Two steps on the water. Word up word up the last weekly update before Christmas. Seasons greetings and a massive apologies for this being 3 days late. It’s what you’ve all not been waiting for: the snorkmaiden press charity Christmas weekly update special (SPCCWUS)…

The big badger news this week is that King Badger III has gone home. And by home I am referring to a distant land where young people are known as devil children and men drink John Smiths and intimidate newcomers. Newcomers are identified by their clean clothes and the fact they can walk past a window without smashing it.

When push comes to shove the big guns come out blazing. The arrival of newbie Sir Nobsalot was the talk of the town this weekend. Now you might believe I’m pulling your chain here with a bit of flash fantastical embellishment but, I kid you not, this esteemed gent hit the fan like a palomino on manure day. Most of you will have heard of Buzz Killington. I guess these two chaps are from the same school of thought. Sir Nobsalot, or Nobbers as his old Etonions used to jibe, is a buzz killer. But his wit and enthusiasm for empiricism make him a centre-right hero and now perhaps the arch nemisis of the snorkmaiden press. A huge fight was had between Nobbers and the House Band which resulted in a mighty shake up and Sir Nobsalot being forcefully evicted from the club (Gloom at Islington Academy). The House Band continued on stage revelries in peace joined by Mo 7 and the trusty steed.

Unfortunately though the badger didn’t leave his sett until Sunday when he went to chase some foxes around Leicester Square with nought but a wayward bag of Aeros and a sore throat. He was joined by Bogis, Bunce and Bean who turned out to be our steed, band and a dangerous fellow who goes by the name of dangerous. More news on that when I can be bothered to start typing again…

This is the truth and nothing but the truth. No one cares because they’re all busy wondering how they can distinguish themselves from the majority of people who like rage against the machine and bought killing in the name this week. The snorkmaiden press supports McElderry for New Year number 1. And no Billie Jo you don’t need our authority to be in the minority; you just need to proactively go against mainstream mindsets. So now that you’re a right-wing, Bush loving, pro-war, x-factor lover how are you going to sell records? eh? eh? By rejoining the moral majority that’s how.

— — —

The snorkmaiden press brings you news of the Christmas Rescue Mission project (CRM). The CRM fights throughout the year to reduce loneliness at Christmas time. It is a not-for-profit organisation set up by our trusty steed to save people trapped in various places from the people who trap people in said places.

7 December 2009

He cut a disconsolate figure, proud black felt like a silhouette,

He’d once stood like a minaret, dressed minds like vinaigrette, yet he got tossed like salad and got smoked like a cigarette

Everybody called him Nicorette, his hope came and stayed in patches

He never lost his fire to inspire, in spite of job matches that didn’t see him as a catch

His

Mind never dropped the ball

Head was a whirlpool of hard falls, and big walls

Glass ceilings and doors, familial wars and sores from the pores opened up through feelings of being poor.

December 8, 2009

Felt like every time he tried to work the magic his electricity attracted energies that made him static not ecstatic

He wanted to be ex static using his laboured fruits to gain current, stay current, never need to be a feign lover, always a main lover, man you had love for

Big Brother, future husband, the brightened son that eclipsed the moon and made her beautiful

Inside he stayed truthful like the ocean knowing she will never be a dry mass

He took another class to be class, never cut class as while steadily defining his shape

He was blooming late photosynthesis took place at sunset,

The power of his flower was not enough he needed a run & gun threat

Less heart more head, of logic he was the balanced vet in the game

Politics was a sweet science like boxing yet he fought at range

His jabs hit veins but rarely drew blood,

He was an artist that couldn’t always harness his true love

Home, Black Dots and History

Being in Maryland this past week, I was reminded of two things: how much I miss my family and friends and how depressing I find the area of my birth. Prince Georges County is perhaps the most misbegotten stretch of suburban decay in all of America. Buildings sag and crack, cars rust and whine, roads heave and buckle, strip malls fade and eventually fall down only to be replaced by newer, no less decrepit generations. And everywhere you look people appear stricken. miniature mirrors reflecting their inanimate surroundings - mothers frown in line at the grocery store with raw-faced toddlers at their sides; men idle on sidewalks and at gas stations, arms and faces as slack as forgotten laundry; students, city workers and tourists watch for trains with heads bent low over damp newspapers and battered cell phones. Overhead, the sun refuses to shine, hung low in a sky laden with sadness and unshed snow.

