Jeff Phillips's Blog, page 14

Blackberry Connected to the Wrist Bone

I used to have a Blackberry for work purposes awhile back when I worked for an event photography company. I had to solve a lot of problems, put out lots of fires and the Blackberry was a constant siphon of my attention. When I resigned to focus on some writing projects I turned it in, when back to using an old flip phone, and was happy with that shift in communication leash power.

That was a few years ago, and my wireless contract was up for renewal, and I had the option of getting a swell new phone for free. So I hemmed and hawed and contemplated getting back into smart phone capabilities, and figured it may be good for producing stuff. I opted for the Blackberry after playing with several other types, iPhone included, because I liked the feel of the Blackberry. I'm not a big touch screen fellow when it comes to typing stuff, I like actual keys.

So for the last few days I've been very distracted by this device. We do live in a distracting age with technology and I've read posts and tweets and statuses of writers griping about the distraction of the internet. While I feel their pain, it is up to the strength of us as writers to pull up the will power to set a device down, and create, write. Dropping one type of communication for a more intimate, personal, playful one. Sometimes I like to write the old fashioned way, pen to paper. For some time I've also feared how the digital age is going to change literature, something I love so much. While we've certainly seen the fall of the big box book retailers like Borders, I do hope smaller independent bookshops can maintain their survival by remaining an active community location with readings and events. Although I think one cannot say "people don't read books anymore" because I think with all of these devices and feeds people are reading possibly more than they have in previous decades. So, for awhile I kind of moaned about the fact that "print" was getting murdered by digitizing of the reading experience. There's certainly a lot of us that prefer the feel of pages. But I sort of don't feel like focusing on the negative. I'm in a phase where I'm okay messing around with this digital device stuff and playing with it as its own form, find its own rhythm of storytelling, which hopefully can still operate as a gateway drawing people back to print. Much the same way that video helps some theatre groups entice people out to see their shows. Print and live theatre becomes a breath of fresh air for the spectator, a time to unplug. Sort of like a waking phase of digital sleep. Often I look forward to dreams as I would a TV show.

And I'm not necessarily talking about the digital as just promo for the unplugged aforementioned. A river might feed into the ocean, but the river is still a trip in and of itself. A river needs exploring. I'm going to leave it at that analogy for now.

Hysteria on the Hill

I had this one dream image stick with me this morning. A big kid stood clutching a bicycle screaming at the top of his lungs on the top of a hill. He proclaimed he wanted to be like his daddy. A crowd gathered around. A little kid poked his head through some people and realized it was his bike! The big kid up there had stolen his bike. But the big kid was wailing and screeching, a fine hysteria. No one attempted to correct the injustice. No one was quite sure what would happen next, the hysteria continued. Would the kid ride the bike down the hill and off and away? He continued to proclaim his need to be like his dad. A rumor, or a fact circulated through the crowd that the big kid's father was currently serving time for Grand Theft Auto.

The hysteria continued. People got bored. I snuck up around the back of the hill to try to talk some sense into him. He rode off when I gently touched his shoulder.

Fat Fever

I'm probably one of the only people I know without the Air Conditioning. Maybe it's because I'm rugged and tough. Or fairly poor. Last night the humidity in Chicago got vicious, a little build up of moisture of the approaching storm we had this morning. I could hardly sleep last night, I even turned a faced the other edge of the bed as to get some more of the box fan in my face to dry the gushing sweat. I sweat like a fat sliver of bacon pan frying and sloshing up skin oil. I don't think I really slept, but I did have some half dreams where I was cognizant of lying in my bed, sweating, but hallucinated people coming in and out of my apartment. They were un-phased by the humidity, and they chalked it up to the fact that they were of a higher class and could afford not to sweat. Maybe there is a spiritual hierarchy, like the Hindu castes, and the energy centers affect DNA's ability to withstand temperatures. But these fancy people did flaunt their dry pits and didn't want to get too close to me as they believed the fat that was oozing out of my pores would stain their dresses and slacks. I must have some humiliation hovering in my subconscious that I can't quite put my finger on. But I did shed many toxins through the exit of my skin pores last night and need to do laundry to get that fresh sheet smell.

