Playin the fool agin

Few things chap a man’s hide the likes of realizing he’s mislaid both the vinyl and CD copies of the Velvet Underground’s late-period works Loaded and Live at Max’s Kansas City.

UPDATE: As this entry was prompted by having decided the right way to see 208 in was to listen to the Velvets on vinyl from around 8 until midnight at least, some thoughts:

For some reason, when I read Gene Wolfe, it is these recordings I hear in my mind. I am not sure why, as Wolfe’s interests and opinions would at first appear diametrically opposed to those of Lou Reed, for one.

On slight reflection, Reed’s songwriting has always been about subjectivity, and that is a major theme in Wolfe’s work.

Wolfe, of course, is probably the sole English-language writer to successfully hybridize the aesthetics of the Vienna Secession with that of Borges and Marquez; how could a language worker so invested in the idea of decadence and referentiality NOT somehow reflect the work of the Velvets?

Ultimately, Wolfe writes coded explorations about his specific Messiah filtered through the characters he conjures, holographic reimaginings of Jesus. Reed’s stuff isn’t about Jesus, but nearly always he’s aiming for a purity of experience and looking to convey his characters’ spiritual orientation. It’s the source of both artists’ excess, and probably why I love their work so much.

Ant King

I chuckled myself to sleep last night reading the 2001 Hugo-nominated (man, I have no concept where the hell that idea came from) short story “The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale.” I found the story via manybooks.net, or rather, via mnybks.net, the mobile-oriented skinning of the site.

The author, Benjamin Rosenbaum looks to be a fairly celebrated current SF writer, and based on what I can only describe as the perfection of the story (a satirical take on the Orpheus myth that applies Silicon Valley and text-based computer games to the legend) I concur.

Economics 101

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I rooted through old cassettes today in search of Steve Millen-assembled tapes, and found a bunch. I also found a tape that Steve Bouton made for me around the holidays in 1990 and have just had an entertaining 90 minutes with that. Here’s a link to one of the tunes on tape, Amor Fati’s amusing ‘Economics 101.’ The artist suggests a 25-cent Paypal donation, via this button.

Billy Bee Song,” at the time quite anonymous, but now thought to be Sheena Timony. The ever-awesome Beware of the Blog has kindly posted the whole damn album the song originally came from, Potatoes.

Book and Film

Last night, I dreamt that I have been running a self-published book off of this blog’s archives every X number of words. I held the slim and floppy newsprint perfect-bound paperback in my hands and flipped though it, feeling the metal type impressions and wondering how I was able to afford three-color handset type decorations and one-color engravers cuts of the various photos, posters, and drawings I’ve flung up into the bitstream since 2002.

I also dreamt that I started an independent film company with my friend Greg, Paul Constant (a writer for The Stranger I once interviewed for Tablet concerning his comic-writing endeavors), and Warren Etheredge of The Warren Report.

So it was a night of improbables.

Fire

Fire in White House Complex. The affected office apparently is part of the Vice Presidential office suite.

No-one’s ever gone wrong believing the worst of this administration, so:

Could it be arson?

Could some records be destroyed by the fire?

Could it turn out that the arson, if found, was at the direction of unnamed members of the executive branch?

If it does turn out to be arson due to break-in, I’m thinking it’s time to start looking for hidden microphones – I mean in the White House, sorry, not the ones already in place on our phones.

Osiris Claus

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Every year, as Osiris Claus prepares to take his chariot to the skies in celebration of his birth, it’s helpful to understand how and why we celebrate the birth of the undying lord on December 25th.

Originally, Osiris ruled the world we live in as a king. He was the great-grandson (some say son) of Ra, the great sun-lord from whom all blessings flow. Set, Osiris’ brother, was unhappy with this brother, and killed him by crafting a fantastic trap – a box that may very well have looked like a beautifully wrapped gift box. When Osiris opened the box, Set was able to capture him inside with no hope of escape. Setting the box adrift upon the Nile, Set claimed the throne for himself.