And yet, it is home.

Although I don’t actually like Maryland, I’m comfortable there in a way I’ve not been able to replicate since leaving in 1995. I’m not sure, and it would take hours of therapy I can’t afford to find out, but I think this has more to do with my present life than my past. Although not rural, my current house in Fort Mill, South Carolina is miles from any type of excitement. My neighbors, all younger, perkier and blonder than I’ll ever be, have toddlers and responsibilities I can barely remember much less relate to. We speak, but superficially. Friendship is, it seems, out. For entertainment, I drive half an hour to meet other writers, go to the movies and take piano lessons in Charlotte. Yoga is twenty minutes away, as is Qi Gong and the nearest coffee shop – which because I can’t stand the silence of an empty house, is where I work. About the only thing I do that doesn’t burn half a tank of gas is cook, garden and play Super Mario.

Maryland is different. I was born there, went to school there, worked got married had a child lived there for 32 years. In addition to my brother Eric and his family, my aunt and uncle are there, as are my cousins, neices, sisters-in-law and several good friends. I still go back to my old job, drive by my old house, buy soap at the Smile Herb Shop and eat barbeque at Red Hot and Blue. Although the area is depressing – it’s in a way I’m familiar with. A Rizzo/Shirley relatives-living-in-trailors sort of way. That’s where the past comes in. My father (a Rizzo) was a hard-working man of great compassion and lousy judgement. He was also the most unlucky person I’ve ever known, starting with the day he was born as an only child to parents obsessed with children and ending the day he died a wrenching, painful death. Still, my brother is a close second. In spite of being warm, funny and smart – he never found his niche and so he flounders. As he stumbles about looking for a purpose in this world, drunk drivers smash into his car, termites infest his termite-proofed house and strays from three neighborhoods down limp to his door bearing diseases and kittens and begging for food. His wife and kids love him, but it seems to be against their better judgment.

In an attempt to explain and thus refute his many misfortunes, Eric developed a theory about fate based upon a trio of dots. There are, in this theory, three levels of luck in the world, all with a corresponding dot. Red signifies really good luck, the kind associated with fame, fortune and a good chin. Tan signifies reasonable luck, insuring that the bearer will land a decent job, marry well and sire/birth talented though not exceptional children. Black dots, Rizzo dots, signify horrible luck – leading to dead-end jobs, various forms of mental illness and/or jail. According to Eric, all Rizzos labor beneath the black dot. Although no Rizzo can aspire to a red dot, they can – as I did – marry one and thus attain tan status, increasing the likelihood that drunk-drivers, termites and starving kittens will pass them by.

Eric’s theory has, over the years, proved remarkably reliable, one might even say self-fulfilling, with the only exceptions being our children – all of whom have genes only lightly tainted by the stigma of the black dot. Eric’s oldest daughter is brilliant, with a Phd in molecular, biological, cellular something. His youngest is a gifted and determined writer. And my daughter, a lighting technician for Wooly Mammoth Theatre in DC, graduated from college and immediately ensconced herself in a profession she loves. That all three struggle mightily with the whole social thing is simply proof of their ancestry.

Perhaps my dottage (not to be confused with my dotage) is enough to explain the nearly unrecognizable lack of self-consciousness I enjoy in my hometown. We’re all misfits in this life – normal being no more than a out-dated, poorly defined word – but as with everything, there are degrees of deviation. Fleeing Maryland so long ago, I thought to leave the gloom behind. I don’t know, though. In trying to understand my love/hate relationship with the place I still call “home,”  I can’t help recalling the words of a friend, who once cautioned me against the lure and promise of escape.

“Just remember,” he said, “you can take the girl out of PG County, but you can never take PG County out of the girl.”

As much as the idea disturbs me – I think he might have been right.

“Through it all, through it all, I have learned to trust in Jesus; I have learned to trust in God.”