From my office window this morning, within seconds of arriving at my desk, I saw the dark clouds roll in, intense winds lash down the trees, funneled down the train tracks. Looked like a hurricane. That is probably how my sweating looked in the judgment of my dream figments who watched me try to sleep.

Bus Hero

Yesterday on the bus I saw a seeming pariah become a hero. An african american rudely squeezed passed a guy in the aisle, grunting "trying to get by." The guy responded with "well, pardon me works." The pariah dude kept asking people how long it should take to get a letter from Florida. A girl who unplugged from her ipod to answer said it may take a week. He didn't seem to believe her so he kept bugging people getting the same answer. Then someone tried to exit at the rear and pulled down the red emergency exit rod, which sounded an alarm and stopped the bus. It was jammed and until it was un-jammed the bus was unable to proceed. So the pariah dude pitched in with his muscle to try to un-jam it. It took awhile and people were getting impatient but he was able to get it free and back into place so the shrill alarm stopped sounding and the bus could continue on its way. Everyone cheered and someone called out "we have a hero!" And I felt really happy for the pariah's pride. He was now appreciated. A hero. Well done.

Animal Anxiety

I was thinking about this idea over lunch - earlier this morning while getting dressed I accidentally bumped my box fan on my cat. He of course was fine, only a minor brushing of an object which glided off of his fluffy fur. But the look of terror in his eyes at the moment was intense, as of course cats are prone to over react to stimuli. I tend to feel anxiety here and there but I'm always able to talk myself down through cognitive recognition of the actual smallness of some stressors. But take for instance last week, some work was being done on our building and the noise was giving my cat extreme "big eyes." Unfortunately we are not able to properly communicate to him what is going on. I can only imagine the anxiety pumping through his blood - pure primal flight. So while thinking of this over lunch I imagined for minute what if someone injected me with a concoction of animal stress hormones. I wonder how different they are from cortisol and other adrenal gland secretions our human bodies create. I felt absolutely terrified for a moment, and then was able to talk myself down and dissolve the wickedness of my imagination, which seems to be most vivid when conjuring up the worst. Now to imagine blue skies and puffy clouds. That doesn't seem to be as sharp in my mind's eye. Wolves and sharks? For some reason sharper in mental resolution.

Patriotism, a Man Made Nuisance?

Over the weekend I enjoyed the small town fireworks display over the harbor in Lexington, Michigan. Despite the Michigan economy, and small size of the municipality, they were indeed grander than anything I had seen off of Navy Pier in Chicago. My girlfriend, my mom, my brother and I all settled into watch from my mom's sailboat moored on the dock. Across the way a fellow decided to plug in his electric guitar and amp to his boat and play his rendition of Jimi Hendryx's rendition of the Star Spangled Banner over and over and over and over again, with a little Freebird riff here and there. Needless to say, it was pretty annoying. Now I'm sure he had the best of intentions, to entertain the masses from the surrounding townships on Holiday with 4th of July themed music, but it did cross beyond the border of irritation, and people around us expressed their loss in appreciation of his gesture, but he was oblivious. Certainly in the patriotic zone. This scene, the day after witnessing people at a concert in the park whoop around with high pitched wails, accompanied by over the top salutes while a cover band played "Proud to be an American" led me to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, those who try to revel in their patriotism, might be perhaps, the most....annoying people? Is this a terrible thing to say?

