Went to Joplin this morning. Three hour drive from the Plains to the Ozark Plateau. Sun in my face. Ditch-daisies everywhere, bouncing golden pinwheels. Another yellow flower, towers of clustered upturned cups. Fluffy purplish-white blossoms bending on stalks. Shimmering cottonwood and a tall grass like cattails. I'd like to see this place before the settlers and farms. The sea of grass, waterless currents, channels of wind. I'd even like to see the farms, before these fucking housing developments started creeping in looking like nothing more from a distance than enormous garbage dumps waiting to be buried. Listening to the bluesy new Desert Sessions. PJ Harvey is on at least four tracks. She makes a sound sometimes I'm not too fond of, like "Pat" from Saturday Night Live. But I love PJ. "There Will Never be a Better Time", close your eyes, stand on that cliff. I want to change everything. Not everything. I'll keep the long-abandoned shacks with no windows and wasps building nests behind the screen door. Cows huddling together in the shade of a peeling billboard. Weathered barns. Grain silos. Pale green orbs of crabapples looming in the windbreak. Limestone edgeing the highway like unexcavated ruins.
I used to think there were too many trucks in SW Missouri. Now I'm seeing a nasty infestation of the Really Big Truck. Why? These things make wide turns, crowding into my lane. Their headlights are so high that they blind any normal car in front of them. If the 1970's parking space doesn't make a comeback I'm going to start keying some bumpers. Very few people anymore are actually baleing hay, hauling livestock, pulling stumps... And maybe that's it--a loss of Heritage. These "country" boys (and girls) are now living in duplexes and nice neighbourhoods, surrounded by strip malls and chain restaurants. Pharmacists, store managers, business students, it was their grandparents who were the real thing, but there's still this image to live up to. An expendable income and clever marketing helps them overcompensate for this castration of hayseed culture. Or maybe I'm just talking out of my ass.
What is the first sliver of moon after a New Moon called? It was low on the horizon tonight, lost behind trees on my way home. Lots of stars. I need to learn more constellations. Happy Rosh Hashanah. Apples and honey. Goodnight.

fear and loathing
Speaking of dreams and The Matrix, I have been trying not to think about the fact that Hollywood is bastardizing another one of my favorite comic books and casting Keanu Reeves as John Constantine. After the travesty of League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (go here for an appreciation of what the book really has to offer) I can't even begin to give this one a chance. But as docile as I've been on the subject my subconscious has been lashing out. I dreamt that Kenahnu was now doing commercials as Duff Man from The Simpsons and the director kept trying to get him to say"whoa...". Someone who cared could get numerous quality movies out of Hellblazer. At least we'll get a good soundtrack from Lisa Gerrard.

Ok, the Mormons don't yet know that I lied to them but I'm a bit unnerved after what happened yesterday. I was in the basement of the public library looking for The Crystal Cave by Mary Stewart (a book I read in 8th grade and I remember enjoying but I only recently found out it was the first of four). It's always checked out. I'm almost afraid to revisit the story after seeing her work labeled as Arthurian Romance anyway. Maybe I didn't pick up on that at 14. But what happened is that I'm heading toward the stairs and suddenly a large group of Elders, dressed identically, come pouring down like the bad guys from The Matrix. I had a dream once that a diesel was falling from the sky and I couldn't decide which way to run because I didn't know where it was going to land. So I just stood there. And of course I was recognized. And I was greeted and introduced to even more 'Mons (get it?). But luckily they had a gathering to get to so I was able to slip away. Sheesh. These situations have a way of dragging on throughout my life. I wish I knew what happened that made me so afraid of hurting people's feelings that I never allow myself the same leniency that I give them.