So goes that fine Andrae Crouch chorus, reminding me that in every situation, I have yet to see God fail. I have failed, schemes have failed, half-hearted dreams have failed but I have never, ever, been disappointed whenever I have truly trusted Jesus.

Time and time again, I have seen unplanned, unforeseen, unexpected deliverance, providence and provision. Even in those times when my own hope has flagged, when depression descends into despondency and the blues turn charcoal gray, things work out. A check arrives in the mail, a friendly voice greets me on the phone and some other hand reaches down beside mine, takes a firmer grasp and lifts my heart and my load.

How often, O Lord, have I doubted, wondered whether my deliverance would come a day late and a dollar short and found that like David, though I am no longer young, I have never been forsaken, never begged for bread?

How fine to see the mercy that lifts me, spares me, eases me through the deepest darkness and finds me standing in the vapor of a lifting fog, safe, anchored to Him who does not change! How wonderful the grace that carries me further than seems possible, that supplies all that I lack, all that I long for, all that I need! Escaping the deceit of my greed and my longing for the things of this earth, I find that I am richly supplied, having more than I dreamed, more than I deserve. How much more than food and clothing! How ridiculous in this abundance to crave more!

Help me, O God, to escape the illusions of this world’s cravings and be satisfied by your righteousness, your love, your caring. Help me to steward that which I have so that in my abundance others may have more and in my lacking, I shall be overfilled.

That your name might be blessed.

H. Arnett
12-02-09

A cidade do Rock Indie Brasil é Goiânia e não é de hoje… do fim dos anos 80 em diante apareceu no mapa e não saiu de cena. Esse ano a coisa promete será uma FESTA maluca e roqueira … confiram as dicas… e não se esqueçam que o calor é animal nessa ROCK CITY.

Esta edição do Goiânia NOISE será espalhada pela cidade com shows em 8 lugares diferentes e conta ainda com uma mostra de cinema e uma exposição de artes, além de palestras e debates.

Os shows ocorrerão em 8 locais diferentes, da seguinte forma:

Quarta-feira, 25/11:
Teatro Madre Esperança Garrido, 20h: Hermeto Pascoal e Grupo (SP)
Fiction Club, 22h: Vamoz (PE) / The Soundscapes (SP/USA) / Motherfish (GO)
Capim Pub, 19h: Os Cabeloduro (DF)/ HC 137 (GO) / Leptospirose (SP)/ Ressonância Mórfica (GO) / Señores (GO)

Quinta-feira, 26/11:

Goiânia Ouro, 20h – Siba (PE) + Roberto Corrêa (DF) / Cega Machado (GO)
Bolshoi Pub, 22h – Ricardo Koctus (MG) / Detetives (SP) / Johnny Suxxx and Fucking Boys (GO)
Metrópolis, 22h – The Name (SP)/ Sapatos Bicolores (DF) / Bang Bang Babies (GO)

Sexta-feira, 27/11:
Centro Cultural Martim Cererê, 18h :

Supersuckers (USA) / Móveis Coloniais de Acaju (DF) + Bocato (SP) / MQN (GO) + Walverdes (RS)
Devotos (PE) / Guiso (Chile) / Vivendo do Ócio (BA) / Punch (GO) / Milocovik (SP) / Volver (PE) / Rinoceronte (RS)
O Melda (MG) / Sattva (GO) / Hellbenders (GO)

Sábado, 28/11:
Centro Cultural Martim Cererê, 18h :

Dirty Projectors (USA) / Black Drawing Chalks (GO) + Chuck Hipolitho (SP) / Mama Rosin (Suíça)
Porcas Borboletas (MG) + Paulo Patife (SP) / Los Lotus (ARG) / Mugo (GO) / The Backbiters (GO)
As Mercenárias (SP) / Mechanics + Grupo EmpreZa (GO) / Confronto (RJ) / GrimSkunk (Canadá)
Cassim & Barbária (SC) / Mini Box Lunar (AP) / Evening (GO)

Domingo, 29/11:
Centro Cultural Martim Cererê, 18h :

