Tyler Weaver's Blog, page 17

Current rotation, 26dec2019

My complete reading list, from the present moment to the days of yore (2012), lives here

My wife has finally seen the first STAR WARS trilogy and all is well

Wrapped up K's first viewing of the original STAR WARS trilogy (her sister held the same jaw-dropping expression which is currently crossing your visage) and my umpteenth. Amount of pride at being able to be the curator of this inaugural journey commensurate with aforementioned jaw-dropping. 

Result: she loved it (Ewoks too, since The Morkie is part Ewok) and wants to see all of them (we've watched the new trilogy and ROGUE ONE and we both love THE MANDALORIAN – didn't realize that Nick Nolte's character was one of the Cloud City workers from EMPIRE until this go-round with the trilogy) though I'm trying to hold off because I don't want to sully her newfound IP enjoyment with the prequels just yet. I'll admit to having not seen them since they were in theaters: a lot of mileage since then and I'm more than a little curious as to what 15-20 years of distance adds or subtracts to/from them – or if my impression will remain unchanged, whatever it was.

Speaking of changed, un- or otherwise: while Anakin's RETURN OF THE JEDI redemption still gets me, the whole "NOOO!" addition / SITH callback was more than a bit unnecessary and sounded like an afterthought in the mix; it was as though the poor bastard tasked with including it wanted to keep the besmirchment just audible enough to appease his bearded, flannel-bound overlord and retain a modicum of the silence that previously made it such a powerful, saga-defining moment.

Montaigne, “On books”

“As my ravings present themselves, I pile them up; sometimes they all come crowding together: sometimes they drag along in a single file. I want people to see my natural ordinary stride, however much it wanders off the path.”

— Michel de Montaigne, “On books.”

And lo, I did not turn to dust, for I adore Bob Dylan's Christmas album

Though the Christmas fog lifted overnight, it nonetheless precluded our tradition of enduring Christmas Eve service at Someone's Temple of the Loquacious Nincompoop, and we instead went to my wife's church, conveniently located just up the street (convenient, though no less foggy) to hear my friend, the pastor who can actually write and who not only hooked me up with the best tattoo artist in the area, but also shares an affinity for bourbon, guitars, and ROCKY AND BULLWINKLE, do his evening gig.

It was short, to the point, AND we had plenty of time to get home and wrap up Katie's first viewing of THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK (such a great film, thrilling and heartbreaking and everything that most STAR WARS movies since have failed to be), the ending of which she determined made it imperative that we start RETURN OF THE JEDI immediately.

Note: as a devoted wrist-cyborg thrilled by my capacity to control the Christmas lights with said wrist-augmentation, I recognize that I must upgrade to match Lando's cyborg-manservant controlling capabilities in EMPIRE.

PS: Bob Dylan's Christmas album is my favorite Christmas album and I'm listening to it right now so shut up.

Of Christmas Modalities and Transmogrification to Dust

“Finding myself quite empty, with nothing to write about, I offered myself to myself as theme and subject matter. It is... in its conception wild and fantastically eccentric.”

— Michel de Montaigne, “On the affection of fathers for their children.”

Dense fog this morning; let the Christmas claustrophobia commence. 

Whether I'll admit it to myself or not – and I suppose letting it out here constitues at least a semblance of admittance – I still miss the old days of Christmas Eve evenings, the anticipation, the waiting, for the Super Nintendo, etc. etc; Christmas Day itself always being a sort of comedown, but no less pleasant.

But those days are long gone now; it's all just another day but at least I'm not pissed off about it anymore. Age, mileage, wisdom, etc. etc.

As for the gift for myself, I'm going to let myself be ok with being too tired to pretend to attempt to feel comfort in – or to make the effort to feel comfort in – rhythms established both after I left and before I arrived. I never harmonized with it and I'm too fucking old and tired to change who I've become (for better or for worse) so that I might better harmonize with the comfort of others. High time, then, that I find comfort rather than distress in the modality of myself.

In some cases, I will make the effort; it's far too uncomfortable to not, especially for Someone who's been there for me my entire life, one of the few: annual tradition these last few years of dragging my heathen ass to a Christmas Eve service with/for said Someone where I'll watch a preacher who loves the sound of his voice move his mouth in the same fucking patterns over and over again and hope I don't catch on fire during the lighting of the candles but this acceptance of a few hours of profound discomfort is the least I can do for said Someone.

As for those other ports both old and new, they fell apart long ago and/or were never properly assembled. Content now to drift about in my dinghy, assuming, of course, that I don't turn to dust this evening.

Additional thought: tradition and holidays represent roots and grounding while I prefer water. I feel beached.

P.S. The best Christmas movie is BATMAN RETURNS. End of story.

