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PARSE, the new collaboration between artists and poets. Come see the paradise!
Hot Peppers, Hiccups, and Magick
When I was 10 years old, my elementary school teacher, Mrs. Eggen, showed me how to cure hiccups. She was a wise, sweet, and gentle soul who saw in my spacey demeanor the possibility of intelligence. She actually taught a number of us in her class this method, along with a few other things, including how to hang spoons from the ends of our noses (a skill which I have demonstrated repeatedly to the embarrassment of those close to me). The method, which she described in some detail, and which she assured us “always worked” went something like this: take three sips of water, and a small breath, repeat this until the lungs are entirely full, and then hold your breath for a count of thirty. In the decade plus that I have been using this method, I have never found it to fail. I knew in my heart that this was due mostly to its effect on the mind. Nothing was actually effected by the actions themselves except a tenor of mind that allowed me to relax my diaphragm and stop hiccupping.
This weekend, at a wedding in South Carolina, I ended up eating a number of jalapeno peppers. Now, jalapenos (indeed, most extremely spicy foods by themselves) give me hiccups and I’m walking down this street and I don’t have any water. I don’t have any water and these hiccups are driving me nuts, so how can I get rid of them?
And it suddenly occurs to me – if this cure is all in my mind, then the actions aren’t really necessary at all. All I need to do is imagine myself doing the “miracle” hiccup cure, and it will be accomplished. So, OK. I do it. And it works.
This is the first magickal act I have ever done. I internalized the ritual and manifested the results. Belief, imagination, and no more hiccups.
Sounds stupid, right? But that’s how it starts.
security checkpoint
From: Scot
Subject:
Date: August 5, 2005 10:35:39 PM EDT
To: ray
I'm writing you from the Charlotte, NC airport, where I just had a delightful dinner of a Quesedilla and tequila in an effort to forget the search of my person I underwent at the security checkpoint in Newark. When they searched my guitar case, they apparently found traces of a chemical that fooled their machines into thinking I had some sort of contact recently with TNT(!). They asked me all kinds of questions about my habits - do I use drugs, where do I live, what prescriptions do I take. Needless to say I kept cool, but it was still a mighty pain in the ass to say the least. They made me take out my inhaler, show them how it worked, not with an idea towards actual information, but with the express idea that I might show in some trembling in my hand, some fumbling in my speech, that I had something to hide.
They looked at me like I was a criminal.
Not an unfamiliar feeling, but still, not one I've been used to of late. Couple this with my recent viewing of a documentary on the Weathermen, and this past weekend's yogic experiments, and you have the ground ripe for a bumper crop of paranoia. Fortunately, my heritage as the ruling class of the planet earth (white, male, young, tongue firmly planted in cheek) stood me in good stead, and I was able to play it off as nothing but an inconvenience, and necessary for the "good of the realm", as opposed to what it was - a violation of my person as a free man.
Not to make too much of it, though. They re x-rayed the guitar case and let me go - after making sure they had all my info, and asking why I still had an AZ driver's license even though I live in NYC (I did what anyone should do in such a situation - I lied and said I'd just moved, lying being the only appropriate response to power in certain situations). Imagine had I been slightly darker of skin, or not wearing the cross my mother gave me!
Now I'm fine, slightly buzzed and waiting for my flight to go see my lady. All is well. Hope you are too.
The Week in Williams
“Help! How did I get inside this person! Oh my God, I feel like I’ve been here for days! Somebody…for the love of God! Oh, this is worst than that time I was stuck on the runway at O’Hare for 3 hours….” etc., etc.
So, I played a party with {audio genic} which is the, shall we say, secular incarnation of synonymUS at b1 involving DJ’s, beats, and soundscapes extraordinaire. It was a pleasant evening, filled with music and wacky hi-jinx for all. Guests for the evening included the amazing
Onyx and the equally amazing beatboxer Kid Lucky (whose talents as a beatboxer are only matched by his organizational/community building skills amply represented at
beatboxing.com, his website. I have to admit, I felt pretty amateur compared to these cats.
If you didn't come out - you missed it. Show up next time and represent. Or something.
Steph went upstate to visit her friend, and I spent most of the day cleaning the house and the rest of the night doing yoga. I was definitely transported after a small phone call with Mary (those who have ears, let them hear). It was a good night, with many physical effects. I’m still noticing an elevated mood and a much more attuned mind, which is all to the good.
Nothing much else of note, save that PARSE has been printed, and is shipping. I’ve been showing it around like that guy, you know? That guy with a baby, and isn’t his baby amazing? Have you ever seen anything like this beautiful baby? Ever? And boy aren’t you tired of hearing about and seeing his baby? But he won’t shut up about his baby? Yeah, I’m that guy. I’m sure my friends are already saying, “Yes, you printed a fucking book. Maybe you should put it away every once in awhile. Try talking about something else, say. Maybe attend to your grooming, or something.”
Actually, I’m pretty sure they aren’t saying that at all, interestingly enough. It seems that Chad and I have really done something, here. I hope that the momentum continues…
I was at 13 last night (that’s where all this bibliographic exhibitionism took place) and the regional Slam was a hoot. Packed and noisy, everybody hopped on goofballs. Here’s hoping 13 takes it all the way next week at nationals, since they are clearly the best team up there,
Taylor Mali notwithstanding. In spite of his being "the most hated man in slam" or some such horseshit, I always enjoy Taylor's stuff, and he seems to me to be one of the better perfomers out there. He's witty, charming, good with a turn of phrase and always unfailingly polite and pleasant when I've had occasion to speak to him. Having said that, his team didn't have what it took to beat 13 on their home turf. Anyway, it should be a great battle. I can’t wait to get to ABQ for Slam Nationals. Let the party begin!
Reading:
Harry Fucking Potter and his Murderous Shit-Eating Half-Blood Prince (I cried. It was very sad),
Yoga for Yahoos/Yellowbellies (by Mr. Crowley, pronounced Crow-ly, because he is holy),
Lord Byron’s Novel – The Evening Land by John Crowley (no relation). If that last one seems a little obscure – I mean, is it Lord Byron’s novel or Crowley’s? – suffice to say that this book is so damn
meta it kills me. It’s a novel about a book and the finding of a lost manuscript of that book and half the text so far seems to be transcriptions of emails between the characters… oh, hell. It’s all a bit complicated.
Watching: Deadwood (cocksuckers)
Listening: M83 –
Before the Dawn Heals Us. Sounds like what My Bloody Valentine would have done with a laptop and a little more Swervedriver.
See you in New Mexico.
