stories

Dear friend now in the dusty clockless hours of the town when the streets lie black and steaming in the wake of the watertrucks and now when the drunk and the homeless have washed up in the lee of walls in alleys or abandoned lots and cats go forth highshouldered and lean in the grim perimeters about, now in these sootblacked brick or cobbled corridors where lightwire shadows make a gothic harp of cellar doors no soul shall walk save you.

Old stone walls unplumbed by weathers, lodged in their striae fossil bones, limestone scarabs rucked in the floor of this once inland sea. Thin dark trees through yon iron palings where the dead keep their own small metropolis. Curious marble architecture, stele and obelisk and cross and little rainworn stones where names grow dim with years. Earth packed with samples of the casketmaker’s trade, the dusty bones and rotted silk, the deathwear stained with carrion. Out there under the blue lamplight the trolleytracks run on to darkness, curved like cockheels in the pinchbeck dust. The steel leaks back the day’s heat, you can feel it through the floors of yours shoes. Past these corrugated warehouse walls down little sandy streets where blownout autos sulk on pedestals of cinderblock.

Hey Suttree, they called.

Goddamn, said J-Bone, surging from the bowels of the couch. He threw an arm around Suttree’s shoulders. Here’s my old buddy, he said. Where’s the whiskey? Give him a drink of that old crazy shit.
How you doing, Jim?
I’m doing all around, where you been? Where’s the whiskey? Here ye go. Get ye a drink, Bud.
What is it?
Early Times. Best little old drink in the world. Get ye a drink, Sut.
Suttree held it to the light. Small twigs, debris, matter, coiled in the oily liquid. He shook it. Smoke rose from the yellow floor of the bottle.
Shit almighty, he said.
Best little old drink in the world, sang out J-Bone. Have a drink, Bud.
He unthreaded the cap, sniffed, shivered, drank.
J-Bone hugged the drinking figure. Watch old Suttree take a drink, he called out.
Suttree’s eyes were squeezed shut and he was holding the bottle out to whoever would take it. Goddamn. What is that shit?
Early Times, called J-Bone. Best little old drink they is. Drink that and you wont feel a thing the next mornin.
Or any morning.
Whoo lord, give it here. Hello Early, come to your old daddy.

Yeah, right? Lyrical isn’t close to being the right word. How do you do that?

There’s an odd, not too interesting and short story of Suttree and me. I bought the book nearly two years ago, read all up to the last 80 pages, then shelved it, for a reason I didn’t understand, not worth a rat turd; really, I had no idea why. Bad book? Oh no, amazing book. It is a bit slow to read, absolutely, but that’s because it’s not hardly even a ‘book.’ The words of the first page tie together and together stop and kick and knock around and in one page there’s some myth and some lost and some found and it is the slowest reading page I’ve read. It feels like he’s more a painter than a writer, pencil his brush. And so now I crack the cover and remember how brilliantly this man uses words.

Edit:
I posted this halfway through the book, then finished it. Whewee. Not sure I like the last quarter. It’s weird, it’s definitely kinda weird; I could only reccomend this book if you’re real good and ready for a weird few final chapters.

other, stories

After trying two commercial html editing programs, two commercial WYSIWYG programs (neither of which I actually bought, just “demo” tried), then both an open source editor and an open source WYSIWYG, right now notepad simply works best.

Regardless of the truth or lack of it in the matter, I do feel like I’ve made it, arrived at somewhere good.

Edit: Jan 19th, 2011
Thanks to a very kind donation, one of the commercial WYSIWYG is now “free” so to speak. At the moment it works best to do a sidebyside mix. This program to quickly arrange visual elements and do things I don’t know the syntax for, then notepad to scrub and polish it. Someday maybe I’ll be cool enough to work fastest straight up notepad.

stories

My friend died a year ago.

The phone call I received at 8:30am one year ago lasted less than twenty words, and it’s etched deep and forever in my heart. I can’t say much more–I wrote about it some months ago, and what I wrote then for memorial day was all I had to say, and still is all I have to say, about that day and that phone call.

