work drugs

somebody told me the answers were in my mind
next to the reasons and under the love we hide
but I know where they go (everytime I lie)
(they ain't comin' for us) I know

somebody told me the future was mine was to lose
riding a wave and turning this white to blue
but I hope they're wrong (it's keeping me alive)
(they ain't coming for us) I know


The trees are yellowing today. They call to me through questionably opened windows. "Is it too cold out there, yet?" begs the still sounding songs from my car's CD player. Maybe a little louder will keep the chill at bay. Maybe it will prevent that buzz at the back of the throat of a seasonal cold that vanishes only under June sun. No, music will not stop time. I don't really want it to, but of course I feel it capture time in sound. From the one-man band on the street corner I stood by for several hours as I volunteered at Ferndale's yearly DIY Street Fair, to Bars of Gold's main stage performance on the fair's last day and my almost tearful reception to every time I see them.

Pensive, maybe. The in-between time so magically referred to in countless traditions of ancestors both distant and near. Struggling to terms with the letting go of winter. How it must become fully, and we all must slowly welcome it, bit by bit, both in celebration and scorn. All are facets of our yearly acceptance. And really, what options do we have to choose from? Fear or love? Both have their roots in the certainty of an emotional investment, and surely any space in the mind deserves as much freqency of the heart. The pitter patter or deafening roar which resides at our utmost center; makes us the complex "us" that no one else knows.

Musing, more likely. The way we wander or our brain does. Sometimes they go on journeys together, and both lose and find, lose and find, constantly giving and recieving. I have given my energy in many directions over the years. Much certainly belongs in Ferndale, a town I've been consequently stationed to observe the reciprocation which has echoed in my direction from my humbled hummings. There I learn; there I grow.

There I realized many times over the past weekend why I've felt at home here. The people I share my time with, new friends or old friends. Long talks or brief hellos. The awkward and the heartwarming, we are nothing if not together, and as an only child I have only really felt brothers and sisters in this city. As family belongs at our center, so must we have a center to call our own. So, to Ferndale, I call you "home".

seasonal elation

Torn muscles and sore skin. So much more than hurt. The lemons and limes, all so sweet today. The Fridays of my mid-twenties. Being myself so strongly, and the hum of familiar tunes. Autumn music and the crisp air of iced coffee. Smells old and new. All kinds of plans and puzzle pieces. Skin's acclaimation to an ever-changing world. What can I forget today? Anything I'd like to, I suppose. What sometimes flows through my mind, I can only love. Or I can try, and sometimes wince at what decided to wedge itself into prominence. Or laugh, at what all so sweetly swirls in the air of my thoughts. The people I've known, and the heartfelt wishes of knowing better. What I might know well. How nostalgia is a third quarter equation. The lunch break of selfishness. Guitar effects as an interpretation. Poetry of late mornings. All that we could think of in a brief space of time. What we cannot grasp as inspiration. Control as an aimed arrow, the brushed cheek of life, and the tide. Air blowing in someone else's hair, looking so pretty. Seasons known so well for something remembered. Emotions you only wished someone else would understand. But there was the fault of dreaming. We must wake someday. To the cold air of summer mornings. They too, hold something fragrant. Smile at all you accomplish, and blink in bliss at what you did. Ah, the selfishness of your own place on this planet. Deserving to be still with the dew that carries on. And drive, if it keeps you moving.

movie review: House

When Alan Palomo of Neon Indian came to Detroit on tour last year, someone showed him the psychedelic Japanese horror film House (or Hausu) and when they returned a few weeks ago, he mentioned on stage that it was an incredible movie and that it gave him fond memories of the city. I looked the film up the next day, and was immediately intrigued by the graphic cat poster which I know I'd seen somewhere before. Even further by the YouTube trailer of quirky camera tricks and surreal imagery.