Unsurprisingly, the murderer proved a hard lord and was not favored by his great-grandfather or other relatives. However, Osiris’ wife, Isis, had been busy searching for the box among the river reeds, and found it one day.

The box had become lodged in the roots of a bush which had grown and grown until it resembled a mighty forest tree, a cedar or redwood, an evergreen in the desert. Pouncing upon the gaily decorated box nestled in the base of the green tree, she tore it open to find the dessicated corpse of her husband, the once-mighty Osiris. Weeping (for it can be hard to see relatives at this time of year), she carried it home.

In time, the spirit of Osiris passed within Isis and together they conceived a child, Horus, and his mother hid him from the gaze of his jealous and bloody uncle.

Given hope by this, Isis sought out Thoth, a great wizard, and together they spoke to the spirit of Osiris, hoping to call his spirit into his empty flesh. However, Set struck without warning or mercy and dismembered and shredded the body into uncountable fragments, flinging them far and wide over the fertile delta of the Nile. After bitter struggle, Isis and Anubis were able to reassemble the body, sewing it together again with only the sharpest needle and only the finest thread. It is this tradition we enact when we hang our stockings by the chimney with care. The row of disembodied feet echoes both Osiris’ discorporation and the many trampings to and fro of Anubis and Isis. The fact that they are sewn things, made with needle and thread, provides a reminder of the careful reassembly of the body once gathered.

The spell was cast and Osiris rose again from the dead to join the living. Yet his sojourn here was short and he passed on to the land beyond this one, where the dead pass when it is their time. There he stands in judgment over the souls of the dead. He commends the just to the Blessed Land, but the wicked he condemns to be devoured by Ammit.

On his birthday, some say December 25 (others differ, but place it in late December), he can be seen in the northern sky, riding out in his chariot over all the Earth to survey it. He is said, also, to take our measure in life over the night of his birth; coming in spirit down the chimney, to review our houses and weigh our souls in preparation for the day or night he may meet us.

We erect a tree and mock the hollow anger of Set with our gaily wrapped presents, nestled beneath the branches in token of the immortal world and fate which awaits us.

It’s possible you may have heard some aspect of these traditions as deriving from other religions. Do not be fooled. Osiris Claus is the One True Claus, and from his workshop at the North Pole, he knows when you are sleeping. He knows when you awake. He knows when you’ve been bad or good, so, be good, for the Nile harvest’s sake.

Mother

Monday afternoon, blog social hubster Anita Rowland passed on after a multi-year battle with cancer. I met Anita a few times, mostly at the Ralph’s-based meetups. Once, though, she and husband Jack came to our house (in an Anhalt apartment building on Capitol Hill) for some sort of party. This was, I think, before the cancer diagnosis. In any case, I enjoyed meeting Jack and Anita. I mourn her passing and find it a peculiar one: I am at a loss for words even when I set myself the task.

Anita, your enthusiastic application of social networking skills helped instantiate a substantial portion of my personal social framework today, and I thank and honor you for it. I believe I have seen the term ‘den-mother’ applied to your relationship to the nascent social space here in Seattle partially defined by blogging and online journaling and so forth.

I would argue, on the occasion of your memoriam, that the unhyphenated term ‘mother’ would be infinitely more appropriate.

I honor your life, and your passing, Mother, even though I did not know who you were or your name when I first began to indulge myself in this medium. Mother, you did not birth me or lead me to online writing, blogging, what have you.

Yet!

Your personal interest in and investment of time and energy and thought led directly to the creation of a distinct – and offline, face-to-face – community of bloggers and so forth hereabouts. Many – I flatter myself – of these are now my own friends, my own community, arms’ length and tiny personal icons loosely joined as they are. Without you, that community would exist in different form, as birthed by another.

I most sincerely bow my head in grief and honor. May whatever comes after, or the lack thereof, be merciful to you and yours. My thoughts are with your family, in sorrow and longing.