After an IED claimed his body and life here on earth, it was months before I could sleep right. Nightmares? No, and I thank God for that. I honestly don’t know if I could’ve handled nightmares without spiraling downwards with utterly crippled emotions and mind. I simply couldn’t sleep right. I would try to stay at school and do homework, but couldn’t focus; I don’t mean that I wouldn’t, or didn’t want to..literally I could not focus. Months passed, and than one night I slept and woke up rested.

That was the single most bittersweet morning I’ve known in my life so far.

Some time later, one night after a long week and one particularly long day, I was still awake in the early morning, really troubled.

Joe believed and understood more than I do and likely ever will who God is, what redemption is, and the both heart-crushing and soul-saving beauty of the death of God himself, in human form as the carpenter’s son. I knew that Joe was in a better place.

Somehow I didn’t have peace about his death though. “Why the hell wasn’t that me?” I would ask. I could’ve joined the army, I could well have been in that Stryker instead of him. He was married and wanted to help troubled kids after he finished in the army. Joe White was larger than life.

I didn’t have peace.

That night, restless and painful, I sat on the deck stairs looking up at the stars as the wind spoke through the trees, and peace came.

Peace came.

Like the small wave that reaches just further than the rest, to where you’re standing, cool fresh salty water splashes over the tops of your feet cleaning off the sand, and it comes far enough past your heels to even wash away the footprints behind you.

Peace came.

Joe loved and he loved with more depth and soul and power than most folks will ever imagine could be..except for the folks that knew him. Those who knew him knew that there must’ve been something bigger, something else. It was something more, oh you bet it was something more: it was god. Full, real love–something so damn big that it doesn’t fit in this universe, but sometimes when someone actually realizes it, gets it, and decides to live by that, when you meet and come to know one of them, you catch a glint of this light, a blinding beautiful shimmer. That was Joe. His life shone with a glimpse of eternity.

I can’t write anything else, but I want to put something else here: notes he wrote. I copied these off of his facebook account, and they’re some of the most moving things I’ve read in my life–because he poured himself into what he wrote, and he had a lot of soul to pour into things. Some of them are also some of the funniest things I’ve read in my life.

I’m going to have a Rockstar, today, for Joe. He always had one in his hand–everybody’s got their vices, his was Rockstar. At the end of the day was it even a vice? I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. You should have one for him today, too.

BOB! go to sleep.
Tuesday November 18 2008

at first i considered him a mouse problem (i’m assuming he’s a dude mouse because i’m uncomfortable with the thought of sharing the room i get naked in with a female). anyway anyone (even if it is a mouse) who steals cookies that my girlfriend makes for me is a problem. but he just helped himself to them like his mother never taught him manners. so i trapped him under a pillow one night and punched it as hard as i could (it was on my couch and i’d rather get rid of a couch pillow then have mouse guts all over my hand.) i heard something pop and thought it was the mouse but i’m pretty sure it was just my knuckles now because when i lifted the pillow he was no where to be seen. i took it as a sign to leave him alone (well more like i didn’t want him thinking i was a problem and bite my johnson off while i was sleeping at night… well sleeping anytime really i’m not sure why i put at night.. whatever. i have serious ADD) so i named him bob and told him to help himself to MY cookies. i’m such a nice guy. i’m sure bob’s forgiven me for trying to turn him into mouse sauce with my fist. at least i hope he has. i am sharing my cookies after all.

Simple?
Monday April 7 2008

God is good. God is merciful. God is faithful. and God is love. sometimes it’s just that simple. everything else is only matters for the brief moment it is relevant and then disappears for the rest of God’s eternity.

photography

I got out of bed at 4:30 to catch a bus to South Seattle in time for the sunrise and Murphy’s law did it’s thing: the morning was fully overcast as daylight came. Mostly undeterred, I shot 22 or so frames of the area. Here are a few I liked.
Nikon F3, Series E 50mm/f1.8, Ilford HP5+. Scans done by Omega Photo, numbered by frame number.

