Another Grey Area: I Used Graham Parker for Evil

Not Your Usual Xmas Present, part 1

(Recorded from the audience, so forgive the bit of crowd noise...)

I Used Graham Parker for Evil by Alex M. Stein

My Clothes, My Hair, My Face

Nothing But Tired, part 2

She lived on a mountain.

Her house was built at an angle, so it became part of the rock of the mountain. And her soul also was tilted, also attached to the mountain.

She thought nothing of living at an angle, thought everyone did the same thing.

Until one day when she followed a goat down the mountain. And wandered into a village.

It wasn't even big enough to be a town... and certainly wasn't big enough to be a city.

But there were people there.

And music.

And exotic foods and drinks.

For a girl who lived on a mountain and was used to adjusting everything so it would work at an angle, this was a revelation.

And even after she returned to the mountain, she thought often of the village.

And of changing her life.

By going down the mountain. And dancing.

I Won't Find It Fantastic or Think It Absurd

When the gun in the first act goes off in the third...

There's a place.

It's far away. And probably long ago, if we're being literal.

And in this place, there are people who look like you.

There's a library there. Go too deep into the stacks and you'll find anything you're looking for.

But you can't check any of the books out.

You have to stay there and read them.

And you might think this is less than helpful. And you'd be right.

But since the last time you were there, you notice that the library has burned to the ground. And all the people who live nearby refuse to admit there was ever a library there.

Even though there are ashes on the ground. And embers that threaten another conflagration.

And when you pick through the ruins, you wonder what happened to the people who used to go there. The people who look like you.

What is it with the 80s and Paint?

Seriously.



Was there some kind of massive surplus of paint that history has failed to record?



And I know Brazil has different environmental regulations, but is it ever a good idea to pour paint on a beach?

The Search for the Grail

Putting their soul power to the Karmic Wheel...

Nothing But Tired

Wanna Change My Clothes, My Hair, My Face

The quality of the light, you say.

The quality. Of the light.

But the light is long gone. It's the middle of the night, the middle of the winter.

And you're walking, alone in a group. In a city far away.

Looking for something.

Food. Drinks. Companionship.

Something.

But the wind starts to blow and you put on your hat and can't hear much of the conversation anymore.

The conversation about the quality of the light.

You won't sing karaoke tonight. Even if your throat didn't feel like razorblades you wouldn't want to sing.

But you might. You might sing.

Thinking, hoping, that might provide some small warm light in the dark, cold, night.

You let your thoughts wander, figuring out the perfect song -- one you could sing reasonably well, but still one that would sustain your ironic detachment from irony.

But there is no karaoke. Not that night.

And the three hours of sleep don't help your throat and barely help your mood.

You're still starving, looking for something that will satisfy you, not willing to take in the empty calories held out for you.

Still, today is another day.

Filled with quality. The quality of the light.

Atmospherics

Across the dial from Moscow to Cologne

This story starts with a girl.

Now, arguably, all stories start with a girl.

But especially this one.

A girl. In knee-high boots.

Standing in the corner at a party.

And talking about poetry. The lines of a haiku. The imagery of the Beats. The way a stanza stretches and curves to accommodate the listener. The fragrant sultry popping of P words and the lush liquid sound of the Ls.

Long after she's gone, the conversation lingers.

And you sit in bed at night, listening to the world. Wondering if she's listening to or if she's at another party. Enchanting the guests with her talk of poetry, her poetry of talk.

Or is she obvlivious? Spreading her gospel of poetry, then moving on to the cool ascetic prose of a monastic life?

It's hard to know.

But not impossible.

Years later, I saw her at another party.

Talking sonnets to the hostess.

So I asked her about the poetry, about the effects on the other guests, about the ascetic prose.

And she swept up her hair, curled a long length behind her ear, and looked at me quizzically. "I just like poetry," she said. "There's nothing magical or amazing about it, I just like poetry."

And she turned back to the hostess. And I saw she was still wearing the knee-high boots.

And I knew she was wrong.

Which somehow, at that moment, was the most beautiful and sad poetry of all.