Thursday, March 3, 2011

Regarding work & its goodness

I know it's been a while, folks. I'm sure you've all found more reliable sources of information in the meantime, and I don't blame you, but here's a little update just in case.

Over the last three or so months I've been teaching myself to make websites. My focus has been on the design side of things (that's CSS, for all you nerds) with a lot of focus on typography. It's a jittery time for people interested in making good typography on the web, as browsers are starting to reliably support font embedding. So yes, I've been buried in work every day after work, but the design work is very good work, and I envision at least some of my future happily engaged in it. Just as soon as I find someone who is interested in paying me.

This is all to say: I am tired. About half the time it's good tired (damn-that-was-a-solid-day's-work tired), which I relish above all else, but occasionally it's just a heavy, dreadful tired. That, my friends, is why I'm working so much. I want to banish the heavy tired.

Let's banish the heavy tired with good, meaningful work.

That's really all I want out of my life at this time. I am twenty-five and I want to do meaningful work. Be strong, my friends. Stand on your tip-toes and eat healthy. We will find it.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Please hold

My laptop got stolen a week or so ago, so posts here will be even more infrequent than you're accustomed to, at least until I get some funds together for another laptop.

Most of my stuff was backed up, so I'll be able to pick up the song-making more or less where I left off. I know I promised Friends & friends & lovers some time back, but now it's basically just a notion in a time-capsule, waiting to be powered up after aeons of lonely silence. Kubrick will make a film about it, and it won't have a soundtrack.

In the mean-time though, I'll be heading home for a short stay. Back into Michigan's golden arms as Mr. Sufjan Stevens once put it.

Still often I think of going back, to the farms, to the farms

I can't wait to be in that place. Until later, all the best.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Couch Fort Set #2: Swim for health and swim for happiness

Here's the second episode of my radio show:

Download MP3

If you'd like to subscribe to the show, you can do so via iTunes, email, or facebook.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

The Cedar Room

Dan and I have recorded a new song:

Cedar Room

We wrote this song way back in December, right as we finished building the sauna in our backyard. There was a healthy layer of snow over everything then, and I think we were struck by that old gather 'round the fire mood. When I moved to Portland, the song went into a sort of deep winter's sleep, until Dan drove out here to visit and we shook it awake. Still thought it was winter, I suppose.

The song, as you may have guessed, is about building our sauna. We spent so many days sawing and hammering and cobbling that beautiful thing together, it deserved a song. The soulful picking and strumming is Dan, I'm singing, and the lovely backing vocals are Kelly. Hope you enjoy it.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

The Western Fury

One minute they were alive and the next they weren't.
I didn't see the exact second the life left them, but
once the smoke cleared they just sat there
like discarded skins of themselves.
Where did it go, their life? I asked. What left them?
Nothing left them, you said.
They're the same as they were before.
Except the insides aren't moving.

I think about this as I watch the last
of the smoke and steam leave their bodies.
They were throwing themselves with so much force
at such close range,
and then their insides stopped moving.
They had such fury, and now they don't have anything.

There are four furies, you told me later. And
of the four furies, there's none quite like the western fury.
None that plunges its hands into the mercurial stream for gold.
None that throws itself around with so little regard for death.
Death, who stalks among the havoc with his head low,
his steps slow and measured, like he's walking in the dark
on sharp stones.

Later yet, we build what we can of a pyre, the
discarded skins spaced across the gloaming beach
like dead sentinels, their shapes teetering in the firelight.

Around our feet appear a number of small translucent creatures.
They notice the pyre and begin to throw themselves
into the burning wood with a great deal of force
at such close range.
When they hit the hot sand under the flames, they writhe
with a familiar fury.
Then something appears to leave them and they are still.
Nothing left them, you say.
They're the same as the were before.
Except the insides aren't moving.