tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42625958605551759692024-03-14T10:41:52.160-04:00mystical visions and cosmic vibrationsSteve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.comBlogger84125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-3350231103731947292010-09-14T06:21:00.006-04:002010-09-14T07:03:26.554-04:00sunflower sutraA few weeks ago I woke up tired and hungover and walked down the road to a field of sunflowers and by the time I got there I was sweating and tired. I found a lonely tennis ball in the grass halfway there and I picked it up and bounced it against the uneven ground as I walked forward. It was a mindless act, something I needed but couldn't achieve. I wanted mindlessness. I wanted mindlessness and beauty. And I thought a field of sunflowers would be beautiful. And I thought a hollow tennis ball being beat against the ground would displace thought process. Neither turned out to be completely true. As I looked upon those enormous flowers, and felt the crickets bouncing off my thighs, and felt the felt of the tennis ball in my fingers I felt no different than I did waking on a couch fully dressed and wincing at the morning sun, no different than I did sitting on a street corner wincing at streetlights waiting for a cab. It was, by all reasonable definitions a beautiful morning. It was warm, I know that. The sky was most likely clear and blue, though I can't say for sure, because I never looked up. But I saw people in the beginning of my walk, before I wandered into the wilderness. They looked pleased. Children playing in sprinklers. All of that. There was no reason to feel the way I did. I knew that. There was no reason to gaze upon those flowers and not be lifted up. But I was static. The flowers were beautiful. There was no doubt about that. But even they hung their heads in sadness. And there was nothing I could say to change it. It didn't matter how many times I told them they were beautiful, they never looked up.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6e7ff1DjbZI25M2R8fKWB07UK5YKxK5g9h_JfgPMI1idiqXhFwGXiVbX4LnGQ1a1XbanVfQkR1jFS_AP5PHf2I19unqpSXyFM3YRlXK_vMR5xpX-RK7h7pzHPDdFyVY8wO1H0zyvy55cm/s1600/IMAG0070.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6e7ff1DjbZI25M2R8fKWB07UK5YKxK5g9h_JfgPMI1idiqXhFwGXiVbX4LnGQ1a1XbanVfQkR1jFS_AP5PHf2I19unqpSXyFM3YRlXK_vMR5xpX-RK7h7pzHPDdFyVY8wO1H0zyvy55cm/s400/IMAG0070.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516719652254568482" border="0" /></a><br />I tossed the tennis ball into the abyss of sad flowers, and walked back.<br /><br />The truth is that I've been happier these past few months than I've been in years. There's a fine line between joy and sadness. And I think the sunflowers know something we don't.<br /><br />"Under the eaves of that old lime tree I stood examining the fruit<br />Some were ripe and some were rotten, I felt nauseous with the truth"Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-17074357431732589392010-08-17T03:14:00.004-04:002010-08-17T03:30:31.929-04:00a heart stained in anger grows weak and grows bittersometimes I wish life was more like the movies; I don't mean I wish every life experience had a third-act flight-or-flight sequence or that we are all destined to become dynamic characters and either walk off into the sunset or commit suicide, but rather that we all had an audience, because even the most vile characters are felt deeply, given an audience, and the most beautiful ones are applauded or cried over; it's the audience that makes these people important - but we just go through everything with only a few people noticing and even those that do have no real insight into our own moral dilemmas or greatest achievements and so we have to try and imagine what somebody would think of us given everything that we have done and I think we all do that for a little while until we're left with nobody but ourselves to be our own jury and we wish somebody would come and burst into that courtroom and deliver a speech on par with Al Pacino's rant in Scent of a Woman, but that shit isn't going to happen<br /><br />i was wading neck deep in a river today my toes barely touching and struggling to wrap around a slippery rock as to avoid being carried away by the current so i could keep looking forward at the tall trees and crumbling cliffs that wrapped around perfectly framing the sun falling down the skyline casting shadows across the water and at that moment i felt totally at peace despite today's decision and i felt blissful and a little stoned but entirely balanced and i came home and felt even better because i think the smell of sun-stained skin in the evening is a beautiful smell that incites feelings of youthful abandon and pantheism and then one phone call shattered all of those feelings and replaced them with self-doubt and knee-jerk mechanisms of anger and sorrow and i tried to speak in a way that reflected my thought-process but it was lost and i was meant to feel bad for something that was good and it ended so quickly and i just want to be back in that water and stop wrenching the muscles in my calves down to my toes and pass over that rock and be carried down into the sunSteve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-31251517231027099792010-07-22T07:36:00.010-04:002011-07-13T14:56:17.774-04:00try lying for a change, it's the currency of the world*When I started this entry I had been speaking to my dear friend Hags and he said something about wearing his heart on his sleeve, and how that is his downfall, and I said something about how that's bullshit because that is actually a venerable quality in a person, and that the world makes you want to feel silly for being truthful about all the bullshit we feel on a day to day basis, and that it's only reinforced by how easy it is to hate characterizations of people like that, like the "emo" kid or whatever, but that wearing your heart on your sleeve only means you are honest with others and yourself, and an upstanding, beautiful person, everyone else's delicate fucking temperaments be damned. A little later I started this entry without knowing where I was going, and the self-revelation that ensued as I was writing proved too much to bear, and I abandoned it, saying something like "I'll be damned if I'm gonna hit publish on this atrocity." At any rate, I talked to that friend again this evening, and decided, shit, I have to put my money where my mouth is. This kind of honesty doesn't really belong on the internet, but oh well. Thanks for making me look like a douche, Hags. I love you.*<br /><br />This evening I came across some photographs of an old girlfriend and I, and started to reminisce. There's a danger in that sort of thing, which was probably why, years ago, I disposed of all such materials. But facebook proved itself a sly son of a bitch, and while browsing pictures of a mutual friend I came across some relics of a love I had almost all but forgotten. I don't say that as if I had completely erased this person from my mind, but I realized as I looked at this picture of us kissing that I had erased the real parts of that relationship. I barely recognized either of the people in that photograph; I was looking at a reflection of a reflection cast in a puddle of water that once was an ocean. Neither of us were tagged in the picture anymore, we removed our respective associations long ago, but beneath it were some comments that remained. Perhaps it were those silly words written underneath that truly made me remember, that brought back the way she used to speak in reticence, a language I learned quickly to decipher, and love. Or maybe it was how I then remembered the taste of her tears when she kissed me out of joy or sadness; how she'd latch on until she ran out of breath, holding tightly the sides of my face, and then move her mouth away slightly to gasp in the air, and then come back, trembling, without diffidence, breathing her worry back out so it washed over our cheeks.<br /><br />These sentiments opened my eyes a little. I came to realize that I have put up some huge walls in my life because of the negative emotions I've faced at the closure of several relationships, the aforementioned being the most recent, at least the most recent relationship that was a <span style="font-style: italic;">real </span>relationship; where upon waking we spent the day together instead of parting ways. I've created a world where I don't have to <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> feel anything, because I don't <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> get close to anyone. Yep, I'm painting a picture of a walking cliche, but I can't think of a more honest way to put it. It only proves that we (or maybe just I) can't avoid becoming what we never thought we would be. More disturbing is that I suddenly realized that the disease is spreading. I find myself meeting cute girls and dismissing them instantly based on their first few words. Somewhere in my mind I was thinking that I was being smart, guarded, that I'd hold out for something really, really good. Absurdity, really, considering I found myself in intimate situations much more frequently than when I was open to meeting someone great, without preconceptions or immediate judgment.