Estuary 7

As I sat defacing the body of canonical literature with my fervid scribblings, the shadow of my hand grew less distinct on the paper, whose color was gradually darkening. I bowed to no one in particular and made my way to the river bank. The men were to be returning soon. I didn't want to give the impression I'd been idle while they toiled. No, in truth it was of no matter. I didn't want them to think I'd been gawking at their women all afternoon. I had enjoyed myself immensely, though. The young ones were lovely, all moved like skilled dancers, some were mothers, one was pregnant. There was one in particular, slender with a hibiscus over her left ear, who invariably looked down when she smiled, she once made to bring me a cup of water, but with courtly manners I retrieved it myself, hoping to demostrate some degree of machismo. For a while she salted fish and cut bamboo. I was enthralled, but the pregnant one turned my crank too.

At dusk the men returned and Malu with them. "Good news," Malu said. "Tonight the matches begin. One has agreed to your challenge."

"But I have challenged no one," I said.

"He will agree. Do not fear, he is Pumala, the cousin of the elder. Very old."

"But my wish is to be an observer. What kind of a match is this?"

Malu spoke a word I didn't understand. "It is like martial arts."

"I'm sorry Malu, I can't. I dislike martial arts. Or any violence, really."

"Like wrestling, it is more like wrestling. Over quick. It is for you to learn and honor for the people. Good for your paper. Come, I will show you some moves before the meal. Then we will observe some matches. No sweat. But I must ask you not to injure the cousin of the elder."

"I see that concern only toward myself, Malu." I mulled it over. "I agree on the condition that I be permitted to meet Pumala for a few words over supper."

Estuary 6

We returned to the village by noon. We had a light meal of rice and vegetables with the women. The men were at their tasks, and one of the ladies assured me they would not be neglected nor left wanting. Malu said little, he in fact appeared uncomfortable. I took this to mean that were it not for his employment to me, he would be in the fields with the rest of the men, stooped and cultivating those enamel-like grains, his toes growing wrinkly in the paddy water, alert for snakes, following the dictums of culture rather than sullying his manhood indoors. As he did not speak to anyone but myself, I understood that none of the present women were betrothed to him. If he had a wife he did not mention her. Perhaps because he was a refugee, an outsider of different blood. Anthropology was not so difficult. I allowed myself an open, mysterious smile.

I requested permission to observe the women and dismissed Malu for the afternoon. I detected a lightening of his brow, but he replied he would remain nearby and at my service. I sat writing at a table near the window looking down upon the chocolate milk river, but that view was for the pane alone. The women captivated me and I let my gazes linger. They were heavy-set creatures with broad shoulders and backs, their long dark locks resisting taming as they spilled and stacked upon themselves in a lovely directionless dollop, their skin the color of a fawn. They wore calf-length formless dresses with floral prints in the most wonderful sunrise gradations. They took no notice of me as they performed their chores, and this only increased my affections. Their children found me a singular curiosity, however, and though they must have been instructed against nuisance, from time to time I'd catch a brave one in the window just before he yelped and hastened back to his peers.

I wrote letters home and put them aside without addressing them. The recipients I'd decide later. My attentions were elsewhere. Were I to pass one of these ladies on the streets of my town, decorum would prevent me more than a nod with perhaps a quick glance. Here, I was in their home, drinking in their bends and lifts. Because I'd paid for it, it was allowed.

Estuary 5

"Long in my life I have walked trails like this," Malu said. "As a boy I tested myself. I stalked the big cats downwind. I spent hours getting close, and then I made a distraction to get away. I climbed trees with boas in the branches. I ate crocodile and pirhana. I stole into rival villages. I spied on their women. But that was as a boy.

"When I reached the waist of my father he started to bring me into the fields. Then I worked. I grew strong. When I had to leave I was ready. The regime came to power. Pol Pot, may his black spirit burn forever. The brother of my mother was a troublemaker, they said. But no, he was a kind man. He had only a little ego. He been to Hong Kong to study. Everyone thought he was lucky. After the regime, that was not lucky anymore.

