solipsis

We're now seeing pinholes of sunlight after what was to be winter visited the state. Our south was treated to the weakening remnant of what I understand was a legendary frost, elsewhere. Only it's gray affection extended to us, and a constant of forceful thunderstorms for the past three months was what little else it could spare. I miss it all as it's still leaving. It's absence is tangible already, and the silence is like a wonderful conversation soured without reason. We're left only with the heat crawling back, and the smell of rain withering away with it's arrival. A few days ago I was stood on our porch to bid it farewell, and the smells and colors playfully mirrored the end of summer. It was a reassurance that the gray will be welcomed again someday soon. It reminded me of making friends when the mirror was spinning over what was to be our autumn last year. I was caught outside in it's rain, on foot, miles from home. I couldn't have been more contented about that.

In the time I've lived down here, I've further developed two different but inseparable old habits, and they sometimes remind me that they need satisfaction when the air of 3AM rolls in. I must have a small and light meal I haven't prepared, and I need a long walk alone in the faint light of a town asleep. A drug in it's own right, as I catch little thoughts like fireflies as they arrive. There is a 24-hour shop two miles from me. How perfect. The dead of night here is exactly that. Should I feel the need to stop in my tracks and admire the way some street I'll never have a reason to take is tunneled in Spanish moss, striped and arched like a cat's back, and led away to a sharp fine point made of dim golden streetlight, I can. Practice riffs on my custom shop air guitar to whatever I've got on the earbuds, I can and will. I will stride aside an entire row of homes with yellow porch lights, and then meet the one house that chooses a white one. I will write a backstory for the family that lives there, and decide that a bout with sickness is why they want white light to shine over their gravel driveway and aluminum siding. Public privacy. Vastness, but still intimacy. Were it only four walls instead of many houses, I'd be gliding through a pale room littered with sleeping neighbors. The little things one can yearn for when the habit for the float isn't kept.

This September night in particular, though, I didn't feel like I was the only one drinking in these private pleasures. Rather, I had the distinct feeling I was being followed. Beneath the earphones I could hear a rustling, and a growing persistence behind me that managed to cut through the Dead Can Dance that had otherwise been shielding me from an awareness many would agree one ought to keep. The skin of my shoulders tensed as if they were about to be tapped any second. I turned around and asked, "Mary?"

I don't know why. I still don't. I had to stop and ponder what I had just done. I'm puzzled because, I know no Mary. Nor have I ever known a Mary. I put it among a list of life's little idiosyncrasies that I can remember but will never be able to explain. Little moments that feel like your childhood's grasp of the world. The kind that show themselves when you're too drawn into your own stream and carried away. Mine was carrying me to deciding who she was, and why she'd be following me. I'm sure the grin I had on may have been befittingly weird to anyone who would have seen this dance of mine in it's entirety.

I'd accepted it, turned back around, and carried on. In my amusement I'd even momentarily forgotten why I turned around. Stepping up onto a curb and and back on some grass, that rustling begins again, and is now a determined and rhythmic click from the street I'd just crossed behind me. I'm thinking whoever this is had just made sure to hide when I'd first turned around. I ball my fists and turn my head to the side, hoping to see the face of my pursuer before I decide when to spin around and meet him eye to eye. Pursuers, as my glance revealed to me, and their two silhouettes were approaching that much faster now. Time to turn around and make it plain that I know they're there.

Going by the heavy panting I gathered that they were happy to meet me. At my feet are a pair of handsome and rather striking earth-colored pit bulls, out and about as I was. "Oh good", I think to myself. "That's settled then." I have no reservations about the breed, and despite passing thoughts about an article I'd read in the paper when I was young about a Seattle man who'd been surrounded by feral dogs and had a meal made out of his throat in front of neighbors, I extend my wrist for sniffing to the one in front to introduce myself. Without a beat missed, his tail wagged as if it was about to snap off him, and he decided he'd much rather get on his hind legs, put his front paws on my hips, and try to crawl up me to get a taste of my chin. I was six years old immediately. After a moment the shy one behind him decided he wanted in on the ear scratching and descent into childhood as well. Seeing that they had no collars, or a Floridian hick with a "fuck a leash" philosophy trailing fifty feet behind them, it would seem I'd have company on my walk to the shop.