<br /><br />It seems as if I have taken all of the anger and hurt from my bullshit baggage and created a wall that I convinced myself was to protect the fragile tissue of my fragile heart, but really only served to marginalize it. Because as much as I can recollect feeling hurt, and on some instinctual level angry, about the aforementioned relationship, that isn't everything I felt about it, but until just now, it's all I was able to remember. I think it's because I was forced, at the end of that particular relationship, to continue to love and be hurt, or despise and be hurt. I had a good reason for feeling angry, and not, as I saw it, any reason to love. So I chose the latter, a kind of self-preservation, one that took months to solidify... and apparently quite some time to dissolve. So I set up faux relationships that didn't have to actually exist: a little flirting here, some lovelorn sentiments there, the occasional copulation sprinkled on top and Voila! a self-justified-way-of-self-flagellating-while-feeling-poetic-or-some-bullshit. The cherry on top is all of the wonderful women who have actually showed interest in me since then, but who I've turned down, because I'd be much happier being miserable, thank you... god, I'm an ass.<br /><br />But, achem, there probably needs to be some resolution to this post for those unfortunate souls who are still reading through my emotive purging. I guess my only resolution is that putting your heart out there without thinking of consequence is absolutely fucking terrifying, and probably mostly fucking painful, but that's necessary, and if you can survive all the beatings you might get to a place where your heart can swell and shrivel, and flutter and skip, and eventually rest knowing it's full. It don't always end up good, but yea it does. (that's my impersonation of a redneck saying what I was thinking but couldn't say without a redneck impersonation, both because those are the words that came out naturally, and because a fictitious redneck has much more authority on the subject at this time than I do)<br /><br />And... here's one of my favorite Joni Mitchell songs that I've loved since the first time my heart started to hurt in the schoolyard, when I first thought I understood this "Richard" character, and felt, truly, as though this were the most honest thing ever written, as if it encapsulated so many people who only wanted to be loved, but couldn't... the truth is this song is not about someone who wants to be loved, and can't, but about someone who wants to love, and is incapable of doing so. And maybe I always knew that, and maybe that's why I've always loved this song... I'm Richard... but I'm way too young to be cynical and drunk and boring someone in a dark cafe, and though it's true that all good dreamers pass this way someday, I need to remember the bit about the butterfly.<br /><br />(sorry it's not a <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> video. There is no such thing in this case, and through browsing, this is the best I could find. This idiot messed up the lyrics, so don't even bother reading them - errors in both context and punctuation - so my advice would be to ignore the video, and just listen, if you feel so inclined).<br /><br /><object height="225" width="400"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=9664317&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1"><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=9664317&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" height="225" width="400"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/9664317">Last Time I Saw Richard</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user2622699">Mike Baker</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</p>Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-1584447194312912622010-06-19T05:45:00.003-04:002010-06-19T05:49:35.935-04:00curse god, but do not abandon himI still cry every damn time I read this poem. Sometimes I weep. <br /><br />How to Watch Your Brother Die<br />by Michael Lassell<br /><br />When the call comes, be calm.<br />Say to your wife, "My brother is dying. I have to fly<br />to California."<br />Try not to be too shocked that he already looks like<br />a cadaver.<br />Say to the young man sitting by your brother's side,<br />"I'm his brother."<br />Try not to be shocked when the young man says,<br />"I'm his lover. Thanks for coming."<br /><br />Listen to the doctor with a steel face on.<br />Sign the necessary forms.<br />Tell the doctor you will take care of everything.<br />Wonder why doctors are so remote.<br /><br />Watch the lover's eyes as they stare into<br />your brother's eyes as they stare into<br />space.<br />Wonder what they see there.<br />Remember the time he was jealous and<br />opened your eyebrow with a sharp stick.<br />Forgive him out loud<br />even if he can't<br />understand you.<br />Realize the scar will be<br />all that's left of him.<br /><br />Over coffee in the hospital cafeteria<br />say to the lover, "You're an extremely good-looking<br />young man."<br />Hear him say,<br />"I never thought I was good enough looking to<br />deserve your brother."<br /><br />Watch the tears well up in his eyes. Say,<br />"I'm sorry. I don't know what it means to be<br />the lover of another man."<br />Hear him say,<br />"It's just like a wife, only the commitment is<br />deeper because the odds against you are so much<br />greater."<br />Say nothing, but<br />take his hand like a brother's.<br /><br />Drive to Mexico for unproven drugs that might<br />help him live longer.<br />Explain what they are to the border guard.<br />Fill with rage when he informs you,<br />"You can't bring those across."<br />Begin to grow loud.<br />Feel the lover's hand on your arm<br />restraining you. See in the guard's eye<br />how much a man can hate another man.<br />Say to the lover, "How can you stand it?"<br />Hear him say, "You get used to it."<br />Think of one of your children getting used to<br />another man's hatred.<br /><br />Call your wife on the telephone. Tell her,<br />"He hasn't much time.<br />I'll be home soon." Before you hang up say,<br />"How could anyone's commitment be deeper than<br />a husband and wife?" Hear her say,<br />"Please. I don't want to know the details."<br /><br />When he slips into an irrevocable coma,<br />hold his lover in your arms while he sobs,<br />no longer strong. Wonder how much longer<br />you will be able to be strong.<br />Feel how it feels to hold a man in your arms<br />whose arms are used to holding men.<br />Offer God anything to bring your brother back.<br />Know you have nothing God could possibly want.<br />Curse God, but do not<br />abandon Him.<br /><br />Stare at the face of the funeral director<br />when he tells you he will not<br />embalm the body for fear of<br />contamination. Let him see in your eyes<br />how much a man can hate another man.<br /><br />Stand beside a casket covered in flowers,<br />white flowers. Say,<br />"Thank you for coming," to each of the several hundred<br /> men<br />who file past in tears, some of them<br />holding hands. Know that your brother's life<br />was not what you imagined. Overhear two<br />mourners say, "I wonder who'll be next?" and<br />"I don't care anymore,<br />as long as it isn't you."<br /><br />Arrange to take an early flight home.<br />His lover will drive you to the airport.<br />When your flight is announced say,<br />awkwardly, "If I can do anything, please<br />let me know." Do not flinch when he says,<br />"Forgive yourself for not wanting to know him<br />after he told you. He did."<br />Stop and let it soak in. Say,<br />"He forgave me, or he knew himself?"<br />"Both," the lover will say, not knowing what else<br />to do. Hold him like a brother while he<br />kisses you on the cheek. Think that<br />you haven't been kissed by a man since<br />your father died. Think,<br />"This is no moment not to be strong."<br /><br />Fly first class and drink Scotch. Stroke<br />your split eyebrow with a finger and<br />think of your brother alive. Smile<br />at the memory and think<br />how your children will feel in your arms,<br />warm and friendly and without challenge.Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-56904711287858546602010-06-01T05:33:00.006-04:002010-06-06T03:29:44.432-04:00while outside birds building nests in drainpipes knew nothing of the coming raini have nothing to say, but some things to share that I was pondering while thinking about what I should say.<br /><br /><br />Mirror by Sylvia Plath<br /><br /> I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.<br /> What ever you see I swallow immediately<br /> Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.<br /> I am not cruel, only truthful---<br /> The eye of a little god, four-cornered.<br /> Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.<br /> It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long<br /> I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.<br /> Faces and darkness separate us over and over.<br /><br /> Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, <br /> Searching my reaches for what she really is.<br /> Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.<br /> I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.<br /> She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.<br /> I am important to her. She comes and goes.<br /> Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.<br /> In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman<br /> Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.<br /><br /><br /><object width="400" height="225"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=9873263&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=cf2d43&fullscreen=1" /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=9873263&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=cf2d43&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="225"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/9873263">Priscilla Ahn » Benji Hughes</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/voiceproject">The Voice Project</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p><br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Vi5t2l0spGc&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Vi5t2l0spGc&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Rain by Naomi Shihab-Nye<br /><br />A teacher asked Paul<br />what he would remember <br />from third grade, and he sat<br />a long time before writing<br />“this year sumbody tutched me<br />on the sholder”<br />and turned the paper in.