save forever now. From what a lot of people are sharing, that was the norm for a very generous man and a hero to cyclists everywhere. This is very sad news, and I’m glad my friend and I went riding and to a bike shop for some parts today, to keep something like Sheldon’s spirit alive. Check out Sheldon’s website for what will probably never be topped, insofar as free bike advice and encouragement go. If you can read that site and not get on a bike, well, brother, you’re lost.

Zappos on the bike.

[Larger.]

I really like using the cargo rack on my bike. My frame does not have the holes for the top attachments (the 2005 and the 2007 both do, but mine’s the 2006), but I got it on in a sturdy fashion with the aid of something a biking friend of mine sent me, some electrical tape, and patience. I use my rack whenever I can. So when I had to take a stack of boxes to the post office last week, I was stoked. I rolled up with four packages, paid less than five bucks and left with an empty rack.

Sometimes, with large loads, I get stares and weird looks. I think it’s funny. I could not sit on my seat, though, with that many boxes, and it hurt my knees for the mile up to the post office. Then I got from the post office in Roland Park (near Eddie’s) down to Charles Village to have Mexican food for lunch with Mrs. P in ten minutes flat. Which rendered my pinkies numb, despite my sweet new cycling gloves that I got for Christmas. But I was in a good mood for all the errands, all of which were made more fun on two wheels. I remember what a chore going to the post office in the Dale was. I enjoy it now.

It’s Okay that it’s warm today.

[Larger.]

I really don’t mind that it’s warm today, in the dead of winter. I know, if you’re awesome enough to have been around Pragmatik for a few years, you know this has been an issue for me in the past. I was jealous of New York’s storm. Then just annoyed at the lack of winter weather.

I sure whine a lot. Yes. I know.

Obviously, it was largely an issue of not liking where I lived. But also, I don’t know, my hands are cracked from walking and cycling (with sweet cycling gloves, no less). I’d really like to walk around my apartment barefoot for a day or two. Going to walk to Hampden because Mrs. Pragmatik needs more yarn from the yarn shop. Don’t need my large coat or huge scarfage, and my feet will not be “I wear Chucks numb.” How Kneat. I sure know how to spin…a….y-, arn, huh?

I have a headache and need like three gallons of water and maybe, I guess, one of coffee.

So temperatures in the 50s are Okay today. It’s not the world asked me or really cares if the Magical Pragmatik Guy thinks it’s Okay. Nonetheless, ask me Monday if I feel the same way.

I should really get around to getting my novel into better shape. And the whole, you know, dissertation I wrote. Geez.

For Photo Friday: Misty.

Anatomy of Restlessness.

Sloshing through mud.

Hillary Clinton is a crone?

Winding his watch.

Watercolor’ed last week.

Rocking out.

Happy V-Day 2008.

Tackle skaters.

K&P at LS.

Blue bottle flame.

Two Baudelaires.

RIP, Sheldon Brown.

Zappos on the bike.

It’s Okay that it’s warm today.

Recent Posts

Recent Comments

Archives

Categories

Blogs

Links

Fatherhood

Meta