"They took the men of my family away. I was on one of my adventures. I returned at dawn to my wailing mother. My sisters were in shock and kept quiet, the way children become when adults break down. My mother sent me away. With a little bread I walked. I made it to Malaysia. Then I could relax. I could sleep on the earth, even gather grass for a little bed. After a long time I came to the sea. And then to Borneo. Look."

Ahead there was a short stone wall that grinned on a gummy slope. Plastered with mud and eroded mineral like coffee stains, jagged and chipped by a bareknuckle fighter, no higher than a dentist's chair, I might have missed it. My shirt was sticking to my back. I swatted a mosquito and mustered the will to take a photo.

"It's hardly Angkor Wat," I said.

Malu whirled on me. I braced for a strike. "What do you know of Angkor Wat? You think civilization began with the Greeks. The Cambodian people, my ancestors, had philosophy, law, government, everything long before the West. We knew what you only now seek. Thousands of years ago we knew. The seat of mankind was the city of Angkor Wat. Europe was animals."

I spoke quickly. "The ruins there are beautiful, certainly. There has never been architecture like that in the world since. Your people were skilled engineers, too. Rivals to the Egyptians, I'm sure."

Malu appeared mollified. "Things are on this land no Westerner has ever seen. Maybe I will show you. That would be valuable, no? Maybe then you will be impressed." He laughed. "Your eyes respect only what is new."

Estuary 4

"I'd like to go into the jungle today," I told Malu that morning over tea and sweet spongy rice cakes. "See what it has to offer in the daytime."

"The jungle does not offer," said Malu. "It rustles. It grows. Sometimes it snaps. That is its nature. It is not Disneyworld. The nature of Disneyworld is fun. The nature of the jungle is to survive. Cruel business. But you want, we go."

"Perhaps there are some ruins," I said lightly, marking my intent.

With that I rose and collected my canteen, camera, and tape recorder. After this time, after I learned the path, I wouldn't need Malu along again. Conversing with him took effort. What I was looking for demanded sharp attention be paid. Its picture was unclear, I was simply compelled to place myself in Borneo. Its sheer stupidity gave me confidence. A god on Olympus moved my figurine to a square on the game board clear across the way. A grand destiny.. it brought a smile. In truth it was probably nothing.

We set out on ground sprinkled with dew. The path gradually became overgrown. I saw opportunities for photos but Malu exuded determination and I was content to let him lead. When an hour passed it was he who broke the silence.

-----
[Website note: A list of favorites is linked under my pic at right.]

Review of Beowulf: The Legend

Beowulf is a man who journeys to Denmark to discharge a debt of oath made by his father, to help rid the Danes of the terror of the demon Grendel. It has been adapted for comics.

This edition is a showroom vehicle for the retelling of the classic Old English saga. Andy Lee's zen brush painting brings a roman candle of new life to the ancient story of duty, strength, and love. The zen brush style depiction of norse mythology might seem strange bedfellows, but Andy's art captures great movement in each still panel. The old story gains zest, vibrancy, life.

Scott McCloud said that in the mind comics form iconic representations of the world. Andy's painting demonstrates comics do more than that. His art is a mix of representational and the abstract melding together to acknowledge, not define, the image and impart its movement and theme. In the first chapter, the swirls of paint and wash are dark, chaotic, and hold seige on the characters while the Danes are at the mercy of Grendel. After Beowulf bests Grendel in round one, white space becomes a tool and the pages open up. When the mighty characters clash, the brush lines extend from their bodies into the environment, which bends, flows, and shifts according to the progress of the battle, creating a charged scene.

This art is not comic book representational and its object is not the money shot. Though there is plenty of panel-to-panel within, the brush style could be frustrating for some readers. Where the clarity of action seems muddled, it is instead a moment where the artist made the decision to go abstract. At times individual identities go out the window, and it is only the battle. That which provides fodder for their ceremonial boast, the battle. The only thing that can deliver them to their god, the battle.

It is then for the reader to bring himself to the work. A kung-fu action eye can draw the choreography from Beowulf's final stand in the creatures' underwater lair, or an eye more unsettled by the swirls of asphixiated linework may hurry along, struck dumb by the atmosphere in the oppressive cave.

