Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

and heave ho the Eighth of January, and get that last quarterly 1040ES in by 1/15, and then more weeks will come and go, and in them the dogs will get loose again, and a neighbor will scream a stream of undecipherable invective. At me. And I will not kill the dogs. They got baths yesterday.
And a bit of a hair touch-up for the girl dog. (I know what you're thinking.)

I was invited to a party which takes place today, the day on which, annually, I (mostly we) threw a party 32 years in a row. One after the other. Until there was no party that needed to be. Just a walk in the woods, a howling neighbor, an orange soda (HEB brand), anti-depressants, and wavering, shimmering knowledge of my failings and failures. (I worked about 30 hours on ad music Dec 30 and 31, 2011, and may well fail to sell any of it. At midnight last night, I was adding a mellotron track. Happy New .....? !). For more than 32 years there was so much music in my life, it was almost entirely forbidden, absent from the New Years Day party. I have no music playing now. I have my mind, in which are still swimming melodies. These are not helpful in the current minimalist music world --- perhaps my melodies are just too maximal....... sorry, self-indulgent digression))))))))------------->

My body aches from nothing in particular. My list of deceased friends lengthens every week, it seems. Pneumonia (never had it), cancer (might, haven't really checked) ((Fight Cancer with a CheckUp and a Check!)). Heart attack? Not many. More: drug overdose. Liver disease.
Auto incident. Gun.

The new New Yorker Talk of the Town opens with a piece by R. Angell on letters v. email. Nostalgic. Check my blog of 10/5, my first on email. And its dangers. Angell spends more time recalling the inimitable intimate life-giving aspects of the post card, the letter. Angell is limp. Not a right Angell, not a wrong Angell.
I like to think of the New Yorker as about a week ahead of Jon Stewart, 2 weeks ahead of Time/Newsweek, a month or so ahead of the gov'nment. I recall a story of successful job hunting in the wonk world, success achieved by promoting as ones own the US communist party line of about 1955. We had one then, illegal, but alive.

An illegal party. There will be gumbo.
These are my choices. 1 Reclusion 2 A party in which the wind picks up from the cold north 3 Close my eyes tightly and repeat "There's no place like home...there's no place like home...."
That's for sure. Do you have a way to get there from Oz? or perhaps this Bermuda Triangle?
(And what exactly is triangellation?) ((March Fourth! I go east then.))

why I DON'T love you means I Love You

and a bit of personal history

I may be wrong in my central thesis. I have had another one of those days where I feel like that Beetlejuice fellow, my head spinning on its acts as though something important is going one, but no nothing really important just a dozen things the details of which overlap, wag into each other, and then disperse, leaving just a touch of sewer gas. (Is the toilet leaking? How? When? Who to fix it? Is it really leaking? What is that brown stuff?)

The day didn't center around any one thing, but one thing it centered around was a gig -- "we'll just play 6-8, maybe 8:30. In Brenham. near Brenham." I like Brenham. The gig was further east, in Chappell Hill TX, a Really Charming small town. The fancy nice people threw a party in a cold barn using only small candles as space heaters in 40 degree F weather. Not f'in. Just F. Finally over.

And on the way home, after loading in EARLY, and playing 7:30 - 10 (how did that happen, my head was turned, well spinning). I drove the Civic home, having forgotten nothing, not even my Stetson. Podner. The whole show was computer driven. I had to wear head-phones (really hard with a spinning head) and play air fiddle, air piano, and air cello. Million Vanillion. I nearly left the highway a dozen times, my body experimenting with napping while travelling west at 73 mph, a particularly soporific speed.

Someone who says I Don't love you has loved
or has been thought to love you, though he/she loved you, thinks he/she really does/might.
saw at the very least that you were highly lovable (would, in odor words find a replacement for him/her in the time it takes my head to make half a rotation)
My personal use of the phrase ( if I ever used it) would be the result of years of pain in love.

There may be a very few people on Earth with us who just say what they mean (Hey, pass me the 3/8 inch socket) all the time. And of course there are troubled or sick people who don't know how to say what they mean EVER. They don't know what they mean. They may be thought to mean nothing. Sociopaths, and the otherwise mentally ill. Drug addicts. Some people I love may fall in or near the tree of this category, the mean nothing category. Doctors, for instance.

I'm talking here about utterances as performative in an odd way. The utterance which is uttered in order to elicit a response and then (important) study it! How does that idea look out in the world? Hmmm. Wow. Weird. Uh oh.

Because "I Don't Love You" elicits some bad stuff. It hurts. Even I can't turn it into a fun thing to hear like for an instance -- that turquoise color looks AWESOME on you, MADE for you.
Not really turquoise. A strange blue. You should have a shirt made out of that!

So, the performative as exploratory. "I Don't love you" would denote "I do love you, I am confused about it, I feel negative stuff too, and sometimes I just don't seem to FEEL it, and it's hard to love you (you are an animal! in a bad way). Or, maybe you're NOT an animal in a good way. But kids, it ALWAYS means I do or have and expect again to love you. It's a dance move that twists your arm hard behind your back. And hurts.

It's a song. You always hate the one you love. Oh wait (then check the Spike Jones famous rendition....

You always hurt the one you love,

The one you shouldn't hurt at all.