I certainly appreciate my country. There are many freedoms I do enjoy, and hearing the daily world news, there really is no other place I'd rather be. Europe maybe, some parts. But when does whooping around like an animal or playing monotonous riffs to get underneath one's skin in the guise of patriotism become an honorable trait? Look at the Tea Partiers and their tooting of the constitution to an almost self destructive level. Or the Committee on Un-American Activities and McCarthyism? Or Nazism? Patriotism is moderation is a good thing. Loyalty is a great thing. After all, in order to make this beast of a nation work, people can't be giving up on it. But excessive patriotism makes baboons on ecstasy look chill, reasonable. And to make democracy work we cannot just be blindly singing its praises. We must question it. Hold it accountable. Checks and balances (with reasonable thought, not just to toot a party horn). Maybe when our country doesn't try to fuck over teachers, when it stops giving out handouts to major corporations which gamble recklessly on credit default swaps, when congress stops playing party thumb wars, when american industry stops shipping jobs overseas, will it be cool to crush a can of "American Beer" on one's skull and catcalling. Being a citizen is a little more of a responsibility than rooster screeching for a sports team. Yet "team spirit" with taunts against opposing teams is often an identical twin to patriotism. Am I terrible in expressing such thoughts? Or am I a terrible American? Atleast I can be thankful that I live in an America where I can post such crabby rants on "over american activity."

God Bless the U.S. "ay" - insert Canadian dialect

For a Fistful of Sweat

A week that flew by leads me to a Sunday morning eating waffles (homemade from a waffle iron) and watching For A Fistful of Dollars on AMC. Sometimes I dig certain movies because I want their imagery to infuse itself in my dreams. Monday I spent time with some good college friends, one of whom has been in Africa for the past several years, having been in the Peace Corps in Zambia, and having created a life for herself in South Africa post corps. Very proud of her for her worldliness. I wish plane tickets to that part of the world weren't so pricey, as I'd love to see the world she has spoken of in stories. Waterfalls, lions, oh my. Wednesday we kicked off our latest Wood Sugars show M.I.L.F (Mothers Incredible Local Funnies) now going on Wednesdays at The Original Mothers bar in Chicago, by Rush and Division. It was a swell turn out, and many laughs were induced. Last minute I had to jump on light/sound board for one of the other sketch groups, and not having operated any such board since probably 1999 I was a little nervous. But the nerves kept my timing alert enough to not fuck it up. Had some late nights this week with the show, another Wood Sugars recording session, and some late night work revising my latest novel manuscript. By Friday night I was ready to chill, convincing my girlfriend to make chicken and waffles for dinner, and I later made popcorn. I crashed at 10pm hoping to grab, I was hoping, a 12 hour sleep, yet I awoke at 2:30am with massive heartburn. It was like a middle eastern riot in my belly. That easily stole 2 hrs from my slumber, and I was out of Wal-zan 150, and tums. All I had was old pepto-bismol tablets in the medicine drawer that had expired in 2008. I took them anyway because I was desperate. So this and my energy levels got me to thinking about getting some real exercise to help reduce stress, make my sleep more productive, speed the ol' metabolism, and in general give me a little more cardio vascular stamina. So I went for a run on Saturday afternoon and broke a very good sweat, ran for 2 miles! Which is nothing but considering it has been over a year since I went running that was not just a short print to catch the bus, I feel good about it and am going to try to keep it up a few times a week.
I also completed draft 2.1 of my latest novel on Saturday and am happy with it to a point of comfort in bouncing it around for some reader perspective before my next round of revisions that I want to finalize in September. If anyone is interested in giving the manuscript a read, I'd be more than happy for some outside perspective and critiques.

The Power of Thinking Things are Shitty (while hanging out with money)