Once getting the Blu-ray from Netflix, I cleared my schedule Monday night and sat in front of the TV ready to absorb whatever surreal story was about to unfold. The movie starts with a teenage girl on her last day of school before summer vacation. Excitement rides high as Gorgeous (yes, the characters are all named after their traits - an element that adds to the exaggerated nature of their roles) plans to separate from her friends and travel alone with her rich father who's returning from Italy. When she greets him, however, he has a surprise: a new mom. While the screen glows radiantly at her introduction, the sheer brilliance of her beauty isn't enough to win over Gorgeous, who can't believe her father is betraying his deceased wife. Refusing to travels with the two of them, she storms off to her room, where she is instantly transported to a world of peace and serenity where she pulls out a photograph of her mother and talks to it, informing her of the infidelity. She is reminded of her mother's sister, whom she had only met at her mother's funeral, and writes her a letter asking if she can spend the summer with her. The aunt has been waiting years for this day, and immediately extends an invitation, not only to Gorgeous, but to her schoolmates as well. The letter arrives with a white cat who mysteriously follows the girls back to the house on the hill...

Once inside, the girls take to various tasks, making the best of their individual talents. Each discovers their own brand of horror, however, as the house ensnares them in various traps. Their naivete is well-played out in traditional manga fashion, each of them refusing to believe the unbelievable. Surreal occurrences and strange disappearances lead up to Gorgeous, after stumbling upon her Aunt's private dressing room, being possessed. An excellent slow-motion sequence introduces the newly-possessed main character as she is surrounded by her friends, begging for comfort from the house's ever-present absurdities. Rather than reassure their safety, she leaves the house with a smile to search for their missing friends. The doors and windows promptly shut, trapping the remaining girls inside. As horror closes around them, they discover the Aunt's diary, which reveals that she died many years ago and haunts the house, waiting for young, un-married girls to feast on.

sounds of people

Unfolded feelings of new, new and new. What's missing, of course. Or the unfound fabric of failures, tried and dissolved. There, in fossils. Education calls it many things, the opportunities for tomorrow. And what came about as sand in the microscope. Pen marks and folded paper. Never being ready. Squinting and ashamed but blearly, brave before succumbed exhaustion and what's hiding under floorboards. The stories had to be handed down, and there are so many sounds of trees. So many sounds of people. What carved out of time's gulf in plasma and energy. Candles and lightbulbs for the steady eye to follow. Our own helping hand. The further each page presents as a ladder in a barn. Daunting, if detracted by the knowledge of fear. Where humanity slips its grasp on understanding. Bolted doors. Trials of fire and folklore. How we raised our children from ashes, to return and tell. All the sadness, and the stub of maybe. And the second thoughts always fighting. Call today with closed eyes and you'll begin to lose.


The undoing days. Tiny bites of candy. The airconditioned feel of tired in your eyelids and the 1:00 AM which haunts you. Like one sleepless night not letting go. A potential cold. The sniffle of annoyance and hope for brighter days to come. No time to cry, unless you find yourself awake again in the early morning. The snap of being seen and all the undercurrents of wish-I-hads which line your street like parked cars. The loose reverberation of too much slack. All the empty space between what you stand for and the wavering figure before you. Divides woven by social obligations. The stutter of weekend plans. A longing look out a distant window at what might be missing. In the neighbor's dog. A toddler playing in the grass. False memories; regrets for one more sentence. The words you'd been rehearsing. On post-it notes in the context of silly putty. Rubberized emotions carrying no more than their own self-assurance. The blistered smell of walking home alone, and an assertion that some song on your phone has all the answers. The noble poetry and broken mirror of meeting people. What foggy drawings lined your text book give more clues than a voicemail under warm breath. Looking back and away, as an escapist. The dawn which puts to rest everything unaccomplished on the shelf for next time. And the next time.

out of body

For every twinge of inspiration hitting me at 4:00. Almost an ode to lost days wandered aimlessly. The bored ruminations over tiny victories. The easy beauty of the underside of a CD in the electronic glow of a a computer screen. Communication mixing distance up with depth. The slanted sides of friendships and their footholds of discretion. Street sounds of abandoned promises. They way we look under multi-colored lights. Our potential stretching like smoke over buildings, the neon flash between PM and AM. Everything coming out of cracks and over neighborhoods. The smell of a familar car and the warm taste of a beer you've been holding for too long. Sighs under proximity. Air where you least expected it. The deafening loudness of body language. Repeated lyrics over and over and out of tune. That disonant space between what you could prove and what you can't explain, and the shrill space where they meet. Whoever it matters to most, beside them sit the uncomfortable silences, like a bus ride back from vacation. So many stories to tell, but only fractions, now. Something else remains. In the shaking half-sleep; speaking only in looks. The world was made for moments like these. There we blink our eyes at purpose. Where our bodies fail.