Mormons gave me West Nile
This town is surrounded by farms and fields. I've watched the corn grow and now the stalks are dry and rattle in the wind. Last year there was a maze (or should I say maize?) cut in one of the fields for people to get lost in but I think this summer was too hot for it. I haven't seen any signs. It's easy to buy local products here and it makes me happy. The tofu that I fried last night was made in Lawrence, the blackberry pie that I had for breakfast was made by some women in a little town northwest of here. I could even buy some tasty Oatmeal Stout from Free State. But I miss my home, as stunted and dusty and rednecksurreal as Joplin, Mo is.

That isn't really what I wanted to write about--but I've just had this feeling of being on hold as long as I've been here. It's like when you're waiting for someone to come to your house, you don't feel like you can start any projects or concentrate on anything serious, you just have to wait and tidy the kitchen.

Anyway, had I been in Joplin today I would have gone for a walk around the neighbourhoods north of where I lived. It's an odd mix of historic Victorian style houses and a few boxy traps with dirt yards and, I don't know, last year's Christmas tree lying beside the porch. There would be kids on bicycles, cats creeping through ivy, oak and sycamore trees growing close to the street so that the sidewalk is buckled and littered with twigs.

Instead I went to a walking trail that is down the street from my apartment. This is a forested trail alongside what might have been a small creek but it has dwindled to a grey-mudded stinky runoff ditch. I was apprehensive because I'd never been there, I was alone (except for the one girl who instinctively jerked her purse to her body as she passed) and I didn't want to be the next person on Channel 6 recounting how I'd been chased by vagrants lurking in the bushes. But I walked on, dragonflies darting around me, sun and shade striping the concrete. I stopped a few times to listen to branches squeaking in the wind, to watch rusty-bellied squirrels watching me. I saw some poison ivy vined up a tree and turning red while everything else is still green. And as these things go, just as I'm about to return to the road, here come the two Mormon boys in their white shirts and ties, waving to me. And I'm thinking, 'I know there's a porn somewhere that starts like this'.

I shouldn't make fun of them. They were nice guys and I didn't have to stand there and listen to them. But I don't easily extricate myself from people wanting my attention. I answered their questions, I listened to their story, I nodded along, all the while batting away huge mosquitoes coming from the stagnant muck behind the trees. It was a ridiculous moment that went on for too long. I should have just told them I was out walking to contemplate this pagan holiday, that tonight I was going to raise a glass to the Green Man and toast John Barleycorn, but in the end I gave them a fake name and address for my "second appointment". I can hear Twisted Sister in my head now singing "Yer gonna burn in hell!" If I come down with fever and severe headache you know how it happened.

now playing: Gala - lush
I've had this cd forever and just noticed three tracks were produced by Tim Friese-Green of Talk Talk. "It's My Life" has been one of my favorite songs since my sad days of yard sale parachute pants but "Laughing Stock" and "Spirit of Eden" are the albums you should look out for. They're orchestral, organic, and will melt you like sugar in a rainstorm. All of which has nothing to do with the band lush but has prompted me to do some rooting around and I found that TF-G has some solo stuff out under the name Heligoland, not to be confused with the Australian band of the same name. But I might check them out too.

now playing: The Mess We Made - Matt Elliott
Tomorrow is Mabon. Alban Elfed. The Autumnal Equinox. The first day of Fall. Tomorrow, day and night will be equal and here in the Northern Hemisphere the nights will continue getting longer and the days will lose their heat. When people were more aware of our dependency on the seasons this was a Harvest Festival, a Thanksgiving. People celebrated the bounty of their crops, felt joy for what the Sun had given them, felt sadness for the dying of the light, and began preparations for winter. I imagine as more time was spent indoors there was more time to think and Autumn/Winter became a time for reflection, and planning for Spring. Most of us aren't farmers but we do make plans for our life, we have our personal harvests. Have I been true to myself? Have I ignored my dreams and lavished water on weeds?