You always take the sweetest rose,

And crush it till the petals fall.

You always break the kindest heart,

With a hasty word you can't recall.

So, if I broke your heart last night,

It's because I love you most of all.

Unfortunately one good turn (of the head) deserves another.

CRISIS!!

Certainly there are crises. Things come to a head. Someone dear (or not so dear) is very ill. It will no longer do for [everyone concerned] to remain inactive, to just watch it unfold. Or will it? When people use the word "crisis" at a rate exceeding 3 times per minute, it's a fair assumption that they are feeding the "crisis," probably causing unnecessary suffering, and there's plenty more to this which I will leave as etc., etc., since it is so insulting I must refrain... Let's just leave it at some recognition of the value of a calm head in a storm. And one more: The tough times are our teachers. EW!!! Didn't want to hear that.

A crisis can also be a good excuse to get out of class for awhile. "There's this crisis, and I have responsibilities, and I can't make cookies for the book discussion group Monday. Of course, I won't be there anyway. So sorry to miss it. I loved the new (mediocre but of course well-written) Tobias Wolff book. Hey and
I'll be back soon because: #1 the true depth and breadth of this crisis are as yet unknown by me but are finite #1b the true depth and breadth of the crisis are as yet unknown but are probably infinite, #2 I can only interact effectively (?) with my family of origin for a relatively brief period, #3 The amount of learning and growth I will have to endure may kill me if there is prolonged exposure, and #4 I have to make cookies for the next discussion group meeting."

PS "Please do not presume to set foot in my crisis. I will call you when I need a little input, mostly when I am so exhausted I won't be able to hear or understand what you are saying."
"Sweet dreams.
Good night.
Oh what did you say? Hey come on! Isn't it obvious I have exactly zero energy left to even begin to consider any problems you may need help with. Don't lay that on me now. Got a crisis going here!" (for crisis sake)

axia

There are many oft-quoted phrases in the book Alcoholics Anonymous. One of my faves: "It is a spiritual axiom that every time we are disturbed, no matter what the cause, there is something wrong with us." I don't like the term "spiritual axiom" (there's no such thing), but I do applaud what I take to be the idea, and it is true by definition, so in a retarded way kind of "axiomatic." And AA folks like to talk about spirit a lot, so there you go. But to remove the gratuitous "spirit" from the equation (it is an equation): When we are disturbed,
we are in disarray, feel icky, could probably use some help -- we are disturbed. This is what philosophers call an analytic truth, a truth by definition. True beyond any need for evidence.

As a corollary....I am taking this thing to the hilt: When everyone in my life seems to be screwing up -- especially in their interactions with me --, and I feel blocked at every turn from achieving or helping with the achievement of what I believe to be the best outcomes for every situation in my life and theirs, then My Life is a mess. And/or so am I. And their lives may only be messed up to the extent that they intersect mine. Or maybe they're not messed up at all. They just have a touch of the flu, and the flu is me. I am resistant to anti-biotics. They phase me not at all. I smile when I get paid. I try to be helpful, but I meet suspicion often, nervousness.
Shellax everybody!

my journal

A real journalist never reveals his psoriasis. Many of them work at home now, which can be a site for psoriasis. They also meet in cafes, secreted away. Over orange juice. Or perhaps with a homely wife in tow, as a disguys. My journal is completely private, although it does dwell on matters corporeal, and contains references to colonial times, generally available promotional material, and pure unadulterated hatred of the stupid things I've done. Both of them. Which I do daily. Like a real journalist.
This justin.

I saw a woman in the street this evening. Her dog barked continuously for a dog week. For a weak dog, it was impressive. There was no stopping this dog. Except the fence did. Imagine if all you could do was bark. (Perhaps you don't have to imagine) What a treet that would be. Stick to your gums! I'd say. Then I'd suggest opening a new branch. No, I will never reveal my sorcerers.

epistemology

Years ago I wrote about Gilbert Ryle, and my son responded with a lengthy quote from Wikipeedonya.

Just be glad I didn't do it again. Oh well, since I'm here....What is Knowledge? Hmmm?

Knowledge is justified true belief.

That was easy. (til you get down to cases)

I knew it! She never really loved me. (I was justified in my deeply held belief, but foo, it was not true)

so far under the radar

I spent a jurassic park ton of energy this week helping prep a "show" in a chichi venue in the new Austin Town with, really, a bunch of friends of mine, who were at the very least cooperative. Some were diligent. Some were inspiring. The whole thing was a blast really, replete with Roy Boy Benet, bona fide star, who was charming, and rockin triple fiddles, and probably the most exciting lapsteel player living, and some great singers, great rhythm section and on and on. There were 4 rehearsals and then a show. Which received a standing ovation (I think the chichi people who could afford it were glad to get on their feet after 90 minutes of unrelenting western swing). Here's the thing. At no portion of this was there a videographer, photographer, nor was there even any audio recording (who wants that??). I screwed up. And afterwards, I slept like a rock for 10 solid hours. And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming, which included, yesterday, a single cello overdub session on an interesting record by a youngish new artist. The photographer must have snapped a hundred shots of just me. Then the camera broke. No one can see me. No one must see me.
I must move deeper underground. And write better.