The writers, Antczak and Bassett, do a good job of adapting Beowulf the poem into this version. The four issues that make up this tpb are well structured and paced. The characters are solid and their motivations, both hidden and expressed, are made clear. The script is ready to carry the job of indentification and explanation through the scenes. Antczak and Bassett find room for their own touches, as in a welcome dash of humor as the warriors descend toward Grendel's lair. One area that needs work is their transitions, as scenes between pages can change abruptly.

Estuary 3

A little buzzed from the reused two-liter bottles of rice liquor and the digestion of new foods, which flipped the channel of memory to the first time I tried sushi and it gave me a light-headed energy, I waited with some impatience for my senses to reveal the silhouettes and clumping sounds recurring under the weak phosphore moon. The men from the village shook two sacks along the edge of the rice field where the soil was muddy and thick. They worked determinedly with picks and shovels, quiet without flashlight, mixing and rolling the soil around long rods which they then pulled through, hollowing the middle, making pipes.

"The cool night air makes the mixture harder," Malu my interpreter said.

"And hides their work," I said.

He hefted a jug of water to the perimeter and conversed with the men, the work continuing as each relaxed a moment in turn. The wind blew off the ocean as calm and steady as routine. Its voice in the grasses was the only thing I understood.

Malu returned without the jug. "Only thing to keep the fresh water from the sea water is that," he said pointing from the field to the overgrown levee. "The sea water comes over and the crop is spoiled for two years. No festival then."

"Why do they have to keep it secret, Malu?"

"I will show you your bed. Today was a long day. Tomorrow is the same."

-----
[Website note: The music page is updated with notes and an mp3 swap.]

Estuary 2

A typical sodden weight sat in my belly, and I sat on the floor. People around me in small groups laughed about yesterday's old saws. A few talked about tomorrow. It's what I imagined. I couldn't understand a word. "The calm community feeling," I spoke into the mini-recorder I took from my breast pocket.

"What is it you are here to study?" The man asking, my new interpreter, had a bulldog face and porkchop cheeks. He wore a slate blue shirt unbuttoned to the sternum and cotton slacks with soot cakes clinging on like parasitic fish.

"My grant is on the trajectory of male aggression, from agrarian societies to hip-hop culture today, with an emphasis on the sublimation of violence into creative expression as in MC battles," I said. It was the one passage I'd memorized from a pamphlet stamped Pueblo, Colorado. I changed the subject.

"Will they all retire for bed at the same time?" I asked.

"Nearly all," my interpreter said. "Some of the men go into the jungle."

"At night? Is this common?"

"No. You are interested?"

After my nap in the canoe I couldn't say I was particularly tired. "Very much," I said.

Estuary

I took a boat ride upriver through the jungles of Borneo. Pinches of allspice were sprinkled on the sky, and the water was the color of curry paste. Earlier that morning from my comfortable high-rise hotel in Kuala Lampur I imagined the day's journey full of calm introspection, a chance to meditate in the dugout canoe for myself and my men, our only interruptions from howler monkeys or the afternoon calls to prayer echoing in the Muslim hillsides. To my dismay I found the river crowded with fishing boats, shipping boats, water taxis. There were no roads here, indeed, the river was like any dreary interstate.

My cover was as an anthropologist but in truth I was an office temp, off looking for the exotic on seven years of savings. The papers I'd made in Illustrator got me an invitation to a fertility festival, the money got me guides and a boat. It was to be twelve nights in the bush. I supposed I should take the notepad from my pack, make a show of it for my men, but I was irritable from distraction. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure the natives, dancing, drinking rice liquor, their tribal tattoos the only curtains over bare skin.

At dusk I awoke as the boat was jostled onto the river bank. I was seized by panic. This place was unknown to me, unknown to anyone who knew me. The horrors in the darkening canopy were upon me already, coiling on the small of my back. I gripped the sides of the canoe so that I might not thrash myself into the water. My men, leadened with supplies, were following a path toward flickering firelight. A man approached the other way. Before my heart arrested he made the sign for food. The spell broke, and I was assuaged. He put his hand in mine. In the other he placed a can of warm beer.

---

[Website note: The gigs page is updated.]