<br />Later she showed it to me<br />as an example of her wasted life.<br />The words he wrote were large<br />as houses in a landscape.<br />He wanted to go inside them<br />and live, he could fill in<br />the windows of “o” and “d”<br />and be safe while outside<br />birds building nests in drainpipes<br />knew nothing of the coming rain.Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-17281275801099986522010-05-16T05:31:00.002-04:002010-05-16T05:39:35.549-04:00Remind me to write about how I feel in the morning. It'd be great if I could breathe out the things floating around and weighing down my heart right now, so you should probably remind me to place this somewhere in the morning. If you could remind me how important it feels, I'd appreciate it. I can be so forgetful, you know. But I'm sure once you mention it I'll remember and write for days and days.Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-61519295632324420202010-04-14T19:03:00.005-04:002010-04-14T19:47:29.780-04:00fair and balanced my assFor the past month or so I've kept my car radio tuned to the Fox News Radio Station because I wanted to hear some things "from the horse's mouth" so to speak. I wanted to get some insight into the voices of the mainstream republican party. And, honestly, I was hoping to hear something that would create a picture somehow different than the one I've had in my head through reading and watching left-ish oriented news sources. <br /><br />And after over a month I have come to this conclusion: I genuinely feel bad for level-headed republicans if they have to endure the ravings of these fucking lunatics on a regular basis. <br /><br />It's almost comical that this sort of thing passes for news. But mostly it's horrifying because millions of people listen to these personalities and believe their incomprehensible bullshit. It'd be unfair to say it's all bullshit, but even 90% is being generous. <br /><br />That's all.Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-83580833165464115342010-03-28T15:44:00.001-04:002010-03-30T15:05:26.006-04:00something my heart could not forgetMy long-delayed move to Portland, OR is coming up soon. May 3rd. I genuinely considered moving it back another month after Pearl Jam's spring tour announcement in which there would have been at least three shows I'd gone to if I was still in the great northeast, but alas, I resisted such temptation. If their last album was any indication, they'll be around for a while, so I'll have other opportunities.<br /><br />I've been dreaming lately of late-night bike rides through those city streets, surrounded by warm air and friendly strangers. I have a really good feeling about this. And hopefully <a href="http://leftonedeafone.wordpress.com/">Mr. Mauer</a> will be joining me out there soon, right pal?<br /><br />I was up late last night thinking about the aforementioned bike ride, listening to some tunes, and decided to make a mix for such an occasion... actually, first I was reading some Whitman, and the mix started off as a Whitman tribute, but I deviated... at any rate as I was choosing songs (which, by the way, takes an inordinate amount of time. It generally takes me about 3 hours to throw together a mix for something silly like 8tracks or an ipod playlist... if we're talking a mix for a person, jeez, days; there's just so many songs that need to be listened to in full in order to determine if they make the cut) I found myself choosing love songs and having absolutely no one in mind to attribute them to. <span style="font-style: italic;">That</span> was a liberating discovery. I don't know if that makes any sense to anyone who reads this, but, for me, it was transcendent. I've loved many different women for many different reasons, in varying degrees of scope. You could deconstruct the word <span style="font-style: italic;">love </span>for days (more than any other word in the English language, I think, save perhaps God) and list off the different forms it takes, but what's the point... what <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> the point? Ah, yes, the point is that though I have loved many women, in situations where that love has been said, or unsaid; constant, or fleeting; accepted, or rejected; requited, or unrequited; tangible, or abstract; it's always been beautiful, even when it was painful. And there's always associations: a color, a smell, that row of benches, those trees on the ridge, origami, a ticket stub, a wine cork, a folded note, a song. And even when you love someone new you'll cross paths with these associations someday, and maybe you'll cry, or grimace, but you should probably smile, because your heart needed that to get here. You don't have to be in love with that person anymore to be in love with that time, that rapture, and all those ruinations.<br /><br />So I was thinking about that as I realized I had no associations in my song choices. And I felt liberated. I felt buoyant, and vital, and eager. And I realized that what I love most, right now, at this moment, is a question mark, or a series or question marks, that will eventually lead to a period. <br /><br /><br /><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=9,0,28,0" height="120" width="100%"><param name="movie" value="http://8tracks.com/mixes/101667/player_v2"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="FlashVars" value="bg_color=_000000"><embed flashvars="bg_color=_000000" src="http://8tracks.com/mixes/101667/player_v2" pluginspage="http://www.adobe.com/shockwave/download/download.cgi?P1_Prod_Version=ShockwaveFlash" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" height="120" width="100%"></embed></object>Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-58022366437683970032010-03-24T17:10:00.001-04:002010-03-30T15:04:58.912-04:00my itunes is pretty (part 2)I figured out how to post my itunes. Not that anyone really cares. But perhaps you could make suggestions as to something I'm missing... that'd be nice.<br /><br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460954412/" title="Picture 1 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2797/4460954412_bb365ba27a_o.png" alt="Picture 1" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460954634/" title="Picture 2 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4034/4460954634_fc0d7eeb6b_o.png" alt="Picture 2" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460954850/" title="Picture 3 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4042/4460954850_5b3eb15d8c_o.png" alt="Picture 3 " style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460955074/" title="Picture 4 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2739/4460955074_8d11024f9f_o.png" alt="Picture 4" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460174579/" title="Picture 5 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4069/4460174579_d0d4a6377d_o.png" alt="Picture 5" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460955520/" title="Picture 6 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2739/4460955520_745b80f724_o.png" alt="Picture 6" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460175011/" title="Picture 7 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2796/4460175011_026b3f0e87_o.png" alt="Picture 7" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460956060/" title="Picture 8 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4029/4460956060_3ed0fff1b5_o.png" alt="Picture 8" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460175543/" title="Picture 9 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4016/4460175543_6a1b50046c_o.png" alt="Picture 9" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460956506/" title="Picture 10 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2737/4460956506_d024a987da_o.png" alt="Picture 10" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460956710/" title="Picture 11 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2796/4460956710_d56bea3853_o.png" alt="Picture 11" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460176135/" title="Picture 12 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4025/4460176135_dc1e7cd56b_o.png" alt="Picture 12" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460957150/" title="Picture 13 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4071/4460957150_374c02b362_o.png" alt="Picture 13" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460957374/" title="Picture 14 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2706/4460957374_3e2007b50c_o.png" alt="Picture 14" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460176765/" title="Picture 15 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4038/4460176765_d6efe00b4e_o.png" alt="Picture 15" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460957782/" title="Picture 16 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4046/4460957782_54d0b5efa1_o.png" alt="Picture 16" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460177179/" title="Picture 17 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4040/4460177179_963563328d_o.png" alt="Picture 17" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460958212/" title="Picture 18 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4062/4460958212_03e428b846_o.png" alt="Picture 18" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460958434/" title="Picture 19 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4023/4460958434_e4212b7e86_o.png" alt="Picture 19" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460958654/" title="Picture 20 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2767/4460958654_f627844db1_o.png" alt="Picture 20" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460958848/" title="Picture 21 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4046/4460958848_0cabd54110_o.png" alt="Picture 21" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460959086/" title="Picture 22 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4033/4460959086_7b79991a01_o.png" alt="Picture 22" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460959368/" title="Picture 23 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4011/4460959368_075c7a3607_o.png" alt="Picture 23" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460178781/" title="Picture 24 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4072/4460178781_175189372d_o.png" alt="Picture 24" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460178989/" title="Picture 25 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4009/4460178989_2d79fe153e_o.png" alt="Picture 25" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460179235/" title="Picture 26 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2591/4460179235_1a00fec52a_o.png" alt="Picture 26" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460179437/" title="Picture 27 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4071/4460179437_bac2b63910_o.png" alt="Picture 27" style="border: medium none;" height="328" width="620" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/48460845@N07/4460960332/" title="Picture 28 by Samitchell1231, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4034/4460960332_247b8ff5b5_o.png" alt="Picture 28" style="border: medium none;" height="103" width="620" /></a></center>Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-84869442585122126342010-03-16T18:31:00.000-04:002010-03-24T17:10:35.565-04:00my itunes is prettyI've finally finished the great itunes reorganization. Since the majority of my library came from imported CD's rather than from the itunes store, I spent hours and hours back in 2003 downloading and/or scanning images and importing them into the files. Yes, I know, I'm a dork. A few years later when itunes first offered the option to "get album artwork" I tried it out, since there were still several files without artwork. But the stupid thing switched out many of my already existing album artworks with incorrect ones. Everything was all F'd up. I was pissed. At any rate, I just finished fixing this problem, at the same time fixing inconsistencies in Genre and those pesky compilation albums where you need seperate fields for Artist and Album Artist for optimal organization. Again, yes, I know I'm a dork. Now I can use the Grid view and not be annoyed by the gaps in images. <br /><br />I can't seem to post an image, because it's too large, but trust me, its a sight to behold.Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-80438846643621085652010-03-02T06:32:00.000-05:002010-03-02T14:33:55.645-05:00take whatever you think of, while i go gas up the truck(I don't write poetry; i wish i could. but after writing this i felt the need to place inappropriate line breaks and parenthesis... i guess that's kind of a poem)<br /><br />i spent a little bit of time this evening <br />playing really sad songs for a friend,<br />for reasons that will go unmentioned.<br />i spent a lot of time tonight<br />listening to other friends' heartbreak.<br />and between the two circumstances which met<br />somewhere in the middle<br />(not always romantic love<br />and sometimes godly love)<br />i was at a loss for words.<br /><br />and i could only murmur:<br />it's really all that matters.<br /><br />i often wish you knew how much it meant to me. <br />sometimes i think you might. <br />most of the time i know it doesn't mean that much to you<br /><br />(i mean just the way that you smile<br />and everything that it does to me)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />(and here's one of the aforementioned songs...)<br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kVtkOUJhpcA&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kVtkOUJhpcA&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-87411564253084925902010-02-08T13:37:00.000-05:002010-02-09T13:56:23.956-05:00thoughts on lostIf you don't watch lost, I apologize for this ramble. If you do but are not caught up, I suggest you stop reading now. If you do and are caught up, feel free to reply with your own theories.<br /><br />So this is what I think is going on based on the season premiere. This all seemed kind of obvious to me, but the people I have spoken to about it seem to disagree with me. At first I was thinking that there are two separate planes of reality happening at the same time. But that doesn't really make any sense. Especially since Desmond was on the plane, and if Desmond was on the plane (did you notice his wedding ring, by the way?), he was never on the island to blow up the hatch. They never identified the flight to LAX as flight 815, nor did they establish any direct timeline. We're not even sure Claire is still pregnant since we only saw her from the shoulders up. Similarly, Kate never tried to get the toy plane out of the Marshall's case, so for all we know this flight could have taken place 5 years after the original 815 flight. BUT... i don't think that is likely either. I think that what we are actually seeing is how everything is going to end up. I think that by the end of the season, the on-island Jack is going to change something, something bigger than just the hatch. Something that causes the island to sink. And reverts everything much further back in history than the day of the crash. So that all throughout this season we will be seeing what happens to our beloved cast members in the end through all the off-island sequences. I think Jack is going to fix Locke, Charlie and Claire are going to fall in love somehow, Sawyer and Juliet are going to meet in LA (which is what all that "let's get a cup of coffee" stuff was all about - she was living in the changed "present" in her final moments), Sayid will find Nadia, maybe Kate will die (fingers crossed), you know, everything that you wanted for the characters in the first few seasons will play themselves out over this final one. While at the same time we'll be seeing the destruction of the island. "It only ends once, everything up till then is just progress."<br /><br />As for what the hell is going on with Jacob, the nemesis (or man in black, faux Locke, whatever the hell you want to call him), Richard, and Ben... I have no idea. But I'm actually kind of leaning toward the fact that the man in black is actually the "good" guy. Something about that line at the end "I'm very disappointed in all of you." just sounded like something a forgotten god figure would say. <br /><br />But really, who the hell knows.Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-2599696094472758842010-01-21T12:15:00.000-05:002010-01-21T15:06:14.074-05:00mais rgarde ma pitite ligne de chanceAt the gym this morning my father talked me into signing up for a spin class called "psycho cycle." I don't think I'll be able to move my legs tomorrow. At one point I was sure I was cycling right up to the pearly gates. Come to think of it, it felt more like cycling to the gates of Hell. And this was before jumping off the bike and running laps, followed by rounds of some crazy form of pushups, back on the bike, etc etc etc. <br /><br />Good Lord. <br /><br />In other news, I found a collection of original music from Jean-Luc Godard's films on itunes. What a crazy bastard that guy is. But if you haven't seen his films, you're missing out.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Jts232ZORjM&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Jts232ZORjM&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vBNn38ZNUXI&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vBNn38ZNUXI&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-60219286200566533302010-01-14T19:42:00.000-05:002010-01-14T19:58:47.890-05:00avatar 2I finally went to see what the Avatar fuss was all about. I get it now. I must admit it was pretty damn cool. My only real objection was that the marines were oversimplified. All that "hoo-rah" and "get some!" stuff should have been taken down a notch.<br /><br />Anyways, I came up with a sequel. You know that dragon-bird thingy that Jake had tentacle-hair sex with, so that they were bonded monogamously to each other for life or something, did anyone catch that he just ditched her for the bigger, red, more badass dragon-bird thingy? So the sequel will be her coming back in a jealous rage and trying to kill everyone. The tagline will be: Hell hath no fury like a dragon scorned. <br /><br />You're welcome, James Cameron.Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-33551277167985801042010-01-10T02:14:00.001-05:002010-01-10T09:35:33.114-05:00i'll make my way through one more day in hellbut how much difference will it make?<br /><br />man, i love this tune. <br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QBZz9Ei09P8&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QBZz9Ei09P8&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-28782139378392352612010-01-04T01:08:00.000-05:002010-01-04T02:08:31.005-05:00?disclaimer: this bit of writing will be nonsense, or, at best, something moderately clever born on a whim and shoved out into the world without much thought, like an orphan who attends community college. Which, actually, is not all that different from any of my other posts. I only mention it because I opened up this blank page for no reason, and after a few moments of staring at a blinking line I decided to start typing. And this is what's coming out. Ludicrous similes and all. I'm starting off my blog for 2010 on an excellent note, I think.