#9
#10
#15
#16
#19
#20
#23
photography

Here are some more color shots–same old color film, same real nice slightly reddish vintage tones. I saved one roll of it for a special occasion, and I’m going to buy some film this week to sock away for a few years down the road. Nikon F3, e-series 50mm; no photoshopping or cropping.

clover flowers at the home field
(took this one 5 years ago with mom's point and shoot 35mm)
favorite cafe near home, shot 1
house number
the bikes, just before we hit the mountain (I definitely screwed up this scan--get a negative scanner soon, Dave)
fiery in the rearview mirror
old screen
photography

Pre-post note #1:
It’s a bit late to finish it now, but I’m working on writing/editing what I think about the “best” photo(s) I will ever take in my life. Hopefully this weekend I’ll have it coherently together.
Pre-post note #2:
These are the last shots I’ll be taking with Dad’s Nikkormat; hello Nikon F3 :D. Dear new camera: I hope you and I will do lots together and I appreciate that you double as a battle mace when I unlatch one side of your neck strap.

I decided to try Ilford’s C-41 400 film (so I can get it processed for…*drumroll*…cheaper. notice a trend?), XP2 Super. I like it, and when I finally get access to a good scanner, I’ll put it up against the non-C-41 (HP5+) shots I’ve got and see what differences there are.

This roll is the best photography I’ve done. I could be wrong about that..time may tell (do I hope it will in fact tell? I’m not sure). Here’s something odd though: I was convinced that one particular frame was the single best picture I’d taken, ever. Like, no doubting at all, I knew this. It wasn’t…it flopped. It flopped really badly. Composition, focus, aperture setting and all the works. It’s frustrating, but I can’t bring myself to be too cranky, considering how well so many other shots came through. Uncorrelated to that, I pulled my act together and numbered the scans by frame # finally.

Without more ado, here’re eight shots I feel good about:

#06
#11
#16
#23
#24
#25
#32
#34
photography

Edit:
So…somehow wordpress (naturally I blame it on them. Human error? Nah, couldn’t be that) ate this post, so here’s what I recall to be the four shots I posted.
6/24/10 DP

#11
#14

#3
#22
photography

“The photographer first sees and feels a moment in time and life, then quietly tries to draw it from the world around it.”

It was more humbling than I thought it’d be, which is (hard to admit) a good thing.

Today I picked up my first two rolls of developed film. Although the lab did a great job, I’d like to develop my own film now. UW Photography darkroom, lets you and I become friends.

Part of me feels that I shouldn’t ever post only one or a few photos, as a musician may want an album to be kept whole. Being picky about that is something I’ve got to earn; I’ll wait till I’m better at photography to place/show each roll of film only whole.

The first roll is Ilford HP5+; the second is Kodak Tri-X 400. All were shot through a great 50mm f1.4 with a Nikkormat, both on borrow from my Dad (thanks pops!).

I’m not at all well versed in b&w filmstuffs, but I think I like the tones of the Ilford film.

Without further ado, here are a few that’re alright.

Roll 1, #6
Roll 1, #8
Roll 1, #13
Roll 2, #23
Roll 2, #18
Roll 2, #24
ideas, stories

Sometimes, I wonder how those guys managed to put so much into this song; it just baffles my mind. That’s art, I guess.

Sometimes I cannot forgive
And these days, mercy cuts so deep
If the world was how it should be, maybe I could get some sleep
While I lay, I dream we’re better,
Scales were gone and faces light
When we wake, we hate our brother
We still move to hurt each other
Sometimes I can close my eyes,
And all the fear that keeps me silent falls below my heavy breathing,
What makes me so badly bent?
We all have a chance to murder
We all feel the need for wonder
We still want to be reminded that the pain is worth the thunder

Sometimes when I lose my grip, I wonder what to make of heaven
All the times I thought to reach up
All the times I had to give
Babies underneath their beds
Hospitals that cannot treat all the wounds that money causes,
All the comforts of cathedrals
All the cries of thirsty children – this is our inheritance
All the rage of watching mothers – this is our greatest offense

Oh my God
Oh my God
Oh my God