I wondered how I may have looked to the odd car that might drive by. At 3AM. Dressed in loose black. Earbuds in. Two unleashed pit bulls, noses to the ground, doing figure eights around my legs. My out of body self image of cool isn't fully realizing itself though, because I'm also chewing strawberry gum and listening to Bjork. But nobody needs to know that. After my wry chuckle, I notice one half of the dance troupe at my feet has sniffed his way out into the middle of the street again. He must not have been separated from his last owner for very long, as he understood what it meant when I pat my pocket with my hand to wordlessly call him back. Three quick pats in succession must have meant something else to him. Instead of strolling back over, he dropped down on his front paws and waited for me to give chase. Of course I did. All it took was a stomp and lunge, and the one that remained at my side got to watch with me as his propeller-like tail faded into distance. It's at this moment I have a bit of a heartbreaking thought. Given their eagerness to give and receive affection, to play, their responding to my different commands, their lack of tags, and their being rather clean for having been outside all this time, I realize they may have just recently been driven out here and abandoned. I remember that it's been happening here more and more often. Suddenly I'm awash with disgust, and a montage of all the things I hate about the average person scroll by my mind's eye, accompanied by horrible diseases and circumstances I wish on this person in particular. Not even the slack jawed strut of smug contentment on the dog's face glowing from a race well won fading back into view can cheer me up. Alright. I lie. It does a little. As did leaning down to nuzzle my head on his.

Another ten minutes after continuing onward, the roof lights of the plaza around the corner that contained my delicious prizes were co-opted by a flash of lightning bright enough to make my eyes flex, and a clap of thunder loud enough to thin the figure eight in which the dogs had resumed making to the point where I was almost tripping over them. Rain would be the cherry on top. Truly. I know it will be warm, and I know it will result in fog for me to wake up to tomorrow. But, as the drizzle multiplied, and the lightning became more frequent, my contentment turned to concern. Even more so since they would stop walking, stop panting, sit down, and look up at me with each flash and clap. These dogs will not be left out in the storm. "Well", I think to myself, "That's settled then." They were coming home with me for the night. My only hope was that my "stay" was authoritative but comforting enough to see to it that they'd be waiting for me when I emerged from the store. The word echoed in my own thoughts even, as I made my brisk pace up and down the aisles and making my selections. Maybe I liked the way it sounded. Maybe I just needed to repeat it to feel better if it turned out that they were gone. The clerk taking my order looked like he had something waiting for him beyond the confines of the shop too. Maybe we all have things we hope will wait for us. My two little victories for the night stood up and ran over before the door finished closing behind me. They'd waited patiently, and I validated whatever attachment they may have had to me as a stranger by ripping off half of the grinder sandwich I'd just bought and giving it to them. I suppose they're mine now. I know I can't keep them long...but they won't know loneliness.

The sun sets on my porch now. I wonder if they'd remember me.

I don't think I've written here about my band yet. I really ought to, considering the three years we've had. Given our very short history together so far but the things we've been able to do in that time, it'd be a shame to think it would only ever remain the afterthought of a joke between friends working at the same studio. It is myself on drums, guitarist John, and bassist Will. All of us share vocals. We are called Ultraloathe. At least until we record something official, being that it started as a "we need a name" name slapped on at random when we realized we had our first show in two days and hadn't bothered until that very moment. The three of us all have proud and focused projects of our own. Whereas this is entirely surplus. An outlet for lost and unused writings. That freeing sort of detachment and the fact that our first show was to be Halloween '09 together have made stage costumes a possible recurring feature for us for future shows. Many, myself included, might have reservations about playing as such. It does seem very gimmicky. But imagine being in attendance at an everyday death or black metal show, all your expectations set, when suddenly the audience is confronted with a band dressed in cop's uniforms and prisoner's hoods, who've come on stage to William Basinski's D|P 3, and whose signature song is a crawling ten minute crescendo about the joys of wearing a merkin made out of paper money and eating endangered plant life out of spite. I'd remember that band.

In December 2010, we opened for Brutal Truth. I can't begin to tell you how much of a proud moment in life this was and still is for me, nevermind it being a proud moment as a musician. I was two years old when they were formed. Thirteen years old when I first heard and fell in love with them. And there I stood, at 22, listening to Rich Hoak beam about us. About me and playing. Joking with me about how remarkably angry I looked, and promised that next time "I'll draw the dog from Blue's Clues on my snare. Nobody can be mad at him". This coming from a man looking as if he's in the throes of both orgasm and seizure when he plays.

The following March, we opened for Katakylsm and Weedeater exactly one week apart. Two more true honors and great jolts for the ego. Weedeater especially, who showed us what a three-piece can really be capable of. It's so humbling and wonderful to hear what anyone you admire has to say after the fact, too. Musings on your band's music sound that much more profound when given by a burly sweaty French Canadian in his own band's shirt, and then later from a toeless stoner who thinks "That one song with the wah pedals. Man. That wah pedal. Man. It's like. You guys were like. You know?" Yes Dixie. We do. We love you.