<br /><br />I'm not sure how this has happened, but I'm engaged in an awkward conversation with my blog right now. So, ugh, yeah, umm, I mean, yeah.... 2010! whooo hooo!!! Yeaaaa!! yay. achem. yeah...<br /><br />...<br /><br /><br />...<br /><br />ok see you later.Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-24282071568741553262009-12-23T03:05:00.000-05:002009-12-23T03:14:53.081-05:00if you forget mei want you to know<br />one thing.<br /><br />you know how this is:<br />if i look<br />at the crystal moon, at the red branch<br />of the slow autumn at my window,<br />if i touch<br />near the fire<br />the impalpable ash<br />or the wrinkled body of the log,<br />everything carries me to you,<br />as if everything that exists,<br />aromas, light, metals,<br />were little boats<br />that sail<br />toward those isles of yours that wait for me.<br /><br />Well, now,<br />if little by little you stop loving me<br />i shall stop loving you little by little.<br /><br />if suddenly<br />you forget me<br />do not look for me,<br />for i shall already have forgotten you.<br /><br />if you think it long and mad,<br />the wind of banners<br />that passes through my life,<br />and you decide<br />to leave me at the shore<br />of the heart where i have roots,<br />remember<br />that on that day<br />at that hour<br />i shall lift my arms<br />and my roots will set off<br />to seek another land.<br /><br />but<br />if each day,<br />each hour,<br />you feel that you are destined for me<br />with implacable sweetness,<br />if each day a flower<br />climbs up to your lips to seek me,<br />ah my love, ah my own,<br />in me all that fire is repeated,<br />in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,<br />my love feeds on your love, beloved,<br />as long as you live it will be in your arms<br />without leaving mine<br /><br />-pablo nerudaSteve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-24507311503669530952009-12-05T23:48:00.000-05:002009-12-08T00:29:53.132-05:00awaiting resurrection in rainI was reminded tonight of how driving in a snowstorm on a pitch black night down a street with no lights and your high-beams on can make you feel like you're falling. Is it a latent suicidal urge that keeps you from pulling over? Like how Milan Kundera suggests vertigo is not the fear of falling, but rather jumping? You can only see a few feet ahead of you, the illuminated flakes whipping towards you is enough to prompt an epileptic fit, but you persist. I'm always amazed that I continue to drive when I feel so unsafe, but even more so, I am amazed at the assholes who come blazing up behind you going 20 over the speed limit, and then ride your ass like there's something wrong with you. I want bad things to happen to these people.<br /><br />I mean, I suppose I don't actually want bad things to happen to these people, but in the moment I get mad enough to wish it upon them, usually taking the form of a few mumbled curse words and a good old fashioned tap of the breaks.<br /><br />I don't get angry very often, but I will admit I am prone to some serious road rage (what did George Carlin say about anyone going slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster is a maniac... smart man; RIP). I learned the virtue of patience by necessity at an early age. And since then I have learned that patience and kindness are some of the more important things in life. It can be all you have to offer anybody that truly means anything it all.<br /><br />I fear that these qualities are too often mistaken for naivete.<br /><br />Take elementary school; how the quiet, nice kid was the easiest target, and therefore the one facing the most shit. I felt for those kids in school... it didn't stop me from teasing along, I'm sorry to say, but I've remembered those moments heading into adulthood. And now, I see the same game, it's not as transparent as it was in grade school, but it's there in essence. The weak-hearted being strong-willed (to steal a phrase from Ani Difranco). And the strong-hearted seeming weak. It's all backwards. What does It say about the meek inheriting the kingdom of God? I guess that bit is glazed over by the fist-pounders.<br /><br />And here's where it really get's tricky. Because, like the maniac driver, I would love to give these people a piece of my mind. But would I then be abandoning something imperative? Where's the line of righteous indignation?<br /><br />I don't have an answer for that. It's a line I've never been able to make out. Most of the time I continue to smile, and stare in bewilderment.<br /><br />There are people out there who are going to make you feel like shit for trying to be good. The easy ones to deal with are the ones who are blatant in their methods. These are the ones that you can see coming a mile away. Their transgressions don't hurt too much. Astounding in their ignorance, but otherwise negligible. But there are other ones; ones that will smile to your face, who will wear the guise so well that it takes you a while to see them for who they are. These are the worst kind. Those who save their enmity for private ears.<br /><br />I just hope they know that kindness is not the same as naivete, that they aren't fooling anyone, except maybe themselves, and maybe not even then.<br /><br />I'd love to come right out and tell these kinds of people to fuck off. Sometimes I slip up and I do. But, really, when it comes down to it, it's much easier to do that. It is so much easier to hate than it is to love.<br /><br />So where is the line of righteous indignation? Maybe it's a private place. Maybe it's something internal, where you have to realize that you'll be damned if anybody ever makes you feel stupid for loving. (see: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u9ELwvhjMG4">You are what you love, not what loves you</a>)<br /><br />And in the end, I believe, that's the only thing that is ever going to make you feel good. I was furious with the maniac behind me tonight. Furious as I pulled over to the side of the road at too-high a speed and nearly slid off the road completely because he/she was riding too close. Furious as their horn rang out as they sped by. Furious as I turned around on the dark road and headed back. Furious up until I got out and asked that guy sitting by his car on the side of the road with his hood up and hazard lights on if he needed any help.<br /><br />I'm not suggesting I'm some sort of saint for stopping to lend somebody jumper cables in the middle of the night. But that simple act of kindness brought things back into balance for me. I realized that this is the kind of person I <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> to be. And so I just shook his hand, and sort of smiled when he said "you wouldn't believe how many assholes have just driven by."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=9,0,28,0" height="120" width="100%"><param name="movie" value="http://8tracks.com/mixes/66547/player_v2"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="FlashVars" value="bg_color=_000000"><embed flashvars="bg_color=_000000" src="http://8tracks.com/mixes/66547/player_v2" pluginspage="http://www.adobe.com/shockwave/download/download.cgi?P1_Prod_Version=ShockwaveFlash" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" height="120" width="100%"></embed></object><br /></div>Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-61444796669337421592009-11-18T08:15:00.001-05:002009-11-19T00:55:44.826-05:00it is at moments after i have dreamed<br /> of the rare entertainment of your eyes,<br /> when (being fool to fancy) i have deemed<br /><br /> with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;<br /> at moments when the glassy darkness holds<br />the genuine apparition of your smile<br /> (it was through tears always)and silence moulds<br /> such strangeness as was mine a little while;<br /><br /> moments when my once more illustrious arms<br /> are filled with fascination, when my breast<br /> wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:<br /><br /> one pierced moment whiter than the rest<br /><br /> -turning from the tremendous lie of sleep<br /> i watch the roses of the day grow deep.<br /><br />-ee cummingsSteve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-59439946883695083092009-11-06T00:39:00.001-05:002011-12-01T23:41:15.213-05:00shut softly your watery eyesI was fourteen and fifteen when I worked for two summers in a nursing home. I worked in the activities department, and so my job was to entertain. We threw birthday parties, held bingo afternoons, movie nights, etc. There were three separate buildings, at least four floors in each building, about fifty residents on each floor. There was an "activities director" assigned to each floor, and I would take turns assisting different directors every day. Every floor had three planned activities for the day posted on a dry erase board:<br />9:30: Bingo<br />12:30: Movie: Once Upon a Time (starring Cary Grant)<br />3:30: Arts and Crafts.<br />Between these planned activities I would just walk around and spend time with people, wheel them around the courtyard, read them the paper, help them try and chew their food, anything, anything to brighten those dingy walls that surrounded them.<br /><br />The buildings and floors were organized by the tenants' abilities, or, in so many words, their life expectancy. I mean that in the most literal sense (expectancy - the state of thinking or hoping that something, esp. something pleasant will happen or be the case). And so some floors were much sadder than others.