Diego de Moraes e o Sindicato (GO) + Astronauta Pingüim (RS) / Violins (GO) / Domá da Conceição (GO) / Barfly (GO)
Naquele Tempo (GO) / Torre de Jamel (GO) / Terrorista da Palavra (GO) / Umbando (GO) / Grace Carvalho (GO)
20h30 – Gloom (GO) / Cine Capri (GO) / Hot and Hard Co. (GO)

Centro Comunitário Goiânia Viva, 18h :

Face a Face (GO) / Ivo Mamona (GO) / Soldados Suburbanos (GO) / Reverso da Moeda (GO) / Linha Dura (MT)
U Plano (GO) / Eko (GO)

INGRESSOS

Fiction Club, Capim Pub, Bolshoi Pub e Metropolis: R$ 10,00 (meia-entrada) até o dia 20/11

Martim Cererê (sexta e sábado): R$ 20,00 (meia-entrada) até o dia 20/11

Centro Comunitário do Goiânia Viva: R$ 5,00

Martim Cererê (domingo): Grátis!!!

Teatro Madre Esperança Garrido e Goiânia Ouro: Grártis!! Mas é preciso retirar os ingressos 2 horas antes dos shows! Um par por pessoa, ok??

Arcadas de luz sempre foram de existência sutil. Limiar, diáfana, etérea e pueril lembrança de momento pudico.  Rico, sorrio sempre na ponta da imensidão vasta dos toques termitentes, sem escapar a lágrima, nem o sorriso inocente. Não é o vento nem a beleza, é em verdade muitas vezes a tristeza inconseqüente, indolente e adocicada. Saudade.

Domada vaidade. Enganada em princípios discordantes das tardes escaldantes, nunca dantes exploradas. Fadiga só de se tocar na palavra angustiante do fracasso entediante repetitivo no convívio daqueles que nunca alcançaram a vitória. Chora a glória dos pequenos sonhos partidos na solidão optativa, na solidão como ascensão [espiritual], na solidão da profissão de se injuriar tecnicamente. É como uma patente alternativa da catarse maldita e infecunda.

Mas não se pode atingir alma, comenta a foto da menina emocionada com a tragédia dos revérberos dos raios, nas folhas decíduas das matas do consciente agudo e coletivo, absolutamente introspectivo. Leva pluma leve, voa e desliza sob esses campos sempiternos e inalcançáveis do gosto amargo da memória. Transborda a borda de um novo conhecido desalento. Lamento a sorte desses dias frugais, mas ainda assim lascivos e confusos do esperado acontecer. Mas não se decorrem assim os dias.

Nunca se é como planejado – pensaram. O cruel é que não é falácia apresentada, ensaiada nos dramas frívolos do cotidiano mundano mortal. Mas é mesmo irracional pensar tão grande em uma chance assim tão pequenina, tão frágil sob palma desajeitada. Muda a alma com um sopro de cuidado e destreza. A delicadeza do triste lembrar nos palcos das páginas passadas.

I just love mornings that start with drizzly rain and gloom outside. Really. I do.

All cozy inside with a hot cup of coffee and all that yuck outside to watch.

But.

Then I realize that I have to go out into that drizzly rain and gloom. And all that love goes bye-bye.

This morning I’ve got a conference at my daughter’s school for Fall Conferences. Should be a good meeting and I look forward to hearing how she’s doing in class. Find out more about her strengths and her weaknesses.

Beyond that? Don’t think I’ve got too much going on today.

Cleaning. Yep. Always cleaning. It’s just a matter of if I’ll actually get around to it.

isn’t it weird? hard to forget something you want to and equally hard to assimilate what you have to? things cannot be simple. complexity is a compulsive element. i want it out of my head since long but i can’t. i tried music, i tried reading.  it keeps on reciprocating. it manifests to a higher level, it lessens. it comes back. complex. weird. a bit calm now, but for how long? i do not feel like getting rid of the thought, but i so need to. if the person in the thought does not care, why should i give a f about it? it’ll get better. just a hope that it will. or if there isn’t any, then i pray for a ray. didn’t know that erasing would be so arduous.

what do i need? NO.

what i don’t need? YES.

Andrew Marr is currently on TV, discussing – with a great deal of rather distracting gurning and mugging – the inter-war years – the years of entre deux guerres.  Every year is entre deux guerres, or in one.

