I've got arms growing out of my vines

'Perfect.'

'Yep, pretty dismal. Het het!'

The FedEx Ground driver just came to pick up the last load of the evening and his heh's sounded more like het's. His name is Steve.

I decided to just play the bass guitar. I can build with it. My fingers feel so much more comfortable stretching across its strings and frets and wood and such than on an acoustic guitar that makes me want to cry more than it makes me want to sing. I reworked a song I wrote about being sad and alone for the bass guitar. It sounds more cheerful now and thus more bearable and perhaps a touch ironic.

'I can build songs with the bass guitar' is what I keep thinking because I think I can create something I would find full and bold and compelling.

I just want to evoke I suppoke. Ahem, excuse me, suppose. I stumbled upon this project of someone I know nothing about. He seems ambitious and has spurred some fascinating music from some artists I admire and aspire to be like. He wrote/is writing a children's book about a mythical land his great grandfather discovered called Murkville. A group of great bands wrote songs inspired by Murkville and put it on a soundtrack. It is quite lovely.

I drew some goofy pictures today on some extra pieces of paper that I had.

facts, huh

I was listening to a bit of NPR this morning and heard of another revealed memorist hoax. The half-white, half-native American gang member, drug dealer from South LA, Margaret B. Jones, is actually the all-white Margaret Seltzer from a flourishing suburb in northern Los Angeles. Her 'autobiography' chronicled her foster situation and eventual gang affiliation and thug shenanigans. All false. All complete fiction. Reportedly, a very well-written piece (many ravenous critics praised the newest unique, young memorist) and yet there is the rub because of her deceit and the rub of our culture's reaction.

I had originally been preoccupied with the hoax and hadn't even considered the fact that it probably doesn't matter a wit that she lied. The reasons for her fabrication is simple. To sell a large amount of novels there are certain culturally common interests the author must appeal to. Voyeurism is the tie that binds the population of Americans who are increasingly interested in documentary film, blogs, reality television, and autobiography. As Tim Rutten of the LA Times puts it, "We love tell-alls and publishers love money." He says that our insatiable desire for vicarious living has caused us to demand the most savage and urbane stories as long as it's the dirty little nuggets of truth.

A couple years ago James Frey was at the top of the memorist-fakers most-wanted list. He wildly embellished his run-in with the law in his book A Million Little Pieces. Oprah's book club adored him; he was practically celebrity. Then it came out that he was not quite the overcomer of a life of hard drugs and crime that he said he was. I recently read an essay written by a fellow who had interviewed James Frey before the facts were revealed. He didn't really discuss why Frey would lie or how it could or could not be tolerated, but he wondered more about what autobiography even is.

Some of the most interesting points are made in the essay when he examines how people who write about what "actually" happened in their lives always seem to have the super human ability to remember. Conversations from decades and decades ago are relayed verbatim. Vivid details of memories occuring while the author was not of an age where memories are usually not captured.

That is all very fascinating to me. As of late I have been engrossed by creative nonfiction. I love the notion that facts and events can be written about in an enjoyable and creative manner. The art of essay. I want it.

adaptation

A great discouragement caught me off guard yesterday. I was having a terribly difficult time playing a song I have been writing for a couple weeks now. A truly terrible time. Well, it was fine at the outset but within a shockingly short amount of time my fingers became overwhelmed and I could scarcely play a chord. Acoustic guitar playing wears out my fingers and my mind because I am so used to playing bass without doing much thinking and I have to concentrate so intently on the guitar when I play. My fingers became forlorn and exhausted. They huffed and puffed their way through the song and then crawled into my palms to make comfortable little fists. Then they proceeded to bash my unsuspecting face in. My body parts tend to revolt against me when I push them to their limits. Tis' sad that my fingers limits are so slight when it comes to guitar plucking.

This is a challenge and I won't shy away.

Also, my wife is quite ill. She has a bad case of strep throat. I have been able to look at her swollen tonsils twice already. They look quite interesting. A bit like tiny brains or the top of a human baby's head as it is crowning when being birthed. But Melissa's tonsils are endlessly cute. hmmmm. I love caring for her in this way.

peace
brandon
pierce
geary