<br /><br />A good majority of the people were completely non-responsive. There were younger, severely disabled people, who were unable to speak, or move - I remember one man, he was probably about 35, was in a car accident at some point, paralyzed; he sat reclined in a chair, always covered by dozens of white towels, situated to collect the constant flood of saliva that fell from his twisted mouth like a leaky faucet. I remember the smell of him, and feel embarrassed that at first I had a hard time sitting near to him; I imagine the shit and piss in his pants was much more uncomfortable to him than it was to me. But I also remember his eyes, and the way he would smile somewhere in them when you came near and asked him how he was. He couldn't speak, but would sort of grunt and gargle responses. And his one hand, that permanently rested upright, his elbow wedged to his hip and bent upwards, fingers clenched tight, thumb inside barely jutting out between his middle and ring finger, when you would gently close your hand around it, saying, "give me a high five, Ed" his gargling would come in great, loud spurts, and his head would slightly rock back and fourth. This was the only way he could laugh.<br /><br />Sometimes some of the older women thought I was their grandson, or some long-lost family friend, or even, sometimes, their husband. I learned early on it was better to allow them the delusion. "Yes, Martha, I'm still in the Navy. No we haven't set a date yet. Yes, Martha, I'm happy as well. She certainly is a wonderful gal."<br /><br />I spent a lot of my free time with this one woman, Grace. She was, quite simply, adorable. She sat hunched over in her wheelchair, the brightly colored afghan wrapped under her frail legs. Though her face was textured and worn, and her eyes sunk behind large, thick glasses, you could tell she once possessed stunning beauty. Her smile was mischievous and enigmatic. She was a great conversationalist. Her mind was sharp. I would often take her outside and wheel her around the grounds, maybe stopping to sit on a bench and read the paper. And sometimes when I wheeled her into the elevator, and stepped back around her to press the button, a wrinkled brown hand would come out from under the afghan and two shaky fingers would reach out and lightly pinch my bottom, and when I would turn around in feigned offense, she would quietly laugh to herself. This was how it was on the good days. But for as many good days as Grace and I had over those two summers, there were just as many bad days. Sometimes you would find her wheeled into a corner, and she would be crying. I had never seen this kind of crying before, and perhaps never have seen since. It was unintelligible that such a feeble, and ordinarily lighthearted creature, could produce such deep and immutable sobbing. Any inquisition to the source would invariably fail. She would not, or perhaps, more likely, could not, reply. The tears would stream, and her lungs would lunge in dissonance, her head hanging to her breast, rising and falling with each pang.<br /><br />When I mention good days and bad days, I am not being figurative. The days she would cry, she would cry all day. And the days that she laughed, and talked, and coyly smiled, she laughed, and talked, and coyly smiled all day. There was no overlap.<br /><br />I never found out what caused that pain in her, and I never figured out how to bring her out of that dark prison she would find herself locked into. I could only occasionally reach out and wipe away a few tears with the side of my thumb, stretching out her furrowed cheeks, softly whispering apologies... or I could exaggerate how long it took to press the button in the elevator, giving her enough time to struggle her hand from her lap.Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-62163695043286886292009-10-11T15:58:00.000-04:002009-10-11T21:04:59.920-04:00just delightful<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwc-muUgM2X7C8d0VZioLdyHWTvIa02CqwzH69jrTizmq6tXa0EgeiLrKZV7rpleIM3OF4-fnkQBKXMWD4jnJOksizZrt2qUoie7lVWlhX3FlueugOvY0cAADd52LSdIOG0fZpqx70wM-4/s1600-h/Away+We+Go.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwc-muUgM2X7C8d0VZioLdyHWTvIa02CqwzH69jrTizmq6tXa0EgeiLrKZV7rpleIM3OF4-fnkQBKXMWD4jnJOksizZrt2qUoie7lVWlhX3FlueugOvY0cAADd52LSdIOG0fZpqx70wM-4/s320/Away+We+Go.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391434995397602610" border="0" /></a><br />I just finished watching Away We Go, and man, it was fantastic. You can tell it was written by Dave Eggers, the man has such a unique voice. I feel like it's been too long since I've seen a film that has moved me. This one did. I'm always impressed when a film can make you laugh <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> cry. In the wise words of Joni Mitchell "laughing and crying, you know it's the same release." Oh and the Alexi Murdoch songs laced throughout was pretty rad too.<br /><br />I just found out Is Anybody There? was playing at the Polk this weekend, and I'm really bummed I missed it... that's another one I desperately want to see.Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-45673201337352744022009-10-09T17:33:00.000-04:002009-10-10T00:44:27.364-04:00stuck inside of mobile with the memphis blues againIt looks as if I'll be in Florida a little bit longer than expected. Due to an evening of revelry with several friends under the guise of a going-away get together at DC's sports bar, and, more specifically, the afterparty at Benji's with George and Austin, coupled with their fairly-convincing, provocative, albeit outlandish attempts at convincing me to move back, I entirely missed my flight. I didn't really miss it, as such - I didn't have a McCallister-family style run through the Tampa airport - I just slept through my alarm (which, in hindsight, I should have seen coming since me and Austin's 5 o'clock-in-the-morning bike-peddling adventure doesn't bode well for an early departure, especially since when I collapsed on my friends futon at roughly 5:30 my bags were still scattered all over the floor). So that 8am alarm went unheard, and a grumbly voice informed my ride, when he arrived, that there was simply no way this thing was going to happen.<br /><br />[A brief aside/admission: I'm glad my father is technologically impaired and cannot read this, because I told him that my ride's car broke down... a small lie, one I don't feel entirely absolved of, but one worth not having to endure that prolonged sigh/grunt of disapproval ordinarily laced with "oh boy's" and "straighten your act out's" - to him any deviation from a plan, unless entirely outside of one's hands, is nothing short of extreme negligence and immaturity, age and parental independence notwithstanding. Though, I will say, the old man isn't all that gullible; he half-jokingly accused me of lying, saying, "I bet this is all one big scam, and it has something to do with a girl." Oh, <span style="font-style: italic;">Dad</span>.]<br /><br />Unfortunately, Southwest isn't really sympathetic to my plight of flight (ooooh... clever? ... probably not), and insists that another ticket be purchased. They will, however, put the cost of my empty seat toward the new ticket... which doesn't really amount to much unless you purchase in advance. So, looks like I'm here another two weeks. I will be missing out on a few additional weeks of my beloved autumn, but I suppose it's not all bad, there are things about Lakeland I've become quite fond of on this trip.<br /><br />The only real downside is that I have already blown through all the books I brought on the trip... I do have my collection here in town, and there is probably one or two in there I haven't read yet... still, I knew I should have packed a few more.<br /><br />And let it be noted: On Thursday Oct 23rd I will NOT be bamboozled into a late evening<br /><br />... probably.Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-24950719745555223452009-10-06T02:53:00.001-04:002009-10-06T03:09:00.045-04:00curbMy best friend's wife, Rachel, when we first met, told me that I looked like Tom Yorke. It's been a long-standing joke between us (one that I mentioned during their wedding toast). It was a compliment in her mind, and I didn't really take offense at the time, but still, I always give her shit about telling me I looked, essentially, like a lazy-eyed-homeless-looking man. But tonight, since I have been vehement through the course of their relationship that they both watch 'Curb Your Enthusiasm' in it's entirety and embrace the hilarity, she told me that every time she watches that show she thinks of me. She said that, in almost every way, I remind her of Larry David - the mannerisms, the way I walk, everything. And while I don't really see it at all... I'll actually accept this one as a huge compliment, because, seriously, he's awesome. I wish I had HBO... this new season is going to be great... I mean, how can it not be?<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/w_Mn0eWgumg&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/w_Mn0eWgumg&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-72329526298965750192009-09-16T00:57:00.000-04:002009-09-16T10:15:00.617-04:00good god almighty that stuff 'aint realThis is how I spent my evening:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtL0Vd0el2nOTQEyZWHpQ3nX7dpqdXB-EwlpEpjjD9AT6lI5E4TP5OA1SAQGUuFcbN4pwQkEyEprcZpCwtB-E8aRev1QaWaiWKOzwyhq5bu48dRqROuoTJXA6Y58Q_pUrxOIxVTDeMRDYb/s1600-h/_Media+Card_BlackBerry_pictures_IMG00014.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtL0Vd0el2nOTQEyZWHpQ3nX7dpqdXB-EwlpEpjjD9AT6lI5E4TP5OA1SAQGUuFcbN4pwQkEyEprcZpCwtB-E8aRev1QaWaiWKOzwyhq5bu48dRqROuoTJXA6Y58Q_pUrxOIxVTDeMRDYb/s320/_Media+Card_BlackBerry_pictures_IMG00014.