Leviathan

When the next world war finished its fiery harangue, it stepped down from the streetcorner podium, broke the megaphone over its knee, and slunk home crying to its mommy. It found the getting home a bit tricky. None of the roads were the same. The maps needed updating and would remain obsolete. It never got a license, never needed one, even so all the cars looked like something you'd cut your arm on and the only planes were sticking out of the ground by their nose cones.

It was slow going for the world war, it could move faster than a Saturn V rocket but someone had to pick up the pom-poms for that. It ambled along, leaving fires where it went. The world war's home stood at the top of a hill near an ashen river, what was once the bullseye of an Euclidean grid. Inside its calls lobbed through the empty rooms and chambers. He said he loved me, the world war wept. She said she'd always stand beside me. But just look, I'm alone again. It's not fair.

What fools, consuming fuels

A rant about comics from Chris and I. We collected them as kids and though we don't buy them anymore, every once in a while that old urge strikes. Flipping through a graphic novel at the library usually takes care of this for me but sometimes, every once in a while, the call of ye olde comic shop rings in my ears. Begin correspondance:

You ignore my comics problem :( It's like disease I tell you, a disease!!

Chris: Yeah i get these emails from Midtown comics in NY because I used to order from them and it tempts me greatly. I haven't bought one in a year. Go to a borders and read some for free there, that will remind you why you quit. I kinda miss them but like you just lost interst in most.

Are you sure you don't want to give in to your temptation? I read DC has a mega awesome crossover event called 52. 52 weeks, 52 new comics, that's $150. Get them all! Marvel has an ultimate gaga crossover event called Civil War. In this story apparently the government tries to register all the superheroes and this leads to conflict. Sounds like Watchmen? Fuck you! It's mega awesome, the mighty Marvel way!

Excelsius!

Civil War sounds like Watchmen for sure, even Days of Future Past (now they are ripping themselves off). The only reason Civil War is selling is they hired a graphic designer to make cool cover designs and BRAND it like it was soap. What fools, consuming fuels.

DC is we tall did. 52 new ongoing comics. Let me guess they are all self contained stories so you can read just one but when read together they are interlinked and Grant Morrison is writing it.

Hey you're right, it's not from Watchmen, not directly, it's from them slam-bang X-men movies.. which were ripped from them comics. And don't forget Claremont's most weepy overwrought horseshit, God Loves Man Ills. Cuz man be illin'.

I found League of Extraordinary Gentlemen 2 at the library and it was good. I wouldn't pay no $25 for it but it was good. I bought Eddie Campbell's Fate of the Artist and it was not good!! It was not good so bad I couldn't believe it (I'm a fan of his), so I returned it (thanks for your friendly return policy, barnes and chernobyl). Taste my unwieldy exasperation!

The last good comic that was really good was Epileptic. Kabuki is interesting art. I would still read Eightball. But I have lost interest in Love & Rockets and other critical faves.. like I flipped thru the new Acme Novelty and it looked dull as hell.. 100 boring pages on a nerdy collector.. more sad white people.

Frank Miller is writing Batman but Jim Lee is drawing it. It sucks and not just cuz of Jim "facial crosshatch" Lee but becuz somewhere Frank forgot how to write. Morrison and Quitely are doing Superman, it's probably okay but gosh will Lois figure out Clark's identity before Luthor destroys MY INTELLIGENCE?? Doesn't Chester Brown do comics anymore? Why are the best comics made with CLIP ART??? I get uselessly frustrated!

Frank Miller is a has been. He's so rich now he doesn't have to be good. I don't blame him. fkit.

I agree with you on the Acme books, that guy is an amazing artist but his art never develops anywhere else. It's like he's just another blue collar worker doing the same task everyday for a menial wage, i first discovered this in comics with Darryl Banks on Green Lantern. I never read the series but I remember it was a big deal when he signed on to do that book .....and then 50+ issues later his art still looked the same. No progression. What a waste of time, like working in a factory or assembly line, no point or purpose, just churn out product for consumers with low expectations.

Last I heard Chester Brown finished up the Louis Riel series then rediscovered his playboy collection burried in his backyard and hasn't been seen since. You will have better luck finding good new comics in the ashcan box at Shake-It Records.