In line at the bank today there were two girls together ahead of me wearing the thin clingy sweatpants with the words on the butt (ass-vertisement?). The cell phone of the shorter girl goes off and her ringtone was that "all that she wants is another baby" song. Such a classy moment. Why not "Get Off" by Prince? Or even Rick James' "Super Freak"?

ship without a rudder
I'm just back from seeing Evan Dando. Some of the old songs were rusty. Some of the new songs were great. A country influence. I miss Juliana Hatfield in the background. I'm reminded that along with the quirkiness and the "moment passed very quickly" tracks like Mrs. Robinson, Lemonheads had some pure moments and melancholy songs that I loved. I found myself thinking how he doesn't offer much persona for the fan to latch on to. The songs are short and simple and he seems to be the dopey guy playing guitar at a campfire on a beach, friendly and a little out of it. Maybe that's the charm. These were my thoughts, until he suddenly got frustrated and yelled at a guy up front and while attempting to teabag him fell from the stage on to his back and screwed up his ankle. He played a few more songs, with a really bad limp and then went off to check his leg, coming back without his band to play acoustic like at the start of the show. A drunk, who had been calling out the same request for an hour, finally yelled "motherfucker", prompting Evan to stop playing and freak out again, trying to get the guy to come up front so he could beat the hell out of him. They were some bizarre twists. Anyway, "Hard Drive" is nice on the new cd but live there was this beautiful haunting guitar interplay leading into it that really caught me off guard. "Shots is Fired" isn't that spectacular but tonight it rocked like a song reborn. And I got in for free. "I'm in the grass all wine-coloured..."

Happy birthday Hot Tamale!! If I had a million dollars I would take you here.

The Dumb Waiter
Is there anyone up there? How stupid do they think I am? Maybe the question is how stupid am I really? In the grand scheme of things I suppose it isn't the end of the world. So I sat through one of the most absurd excuses for a movie I can remember. I'm a fan of the Absurd. Hell, I've been waiting for Godot for ten years now.
I'm trying to refrain from forbidding you to see Cabin Fever. You should make up your own mind. Just let me say a few things. I don't think I've ever seen more horribly written characters (and I've seen Sleepaway Camp I-III) . I realize people in horror movies have their own logic and I'm used to that. But the actions and dialogue of these characters was so ridiculous and unbelievable that I truly found myself waiting, waiting for the scene to shift to some greasy, socially inept 13 year old who has been writing down this revenge fantasy that we've been watching play out. Or at some point the writer/director walks on like Rod Serling and mocks us for sitting through the whole thing, hoping for an explanation. Don't be fooled by the preview or the Peter Jackson recommendation. The movie ends with a fitting visual metaphor--a truck of water contaminated with the virus off to be sold to the public as bottled spring water. Deus ex PR Machina.

I wonder who's writing me?

I never disliked Johnny Cash but I ignored him for years because I associated his music with my stepdad whom I did kinda dislike. And the only JC song I can remember him playing is "A Boy Named Sue" so that didn't help. I still don't care for that song, although it makes me smile to hear it in the context of the San Quentin album with the prisoner-audience obviously enjoying it. Call me backwards but it took people I respected at the time to make me pay attention: Michelle Shocked, Dwight Yoakam, Nick Cave, Tom Waits. All the signs were pointing back to that overcast bend in the road where a man in black was standing, flipping me the bird. So I shuffled back all hangdawg, hoping he'd understand the stepdad thing, and it turns out Johnny knew all about the Man and he didn't much care for him either.

I can't thank my friend Jennifer enough for taking me to see him play in Branson years ago. June Carter was there, in a skirt that almost gave us more than our ticket price. She was a lovely woman. It wasn't a fiery show but it certainly didn't feel like watching your grandparents trying to rock. I'm sure that's what some of the youngsters are thinking about the whole "Hurt" thing. Do the youngsters even listen to Nine Inch Nails anymore?
I like all the American Recordings albums, even if "Personal Jesus" makes me laugh every time. Someone is going to hear it and be as dismissive as I was 20 years ago. Don't do it, man!! I'll come pound on ya.

"Take this weight from me, let my spirit be unchained."