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381924922195773138" border="0" /></a>and it was just lovely. I'm halfway through the first season (thanks netflix insta-queue! - which I have used <span style="font-style: italic;">way</span> more than the traditional netflix mainly because I'm too lazy to put the dvds in the mailbox which, I realize, is absolutely rediculous) and it's a great show so far. And the wine was pretty good too... I won't lie, the first time I bought this was a few years ago, and I bought it because I liked the label... I just can't help myself when it comes to aesthetics.<br /><br />I received a few calls to go out tonight, but I'm glad I didn't. It's been really nice to just sit around, watching Dexter and taking periodic musical interludes. Speaking of which, I am completely obsessed with Sea Wolf's <span style="font-style: italic;">Leaves in the River</span> right now. It's my song of the month.<br /><br />My last day of work was yesterday, and already I'm reverting back to my habit of staying up way too late (having to wake up at 6am everyday really puts a damper on the whole staying-up-till-4am-writing-listening-and-reading thing that has been my life since I was in highschool). I have no clue where I'm going to go from here... and maybe I should be stressed about that. But I'm not. I just can't be. The air is too nice, the music too moving, the possibilities too endless, and the time way too short.<br /><br />I went out to dinner with my mother the other day, who is going to Portland for a month-long visit, and she was so stressed out, like she so often is. And when I told her that she needn't worry so much, she got upset, like she always does at first when this recurrent conversation pops up. Sometimes she sees me as someone who never really worries about anything. I've heard this from people a few times actually. And I guess I can see where it comes from. Ammi used to get so mad at me in school because I never really worked at anything... or at least never worked at anything I didn't feel like working at, and she couldn't understand my ambivalence about academic pursuit. And I get it, I mean we are embedded with this notion that you need to do well in school and make a lot of money to be happy. But that is complete bullshit. It really is. It's not that I don't worry, or stress. It's quite the opposite actually. I freak the f out a lot of the time. But, in the end, and somewhere deep inside, I just realize... what is the point? You can stress about something until you are crippled by worry, and you can take all that stress and kill yourself to meet some standard that was placed in you, and you can hop from stone to stone with that weight on you, and that's fine, because you end up hopping from stone to stone anyway, but why consciously carry the weight? What I explained to my mother, and what I explained to Ammi about my academic attitude, is that I'm not immune to the pressure. I'm the guy who always says, don't worry so much, quoting Matthew 6:27 out of context; not because I'm actually indifferent to these very real circumstances, but because I've wasted way too much of my life worrying, and because it's what I'd want to hear, what I've so rarely heard, and because I think you just miss so much of the great stuff when you put so much energy into fighting the bad stuff.<br /><br />I did not intend to get into all of this. It's much too big a concept to tackle here, one that I actually haven't ever really tried to put down in words before. But I'll say (or, rather, Bob Dylan will say) this in closing:<br /><div style="text-align: center;" class="content"> <p><br /></p><p>"When your head gets twisted and your mind grows numb<br />When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb<br />When you're lagging behind and losing your pace<br />In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race<br />No matter what you're doing if you start giving up<br />If the wine don't come to the top of your cup<br />If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holding on<br />And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone<br />And your train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it<br />And the wood's easy finding but you're lazy to fetch it<br />And your sidewalk starts curling and the street gets too long<br />And you start walking backwards though you know its wrong<br />And lonesome comes up as down goes the day<br />And tomorrow's morning seems so far away<br />And you feel the reins from your pony are slipping<br />And your rope is a-sliding 'cause your hands are a-dripping<br />And your sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys<br />Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys<br />And your sky cries water and your drain pipe's a-pouring<br />And the lightning's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashing<br />And the windows are rattling and breaking and the roof tops a-shaking<br />And your whole world's a-slamming and banging<br />And your minutes of sun turn to hours of storm<br /></p><p>And to yourself you sometimes say<br />"I never knew it was gonna be this way<br />Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"<br />And you start getting chills and your jumping from sweat<br />And you're looking for something you ain't quite found yet<br />And you're knee-deep in the dark water with your hands in the air<br />And the whole world's a-watching with a window peek stare<br />And your good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying<br />And your heart feels sick like fish when they're frying<br />And your jackhammer falls from your hand to your feet<br />And you need it badly but it lays on the street<br />And your bell's banging loudly but you can't hear its beat<br /></p><p>And you think your ears might a been hurt<br />Or your eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blinding dirt<br />And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush<br />When you were faked out an' fooled while facing a four flush<br />And all the time you were holding three queens<br />And it's making you mad, it's making you mean<br />Like in the middle of Life magazine<br />Bouncing around a pinball machine<br /></p><p>And there's something on your mind you wanna be saying<br />That somebody someplace oughta be hearing<br />But it's trapped on your tongue and sealed in your head<br />And it bothers you badly when you're laying in bed<br />And no matter how you try you just can't say it<br />And you're scared to your soul you just might forget it<br />And your eyes get swimmy from the tears in your head<br />And your pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead<br />And the lion's mouth opens and your staring at his teeth<br />And his jaws start closing with you underneath<br />And you're flat on your belly with your hands tied behind<br />And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign<br /></p><p>And you say to yourself, just what am I doing<br />On this road I'm walking, on this trail I'm turning<br />On this curve I'm hanging<br />On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm taking<br />In this air I'm inhaling<br /></p><p>Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard<br /></p><p>Why am I walking, where am I running<br />What am I saying, what am I knowing<br />On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailing<br />On this mandolin I'm strumming, in the song I'm singing<br />In the tune I'm humming, in the words I'm writing<br />In the words that I'm thinking<br />In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinking<br />Who am I helping, what am I breaking<br />What am I giving, what am I taking<br /></p><p>But you try with your whole soul best<br />Never to think these thoughts and never to let<br />Them kind of thoughts gain ground<br />Or make your heart pound<br /></p><p>But then again you know when they're around<br />Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down<br />Cause sometimes you hear 'em when the night times comes creeping<br />And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping<br />And you jump from your bed, from your last chapter of dreaming<br />And you can't remember for the best of your thinking<br />If that was you in the dream that was screaming<br /></p><p>And you know that it's something special you're needing<br />And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healing<br />And no liquor in the land to stop your brain from bleeding<br /></p><p>And you need something special<br />Yeah, you need something special all right<br />You need a fast flying train on a tornado track<br />To shoot you someplace and shoot you back<br />You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler<br />That's been banging and booming and blowing forever<br />That knows your troubles a hundred times over<br />You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race<br />That won't laugh at your looks<br />Your voice or your face<br />And by any number of bets in the book<br />Will be rolling long after the bubblegum craze<br /></p><p>You need something to open up a new door<br />To show you something you seen before<br />But overlooked a hundred times or more<br />You need something to open your eyes<br />You need something to make it known<br />That it's you and no one else that owns<br />That spot that you're standing, that space that you're sitting<br />That the world ain't got you beat<br />That it ain't got you licked<br />It can't get you crazy no matter how many<br />Times you might get kicked<br /></p><p>You need something special all right<br />You need something special to give you hope<br />But hope's just a word<br />That maybe you said or maybe you heard<br />On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve</p> <p>But that's what you need man, and you need it bad<br />And your trouble is you know it too good<br />Cause