The Superman movie was great (in most parts, the end kind of sucked) and I felt good after watching it. I got swept up into the rollercoaster of the film as they say. Now why would I want to go read monthly issues retelling the same story, i agree, who cares who is writing and drawing superman. He will never change, he is a mainstay, and maybe that's not bad, some people need that in their life. He is a part of our culture like buffalo were a part of Indian Culture. (native american, suckers seen from the people who fkd them, or whatever you want to call them that's PC). We slaughter him for consumption.

End correspondance. So of course I don't think the entire medium sucks; at the same time my tastes changed and I was let down by nostalgia. To end on a positive note: the best three graphic novels are From Hell, David Boring, and Epileptic, with an honorable mention going to Graffiti Kitchen. Highly recommended.

In the hills of Kilcarrey

Rugged knapsack, save me life. Yawn so that I might catch a glint inside. Then like a sack of potatos I spill it all, aye, in a circle around me. The shaving kit, tins of meat, firestarters, raisins, water tablets, all of it, an astral protection and me the pentagram inside. To build a fire and put you on it, aye, but your skin is no good to me. It's been three days with the rock on me leg. You are empty. I am empty. Rugged knapsack, save me life.

Gosh

Liger liger, fearsome sight
Hyenas, thy kryptonite
What immortal idiot
Dare tame thy fearful greedy butt?

Fireballs in the sky

My stomach was bloated with chili dip and discount beer and I was feeling low on account of the Chiefs' loss. I'd just finished seeding my lawn with fast-growing Fijian ultra grass. It was a sunny Sunday evening and I was attaching the green garden hose to the outdoor spigot, after 6 pm and at approximately 8 mph in accordance with county regulations. My dipweed neighbor across the street Al was out on his lawn too, of course, and I knew why. I'd been careful to hold the bags of seed against my chest to keep the brand name hidden, and I took the empty bags into the garage instead of tossing them in the cans on the curb. Al stood at the edge of the sidewalk with a cigarette in his mouth, pretending to fumble for matches.

Suddenly, a hogwild cracklin' in the sky! I threw my head back, shading my eyes with my forearm. Three fireballs came screaming toward the Earth, tingeing the homes on the block in reds, yellows, and oranges. The first smashed into Al's pride and joy, a purple '74 Buick and real eyesore whose tailfins invariably blocked the fire hydrant. The second went over the hill where the Parker fishing hole was. A moment later a slobbering steam cloud went up with the hiss of a thousand rattlers. The last fireball was breaking up on the way down. It exploded like birdshot over Al's head holding him transfixed, mouth agape, the cigarette jutting out stuck to his lip. In a blink a glowing chunk of coal sizzled past only inches from his face, lighting the cigarette. Al gasped in horror. Unprepared for the hot tobacco smoke he inhaled, he fell on his back and thrashed around thinking he was struck, on fire, but in fact all of the pieces missed him. His lawn was another story. Patches of it had been scalded to the dirty roots, and it looked like tufts of wildgrass on an arid tundra.

I heard sirens on their way. I went into the garage and carried the empty seed bags to the curb, slow and easy, holding them out, facing my neighbor.

First thoughts on the music of Modern Times

1. thunder on the mountain - I dig the dual lead guitar attack. You can hear the second one, a little higher tone, sitting behind and to the left of the main one. I guess that's Bob on acoustic guitar as well as piano. The piano keeps things rolling on this basic but clever blues number. The drummer plays some great fills leading up to the outro. Bob's voice sounds effortless.

2. spirit on the water - Gorgeous descending melody on this one. This one's an early favorite. Everything's understated and right where it needs to be. Love that hissing hi hat. Whoever mixed this album is an all-star. This one's interesting for not having a verse/chorus structure. It just rolls along with a quick change up ("I'm gonna be with you in paradise") repeating once in a while. And then the harp at the end, starting mournful and brightening at the end.

3. rollin and tumblin - This one kicks it. Definitely in the tradition of the blues numbers on BIABH.

4. when the deal goes down - Reminds me of Oh Mercy. The reverb on the voice for starters, but musically as well. I like the single strumming of the guitar on the left and the way the violin comes in, adds a counterpoint to the solo, and then drops out.