Listening: SAX PAX FOR A SAX, by Moondog; AWASE, by Nik Bartsch's Ronin.

Of Rhythmic Pontifications and Etc.

In which exhaustion sets in... won't deny that it's tempting to take a break, to stop. But the act of creating these pieces – whether I'll admit it or not, especially in these moments of a general, pervasive weariness – does matter to me: their 25 minutes each morning have become a part of the rhythm of my day, the exorcism of ephemeral brain-flotsam between the pillars of The Work, and, in the midst of a Christmas break, where my rhythm is more often than not at the whim of others (when I ALLOW it to be at the whim of others...), loved or otherwise, it's more imperative than ever that I hold firm, in those little pockets of time that I decree to be mine, to the rhythms that form this iteration of myself. 21,001 words here since launch.

Listening: SONGS: THE ART OF THE TRIO VOLUME III, by Brad Mehldau; AVENTURINE, by Linda May Han Oh.

EarBliss 15-21dec2019

Newsletter 0081 is in the wild; happy Sunday, pleasant listening.

Dog, among pineapple

Saturday Brain-Potluck

Update: comments are enabled, but only for this post and for all future posts. Squarespace’s comment system is somewhat Byzantine, but you don’t have to sign in to comment. Just a name, and then you can post your comment as guest.

Drawing a blank this morning – as seems to have become a Saturday tradition, the week's hangover — so here’s a grab-bag of things occupying more space in my brain than they probably should:

Thinking: 2020 will be, after much waffling over the last couple of years, the year that I finally go all in here. Just stick with this blog and the newsletter and use social media, be it mainstream or fediverse, as feeds for these posts and the occasional, though rarely checked, comment system. All content originates here. Transitioning, in fits and spurts: different types of content; adding comment fields here the next step. A variation on something someone said this week: should I continue on my current path, I'll be entering my third decade of caring about/using social media and that is absolutely fucking terrifying. Feeling a bit like I did when I was shopping for original XBox games after the 360 came out.

(But I might change my mind.)

Thinking: I am peeling and molting but, while the healing of the fresh ink is itchy and scratchy it's but nothing like (the totally worth it) torture of The Shadow's healing; even the memory of those few days makes me itch more.

(My mind will not change on this.)

Thinking: the act of writing by hand is far too romanticized. Yes, it's wonderful in many ways (read: journaling), but still, I find that I'm most capable of losing myself in the work by typing and then revising by hand all over the resultant print out; ink-thinking. Drafting by hand is a lost cause as my asshole-brain starts on about my shitty handwriting and then I get all self-conscious and it just goes to hell and the rest of the day pays for it.

(Mind will probably change minute by minute.)

Thinking: Giancarlo Esposito is one of the great villainous actors. Be it in New Mexico or on Nevarro, his entrance is always to be welcomed – and feared.

Thinking: UNTITLED GOOSE GAME is delightful; I am a honking, wing-flapping asshole. Weekend goal: get the groundskeeper to wear his sun hat.

(Inalienable facts, both.)

Calculating: Time/Space Valuation

The Morkie and The Jorkie have been delivered to their grooming appointment this morning, confused looks all around, four morning routines interrupted but I wanted to make sure the ravenous hellions ate before they went to their day spa.

Anyhow.

(I've probably, certainly, covered the ground covered below before, but if I repeat myself here it's because a., I write these every day and repeats are bound to happen and b.,I haven't solved the issue to my mind's satisfaction (though it's been said that trying to please your brain is like trying to drink water through your ears – Alan Watts, I think) thus necessitating further pontification but fuck it this is my space.)

In spite of lofty ideals about thumbing my nose to afternoon artistic guilt, I'm back to working in the evenings, second block of the day, if for no other reason than I like it.

But there are other reasons the evenings and early mornings seem to work best for me: there's a more controlled safety from the external (read: family, whims of others) in my little corner with the huge desk in the back of the cold shop – a deeper cocooning within; my evening disconnect policy makes it a lot easier to keep my brain on target when I'm not thinking of the world's latest fuckery and/or analysis of said fuckery – which I try not to read in the first place; with all of the day's other tasks completed and processed, my desk is empty and ready for whatever I manage to hurl in ink or in dark mode type; and, by leaving the whole of the sun's time open, I've more time to recharge the creative engines, to grant things crafted in the morning time to percolate throughout the day before excision or inclusion in the evening.

That's been one of the biggest things I've learned: it wasn't so much a desire to work more – though that was certainly one of the two main priorities – that I was chasing, but the space, the freedom to not have to rush around, to not have to jam my priorities, my values into the day, consigning them to an afterthought status as I acceded my time to the wants and needs of others, if only as an investment in silence.

Learning, always, to value my time, my craft, my art – to value my values, to not let things outside my control dictate them; the ongoing lesson goes on.