you look and you start getting the chills</p><p>Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill<br />And it ain't on Macy's window sill<br />And it ain't on no rich kid's road map<br />And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house<br />And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ<br />And it ain't on that dimlit stage<br />With that half-wit comedian on it<br />Ranting and raving and taking yer money<br />And you thinks it's funny<br /></p><p>No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club<br />And it ain't in the seats of a supper club<br />And sure as hell you're bound to tell<br />That no matter how hard you rub<br />You just ain't a-gonna find it on your ticket stub<br />No, and it ain't in the rumors people're telling you<br />And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are selling you<br />And it ain't in no cardboard-box house<br />Or down any movie star's blouse<br />And you can't find it on the golf course<br />And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus<br /></p><p>And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes<br />And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons<br />And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices<br />That come knocking and tapping in Christmas wrapping<br />Saying 'ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin<br />Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow<br />Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry'<br />When you can't even sense if they got any insides<br />These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows<br /></p><p>No you'll not now or no other day<br />Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache<br />And inside the people made of molasses<br />That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses<br />And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies<br />Who'd turn you in for a tenth of a penny<br />Who breathe and burp and bend and crack<br />And before you can count from one to ten<br />Do it all over again but this time behind yer back<br />My friend<br />The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl<br />And play games with each other in their sand-box world<br />And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools<br />That run around gallant<br />And make all rules for the ones that got talent<br />And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do<br />And think they're foolig' you<br />The ones who jump on the wagon<br />Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style<br />To get their kicks, get out of it quick<br />And make all kinds of money and chicks<br /></p><p>And you yell to yourself and you throw down your hat<br />Saying, 'Christ do I gotta be like that?<br />Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at<br />Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel<br />Good God Almighty<br />THAT STUFF AIN'T REAL'</p> <p>No but that ain't your game, it ain't even your race<br />You can't hear your name, you can't see your face<br />You gotta look some other place<br /></p><p>And where do you look for this hope that you're seeking?<br />Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burning?<br />Where do you look for this oil well gushing?<br />Where do you look for this candle that's glowing?<br />Where do you look for this hope that you know is there<br />And out there somewhere?<br /></p><p>And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads<br />Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows<br />Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways<br />You can touch and twist<br />And turn two kinds of doorknobs<br />You can either go to the church of your choice<br />Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital<br />You'll find God in the church of your choice<br />You'll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital</p> <p>And though it's only my opinion<br />I may be right or wrong<br />You'll find them both<br />In the Grand Canyon<br />at sundown</p><p>-Bob Dylan</p><p style="text-align: center;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">If you've been generous enough to read through all of this, I'll leave you with a few tunes that have been good to me in this beautiful season.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=9,0,28,0" height="80" width="100%"><param name="movie" value="http://8tracks.com/mixes/47615/player_v2"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="FlashVars" value="bg_color=_ed7a11"><embed flashvars="bg_color=_ed7a11" src="http://8tracks.com/mixes/47615/player_v2" pluginspage="http://www.adobe.com/shockwave/download/download.cgi?P1_Prod_Version=ShockwaveFlash" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" height="80" width="100%"></embed></object><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /></div>Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4262595860555175969.post-83635968466717897302009-09-11T22:09:00.000-04:002009-09-11T22:47:19.681-04:00i let my music take me where my heart wants to goI've been feeling very restless lately, but not at all in a way that makes me weary or overtly anxious. I think I'm beginning to shed this notion of waiting. For so long now I've been waiting... waiting for some <span style="font-style: italic;">opportunity</span>, or some <span style="font-style: italic;">change</span>, or some<span style="font-style: italic;">one</span>, or... I don't even know... But I'm done with that. I was listening to some music and reading some poetry this evening and I had this intense feeling of excitement, not for things that I've been waiting for, or hoping for over the last year or two, but for an entirely new set of circumstances that don't have the rigid outlines my previous dreams have had (have you ever wished for something for so long that you've imagined every possible scenario that it could play itself out? You dream it to death and then it ceases to excite you anymore, you just anticipate, in vain most likely) in fact there were no outlines at all. It was simply a feeling of excitement, and wandering images of beauty.<br /><br /><br /><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=9,0,28,0" height="80" width="100%"><param name="movie" value="http://8tracks.com/mixes/46846/player_v2"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="FlashVars" value="bg_color=_000000"><embed flashvars="bg_color=_000000" src="http://8tracks.com/mixes/46846/player_v2" pluginspage="http://www.adobe.com/shockwave/download/download.cgi?P1_Prod_Version=ShockwaveFlash" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" height="80" width="100%"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />"Compliment"<br />-Rives<br /><br /><span class="poemtext">I remember the first time<br />you named me <em>“Good morning.”</em><br /><br />And how, the night before,<br />you considered my ceiling,<br />where the passing cars outside<br />the passing cars outside<br />the passing cars outside<br />cast their shadows and liquid lights<br />through the slats of my blinds.<br /><br />You said: <em>“Hey Romeo--<br />your CD player is skipping again...<br />but your ceiling’s like fireworks for poor folks!”</em><br />And I liked that.<br /><br />I like the tall pauses you take<br />when you tell your nephews knock-knock jokes.<br />And I like your theory<br />that men and women’s shirts button on opposite sides<br />so that couples can get dressed facing each other<br />after making love.<br /><br />You seem to season your seasons,<br />your days, your time<br />with rhyme, not reason,<br />I’ve seen you. Daily. Nightly.<br />I’ve watched you housebreak a puppy<br />just by asking politely.<br /><br />And your remedy for insomnia?<br />Is to pile every pillow and blanket into the tub<br />and you nap there like you’re taking<br />a patchwork bath,<br />and I said once: <em>“Oh--I wish I had a PICTURE!”</em><br />and you said: <em>“Oh--I wish you and I had HOT SEX,<br />YOU gave ME a PEDICURE,<br />and then ELVES showed up at our doorstep,<br />with a PIZZA, to tell us JESUS just built a TREEHOUSE<br />in the backyard, and he’d like to meet us both,<br />so HOP IN HOTSHOT!”</em><br /><br />You’re weird,<br />with a capital “WE.”<br />And I’m grateful, I marvel,<br />you’ve helped me hammer<br />some of my worst manners into manhood,<br />but I still admit--I like the way your shorts fit,<br />and how, overall, you’d call me “smart,”<br />even though sometimes<br />I do really stupid shit.<br /><br />And I like how you giggle with your lips closed<br />like you’ve got a secret little moon in your mouth.<br /><br />But I’m not insisting you’re some kind of goddess,<br />(I know you’re suspicious of unspecific love poems).<br />You’re more like a sunflower,<br />growing in the courtyard of an old folks home--<br />you mean things to people on a daily basis,<br />and this petty poem won’t explain<br />just how “my favorite” your face is,<br />(but I wish I’d been your bathroom mirror<br />the day they took off your braces).<br /><br />You’re so pretty.<br /><br />You’re like a vivid video game<br />and I’m the idiot kid<br />just trying to get to your next level--<br />I like your right-shoulder angel,<br />Hell, I like your left-shoulder devil.<br />I admire the lively deeds you do.<br />So if you come through a doorway again,<br />in a thrift store poncho,<br />or a drop-dead evening gown,<br />twirling and asking:<br /><em>“Well, whaddya think?”</em><br />I’m gonna tell you:<br /><br /><em>“Shit howdy, Sunshine,<br />sit your fine self down!<br />If you’re looking for a compliment--<br /><br />I think you’ve come<br />to the right place.”</em></span>Steve Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085761539444422573noreply@blogger.com1