5. someday baby - Okay, this one, the drumming at least, puts me in the mind of JWH (the song). You got a slower melody punctuated by some uptempo drumming. Good contrast. I think that's Bob's guitar solo in the middle - there's three guitar lines, left right and middle. The middle's probably Bob bc it's just a few notes. Smile.

6. workingman's blues #2 - Damn. Nice pretty piano, Bob. He's showing off with that tinkling. You don't expect that from him. Love how all the sounds come in together at 0:45. Everyone has his own great melody line on this, and they all meld wonderfully, and then the vocal melody lays down the law and tells you how it is. I am a fan of this band. This song's my favorite. Love the punctuated guitar on the 3 beat. I swear I hear an organ in there but it's uncredited, could just be all the swirling instruments. And the violin comes in at the end and ties it together. A beauty.

7. beyond the horizon - Old timey goodness. More effortless singing. This is the second or third song with that clean bassy jazz tone tasty quick guitar solo. This is new for Bob, as Larry and David didn't play that style, and it fits in these tunes like a reed in clarinet.

8. nettie moore - The first one that didn't grab me. The prominent kickdrum is like a heartbeat and like a baby against your chest it puts you right to sleep. I'd have liked an arrangement that wasn't so sparse.. but after repeated listens to the album I may appreciate it for a breather.

9. the levee's gonna break - Another blues, midtempo but jaunty. Again the dual lead guitars lift the song between the verses, while the piano jumps on board before the buffet's cleared out and the scraps go to the dogs.

10. ain't talkin - The minor key acoustic picking immediately grabs the ear. The hiss returns and Bob begins a 9 minute narration on sin and salvation. The violin and viola provide a sinister undercurrent. He teases a melody from the slop, this music covering the road like a slick of oil and just as dark. It's precisely played with great feeling, only conveying the feeling of muck, and the pessimism at Bob's core that he can set aside but never escape.

Cheroot

It was the Fall of 1936 and I was running a fever. When considered, that year, most drew on the Olympics and Hitler's embarrassment at the hands of a champion born outside his cheesecloth world, but for me it was the weeks I spent as the marrow between couch cushions with their uncomfortably thick buttons and a stack of North Country quilts. Facing me were a tin bucket, a few inches of creek water in its bottom, sat on the floor by my head like a tombstone waiting to be chiseled, and a boxy radio a-tilt from the far wall so that I might hear it better. Those days before television, and a shrug it was as I sweat all the time. I couldn't have seen for it running in my eyes, had I had the strength to open them. Folk wisdom, sweat it out.

The pulp serials and backwoods comedy mixed with the stray conversations, I recall fresh blood at the bottom of a Badlands canyon marking the spot where wolves ran a head of Buster's sheep, to produce the gibberish I saw in my head when awake and asleep. A hoarse scream, turn the damn thing off!, but they left me with it when they went into the fields. Wild West tinhorns on the Chisholm Trail, starlets strolling the strobe-light gauntlet at the new premiere, Lefty Grove retiring Jimmie Foxx on three straight pitches, cigarette ads, secretaries in love, our fightin' forces. A penny-candy swirl sticking my eyeballs shut, not my ears. I could sweat on the couch or out in those spiny fields. But I had to escape that speaker box. News programs, that's why I healed.

Hanging out with sensei

Three teenage boys came in from an eight hour shift handing out water at the Okinawa Festival. It had grown drizzly with nightfall, inviting soupy brow-sweat air to crash on the sofa, expecting it to be gone in the morning, only to find its ashtrays overflowing and its fridge empty a full week later. The boys split, one to check his MySpace page from the laptop on the coffee table, and the bigger of the other two splayed across the living room floor to have the littler walk on his jello back. He cracked it with a touchdown jump, the bigger one woofed, and the air was seasoned with laughter and groans that clustered in the ceiling corners of the room. All was goofy and bright. They surfed the cable, stopping at Spike for a dating show that had a bleached young woman with more tattoos than silicone taking off her top in a hottub. An imperative cellphone went off in the calf pocket of the bigger boy's jeans. It was nearing 11, time to go home.