Already though, we've run into trouble. The good kind, however, in that a sort of example has been set at the last show we were supposed to play. Two people identifying with a certain frothy runoff of human residue called NSBM thought it a good idea to turn up to a little cellar show we were sharing with two other bands, who are great friends of ours. It's a passive acceptance of that scene and ideology by a small handful of the others that were there that led to these two being invited, I'm sure. As is typical of people with no opinions of their own, they carried themselves just as one might expect. The taller and older one, wanting everyone to know of his attendance, stood unyielding with his arms behind his back and as close to the center of the floor as he could, proudly displaying his tattered shirt which bore the name of a prominent band who also churn out that gospel unabashed. The shorter and younger one did not command as much attention, as his eyes were mostly turned upward and to the right looking to his friend for approval in any move he'd make. Save for the one that helped us demonstrate our counterpoint about midway into the first set of the night. Either way, they'd only managed to get a few rolled eyes and a dismissive giggle or two by those standing close enough to notice them. Everybody knew they were there though, and they seemed satisfied enough by that. Nailstream, the band opening the show, kept the attention on themselves with a brilliant onslaught that'd make the most hardened of battlejacket-clad crust proud. This must have been what gave the younger one the idea to grab some of that attention for himself. In between songs, he waited to lock eyes with anyone on stage. He succeeded, and threw the guitarist Dan, who is Mexican, a Nazi salute.

I'd never seen anyone leap through the air toward another so majestically. It was regal, really. To the grave I'll carry the image of a 6'2" 230lb death metal guitarist armed with a pointy BC Rich sailing gracefully over a front row of confused onlookers, down to the widening eyes of a scrawny racist realizing he's just made the biggest mistake of his undoubtedly unfulfilling life. I didn't see much of them for what was left of the night. Properly so. I'm sure it was painful. Right after they'd sank into the crowd, I noticed the older of the two cocking back his right hand as if to throw a punch to someone eye level with him. In that split second I was no longer amused by the justice, and thought he'd probably come all the way out here just to hurt someone. Never minding his young friend being liquefied at his feet. He looked set, and ready to get his hits in to whoever was nearest. I could feel my muscles tightening and my breath sharpening. The rage moved my feet toward him for me, and I wasn't alone. Everyone, all knowingly it seemed, rushed him before he could finish throwing his hand at whoever he may have been aiming for. I was satisfied to see him dragged down below as well, but the spots of blood I saw on the floor kept me pushing toward them for a bluer reason now. The last thing I wanted was for someone to end up hurt who didn't want or need to be. As I Will from the ensuing dog pile, a flailing limb came from beneath and elbowed me hard in the chest. Winded and surprised, I was. Not so surprised though that I couldn't notice the sleeve on the shirt on the arm that hit me had the same fraying threads and fading logos as the shirt I'd spotted on what was a prouder man just minutes ago. His teeth clicking as I hit him in the throat was a pleasing sound.

Normally I'd not bring this up, but bloodied nose, wheezy voice, and missing shoes, he managed to later hiss "race traitors" at us as the police led him out. It's the sort of last refuge easily shrugged off otherwise, but the fact that all of this happened only a few weeks after the shootings in Norway last year made me wonder if his cowardice had made him at least consider bringing knives...or anything else, to our show. All heritage is beautiful. All heritage can be used beautifully. All heritage is an aside. I'm repulsed by people who use their heritage as a weapon against others, and I rode home that night satisfied that there were people in that room who would also not stand for flock mentality and weakness.

It didn't help me enough to leave a lasting positive impression, though. There is a misanthrope inside whose endurance disappoints me. As much as I genuinely wish to see people happy and give happiness, I often find myself wishing for a life alone in a cabin in the woods. That way I wouldn't have to notice that this person here ignores his family's needs in favor of his own. Or that this person profits from the loss of hard earned homes and businesses. Another one betrays her baby for the sake of free beer and obnoxious club music, and yet another would sooner pretend never to have noticed panicked cries for help rather than get out of bed and answer the door. The tone, the inflection, the justification of and from these people. I often find myself in public, fantasizing about being able to concentrate hard enough to turn their words to stone in their throats and waiting for all of them to choke.

Then I wonder if I deserve to be included among them because I feel this way. For how long I've felt this way. I'm going to use it for my output this year. What better motivation? There are several physical and artistic peaks I intend to see.