(He’s also just done an impression of D.H. Lawrence that makes me think he’s confusing him with Wallace (as in Gromit)).

Scream like you never have before,

Scream!

Scream till you cant scream anymore,

Scream !

Scream like your throat is bleeding,

Scream!

Scream till your heart stops beating,

SCREAM FOR ME!

Remember when you were growing up and how whenever things were not cool, or you were scared or upset, one of your first thoughts was that you wanted to go home?

Well maybe that isn’t what all little kids think but it’s what I always thought growing up.  For me, home was a safe haven, full of love with my mom and all my sisters.  What’s more interesting is that now, even though I’m all grown up and live on my own (well away from my parents) I still have that feeling from time to time.

Sometimes I’ll be having a rotten day, glumming it out in my bedroom and I still think, “I wanna go home”.  Of course when this first started happening I would shake my head and tell myself, you are home.  That was before I realized that I associated the thought with a feeling and not an actual place. 

For me, home meant security, warmth, love and peace of mind.  It used to be when I had that thought running around my head, I was never really sure what to do with it.  If I’m already home, how can I go home.  I would just continue being gloomy or stressed without any real idea on how to cheer myself up or get out of my funk.  Now, after realizing what I really meant, I can find ways of bringing myself that same sense of homecoming.  Hot chocolate, or just chocolate in general, helps.  My whole family loves chocolate and we had it in the house a lot growing up.  Taking a bath, something else I did a lot of when I was younger, is very therapeutic for me, as is cracking open a book to read.  I used to be addicted to books and I still would be if I wasn’t in school.  Now the time I get to read anything other than textbooks is very limited.  Sometimes all it takes is for my dog, Dublin, to lay her big heavy head in my lap.  Her attempts to comfort me never fail to bring out a smile.

All this leads me up to what’s really bothering me.  I feel like I’ve been in a funk for the past month or so and it worries me.  The usual things I use to cheer myself up work, but only for a short time and then I’m back to feeling . . . . .  I think what I’ve been feeling lately is hopeless.  I keep worrying that I may be depressed but when I go online to all those self-help websites and take their tests, they say I’m not.  So what is it?  I don’t want to get out of bed anymore and this means I’ve missed far too many classes.  My falling grades only make things worse.  I started this blog in the hopes that I could reach someone, anyone, maybe make a connection but the fact that absolutely no one has even looked is pretty sucky.  The sun hasn’t been out in three long days and that’s just making it worse.

To top off the whole heaping pile of depressing mess is the fact that my fiance is still lying to me.  I’m not yet ready to share details with anyone, it hurts too much and in all honestly is embarrassing for me.  Lets just say that the evidence is there and I have no doubts.  At least about part of the whole thing.  It wouldn’t be so bad if we hadn’t previously discussed this particular ‘thing’, multiple times, with his go-to promise that he wouldn’t do it again.  I know he knows I saw the ‘evidence’ because he has since made it inaccessible to me but will he talk about it?  No, that would be a manly grown-up thing to do and we can’t have that.

To save anyone who may eventually read this from gouging out their eyes from boredom I’ll stop here.  I’ll not to be overly depressing in future posts and if I come across any solutions I’ll let you know. 

Hope in a Prison of Despair, by Evelyn De Morgan (30 August 1855-2 May 1919), British

As I have told you before, and probably will again next week and the week after until we both expire of collegial boredom, my cat refuses to let me sink into gloom. I use that phrase because merely being depressed—but still active—seems to go by him; and lying in bed reading is okay, too (though he prefers active). But lying in bed sunk in gloom is not permitted. He meows, bites, sticks his wet nose in my face.

Is this what I should have done with my father all those years ago? Not tiptoed around his bad moods…not believed adult inner life was sacrosanct, demanding of awe and dread? Should I have just nudged him with my wet nose?

Oh yeah, he wouldn’t have reacted by saying (fondly) “….okay, okay, ya dumb cat, for chrissakes, I’ll get up.” He would have snarled and said something hurtful. I only do that when Fitzroy is being Felix Ungerish neurotic. When I’m sunk in gloom, I’m touched by his distress. And who can say it’s better to sink in gloom than write this blog post, which is fairly useless but doesn’t upset the cat?