I've been thinking a touch on the economy. How dismal it is still projected to be, the slim job market, low stock dividends, profits slipping, slipping. And it's interesting, especially when you try to digest it from a scientific, physical, chemical perspective. One of the laws of energy is that it can neither be created nor destroyed. In the public eye there is the bombardment of the image that wealth is vanishing. But no, it's still there, it's just held on to, stockpiled. Which leads me to think; that this financial crisis is not of a physical nature. The physical money has not disappeared, the dent in finance is of a mental origin. The cries and moans of Wall Street on the mess they created for themselves created shockwaves of perceived panic and loss which cause so very many to cringe and freeze their wallets and accounts. Businesses announced their wage freezing, budgets had to be cut all around because shards of trepidation were pumped into everyone's mind, that of shortage, so everyone acted accordingly. Well, the mind shapes its environment…maybe not directly, but it influences the comings and goings just enough to make wishes, gleeful or dour, come true. Even money. Greenbacks, copper, and nickel do not like to hang around the nervous energy of panic, they've made that much clear. Perhaps the various currencies should douse themselves in chamomile and valerian root powder and tickle us to relax us enough into loving them again. For then, and only then, will money wear out its welcome. Again.

Sunken Valley & Journey to the Stall

A couple of weekends ago, a good childhood friend and girl friend were in town to visit. We took a walk downtown after dinner to kill time before an after party for the Chicago Underground Film Festival (his experimental sitcom Dare Double was playing at CUFF). They wanted to see the lake. So we started walking eastbound from Wabash. My original thinking was to make our way through Millennium Park, but I got intrigued by the set up of tents and booths and a blocked off little side street stretching east from Michigan Ave. It the was set up for the art fair. But we kept walking through towards the lake. This took us through a strange little township it seemed of its own origin. We took some stairs down to what seemed like a sunken downtown valley, a park nestled, hidden between a surrounding mountain ridge of condominium towers and luxury hotels. A lush park trickled with fountains and throbbed the color green. I've lived in Chicago for 9 years and had no visual awareness that this little park area existed, as it is tucked away from one's sight-line from other major areas of downtown where you have business to romp around in. It had it's own little cafe and bank branch for the service of these secret like "townsfolk."

At different points each one of us had to go to the bathroom, number 2. My friend's girlfriend went into what we thought was a hotel. She asked "where's the bar?" to the front desk attendant. He responded "there is no bar." "I thought this was a hotel.""No, this is a condo.""Oh, well I need to use the bathroom."
They were nice and accommodated her, taking her and my friend down a spiral stairs while I waited outside for what seemed like a very long time. I wondered about what I would do if they never emerged. They did emerge, having pooped in the employee bathroom at the far of a strange, expansive grocery store in the basement.
As we changed our direction to head back into the city, I had to go number 2. I went inside a hopping luxurious hotel, like I meant business and made my way straight into the bathroom. The floor in front of the check in desk glowed. The bathroom was one of those which had set up each stall like its own little closet room. Leaving the hotel we passed by a homeless man asking for money. His approach was "I got crabs and need to buy some cream." I enjoyed his tactic. If I had change/cash I probably would have lent.
Anyway, my friend suggested I started a blog about places to poop in the city. I thought it was a funny notion and I have plenty of such stories to tell, so I may or may not incorporate such into this Igloo Oven blog here. I did a door to door sales job awhile back for a month and it required you to be strategic about gaining entry into bathrooms. One of my territories was on the edge of Hyde Park. There was medical building which was pretty much vacant except one MD office on the first floor. I walked in like I owned the place and went into the elevator up to six. I explored the creepy, vacant hallway with abandoned boxes of paper work and dust. I thought I heard ghostly noises. I pooped as quickly as I could and went back out into the world.

Micro-fiction 6/16/11

Micro-fiction exercise for 6/16/11

The rudder rush was like a quivering spasm of an ADD kid. The boat crashed right into the Bangkok style house of 51st Street and Wagner Blvd, up on the hill that still saw the ravages of the flood. The televangelist lived in that home, and still hung out nearby for he yelled up a verbal storm at the yellow slickered bad navigator who banged his little Boston Wailer right up against his well concealed aluminum siding. Slam wobble crank creak is what gave its material away. The televangelist was up, huddled in his sons old tree fort, feeding turkey jerky to his 3 cats, all wet and hissy. The boater apologized and the televangelist cussed him out as being one of the damned. The boater traveled onwards, away from the partially engulfed hump to find people to save.