I know I've complained here in the past about how thin I was or how I thought my build generally lacked. It's being taken care of quite completely. I'm into my 5th straight month and second repetition of a routine called P90X. I think my satisfaction can be best expressed by shrugging off what might have been an embarrassing moment for anyone after my first month into it. My neighbors caught me cavorting nude around the house, and even slipping outside to get something left by the grill. And I didn't care. In fact I hope they got a good look. Last October, there was a span of a few days uncharacteristically hot for the time of year, even for Florida. It'd be 98F at night with ridiculous humidity. The sort of conditions I would expect inside a human stomach. Being that it was exactly body temperature outside, and I was alone, I thought I'd get comfortable. Comfortable until I heard a rather timid knock on the door. After scrambling to find something to put on, I open the door to greet the thirtysomething married couple that live behind me. I realize at just that moment what their visit was about before they even say anything. Her face was red and mostly covered by her hands, and his explanation was punctuated by giggling. Ah yes, I remember now. They did indeed recently cut down the bushes that separated our yards. And yes indeed, with my inside lights on, it's a pretty clear view into my sunroom and kitchen. They didn't care, but it's still nice to know my neighbors have my modesty in mind. What's left of it. Encounters like this might turn me into an exhibitionist. It's a shame it didn't happen recently. My new muscles and definition would have made it that much more of an experience for me. I don't want to and am not going to bulk up much, but I look healthy and purposeful. It's a powerful thing to be proud of.

I'm giving myself another exciting reward for it as well. One I've waited for and talked about for a long time. I've made an appointment with Bill Kieffer at Eden Tattoo in San Diego for a black and grey piece based around some of my photography, and some of my favorite photography. It will extend from shoulder to hand and fingers, will be impossibly geometrical with two areas of solid blackwork, and will be something I feel like only he could manage. In August I will begin a series of sittings that will all together amount to an estimated 33 hours toward my new arm.

There was something much more important I'd been regrettably ignoring, however. My time in Ultraloathe and otherwise normal studio work was seeing the gap between new personal work widen and widen. That too, is something I've been remedying this year. I've been exploring something new and reimagining something well-treaded in a way that will make it impossible for me not to keep it in constant forefront. Firstly, my friend Will and I have teamed up to produce a triple feature of short films that I will write, direct, and that he will both edit and act in. Along with a few other friends and families we'd previously press-ganged into our little films in our fondness for the medium. We had been spending a lot of time together experimenting with both 16mm film and digital HD in order to combine the two and incorporate projections with our live shows. We've also shot a video for Ultraloathe, which was great fun. His direction mostly amounting to shouting "INTENSIFY" when it's time for me to mime my vocals. At which point I just end up singing it in earnest and copying Aaron Stainthorpe's moves from Prize of Beauty. Narrative film, however, is something I've wanted to do for a long while, and I'm so happy he was pleased with the idea. I can't wait to begin. I like to think it's a logical extension of my love for photography, and I mean to take what I've learned and am still learning from video and apply it there as well. It will be a wonderful exercise in atmosphere. It's hard not to want to give even brief plot details in my excitement. So I will leave this part of the paragraph up here for only a day or two after this entry is posted. The first film will be a meditation on the nature of entitlement, and will feature a police officer discovering a strange man alone at night, dragging the corpses of neighborhood pets he'd been killing behind him. The ensuing conversation and interrogation revealing his motives will make up the bulk of this piece. The second will be about simple loneliness. We meet an old woman who, atoning for a life unfulfilled, has been made to wear a contraption that holds her eyes shut and presses down hard on her lids. She becomes friends with her hallucinations of both past friends and otherworldly creatures that appear as a result. The third and final, about a world where people use casually available time travel technology to undo their adult children. Both as punishment for their crimes and as relief from disappointment. I hope for it to communicate something about regret. I've written an instrumental piece for its end credits, but by the time of its completion I'll have seen about stepping past a shyness and getting in contact with Low. I'd love for them to let me use Lullaby.

That brings me along nicely to my final point that I am most excited about this year. I've been compartmentalizing. Creatively and communicatively. Separating. I even feel it in conversation, for example. I sometimes pretend not to know the answer to somebody's questions in order to impart humility. I hear it when I use a fake inflection in my voice when I pretend to be casual. I'm quiet. But I am a confident man. I am aware of my actual limitations. I don't need to invent new ones. I should present myself as a summation of my life's experiences in all times it is called for. I've started with my music. For years, I've kept and written for two different projects. Some of you here have heard music from the gentler half. The harder, more extreme material I have mostly kept hidden and reserved only for friends I know in life. Most of them aren't aware of what you've heard. I used to think two halves would be an interesting way to present duality and keep material "purer" or more focused. Now I think of everything I just said as a reflection of my tendency to avoid myself. I don't intend to do that any longer. I will start anew, I will proudly put my old completed work side by side, and I will be releasing music from now on under the name of Old Light at Long Last. I am one person. I will conduct myself like it.

I look forward to the years that follow. I look forward to bringing Old Light to life on stage some day. I look forward to bringing my music to the Minack Theatre like I've wanted to since I was young. I look forward to trying to choose between purchasing a home or purchasing a recording studio with the money I've saved. Traveling the country, to Sweden, Norway, Finland, Ireland, back to Scotland, Australia, Canada, in search of a good place for both. With company, no doubt. I look forward to a little death, and new life.