I always want to explore the gloom for reasons that once made sense. The metaphors of ‘shining light on’ or ‘cleaning out’ are timeless and seemingly experience-tested, at least until you try them 8 million times. Now it’s all about keeping busy, but the obvious things—doing the work I’m paid for, calling friends—are impossibly distant from the state of gloom. This isn’t. This is the coffee bar in the mental hospital, the one that exists nowhere but in my mind.

My Ideal Mental Hospital: on one side are sunny gardens, mountain views, hot springs, and a library of great poetic and comic works: books, movies and TV shows. Masseurs, yoga teachers and therapists are on call, and at the end of the session, they pay you. Grandmothers (certified grandmothers, older, wider and shorter than all the patients) prepare simple meals with lots of fresh vegetables, meat raised with kindness, home-baked bread and pie. All the bedrooms have big windows and the breeze is warm or cool, scented with the Pacific Ocean, eucalyptus, mountain laurel, autumn leaves or just-mown grass.

On the other side, it’s like a college or boarding school common room, with a stained carpet, ridiculous chairs, and people in pajamas day and night. The coffee is not bad but slopped into ugly gray plastic cups. Sunk in Gloom plays her greatest hits on the jukebox, which eats quarters and often skips or stops in the middle of the song. There’s only one phone and when it rings, it’s always a guy with a sexy voice asking for some girl named Marcy.
On The Meeting Of García Lorca And Hart Crane

Brooklyn, 1929. Of course Crane’s
been drinking and has no idea who
this curious Andalusian is, unable
even to speak the language of poetry.
The young man who brought them
together knows both Spanish and English,
but he has a headache from jumping
back and forth from one language
to another. For a moment’s relief
he goes to the window to look
down on the East River, darkening
below as the early light comes on.
Something flashes across his sight,
a double vision of such horror
he has to slap both his hands across
his mouth to keep from screaming.
Let’s not be frivolous, let’s
not pretend the two poets gave
each other wisdom or love or
even a good time, let’s not
invent a dialogue of such eloquence
that even the ants in your own
house won’t forget it. The two
greatest poetic geniuses alive
meet, and what happens? A vision
comes to an ordinary man staring
at a filthy river. Have you ever
had a vision? Have you ever shaken
your head to pieces and jerked back
at the image of your young son
falling through open space, not
from the stern of a ship bound
from Vera Cruz to New York but from
the roof of the building he works on?
Have you risen from bed to pace
until dawn to beg a merciless God
to take these pictures away? Oh, yes,
let’s bless the imagination. It gives
us the myths we live by. Let’s bless
the visionary power of the human—
the only animal that’s got it—,
bless the exact image of your father
dead and mine dead, bless the images
that stalk the corners of our sight
and will not let go. The young man
was my cousin, Arthur Lieberman,
then a language student at Columbia,
who told me all this before he died
quietly in his sleep in 1983
in a hotel in Perugia. A good man,
Arthur, he survived graduate school,
later came home to Detroit and sold
pianos right through the Depression.
He loaned my brother a used one
to compose his hideous songs on,
which Arthur thought were genius.
What an imagination Arthur had!

–Philip Levine

I walked into a solitary room

Looking for peace and solace

A place to rest growing gloom

Not expecting things to go amiss.

Inside I found a grinning heart

Resting upon shoulders of a man

Someone who left me puzzling a part

Opening doors to a new plan,

Leaving me breathless and off guard

Reeling with great bounds of fear

Trying to interpret fates cards

By bringing this creature so near,

Shining the greatest light, a friend

Setting loneliness and sorrow to an end.

You cherish the fact that I anguish in pain,

you remain unaffected, so stubborn and naive,

all senses put down to dust, mixed with every grain,

the promises, the moments all buried alive…

Guy’s take on the doom and gloom

Just a quick post to mark Halloween…

“HALLOWEEN @ HEATON”

Taken at Heaton Park, Manchester, on 31st October

© nEoPOL 2009 All rights reserved

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