Zero from Zealous Creative on Vimeo.
6/28/11
6/18/11
"Further In"
further in, grandmother; grandfather, hold my hand
as I go on through this life and try to understand
the beauty of your faces I will never see again
but I know you're with me now leading me further in
further in, you friends of mine, they led me further in
I know I've hurt you many times and I've helped you and I will again
you to me and me to you, and us to all of them
the circle that will ever grow as we go further in
further in, O my love, take me further in
past the place where love hides its face and down to where we begin
so deep in this mystery, my tears on yours depend
and they like some wild river flow as we go further in
-Greg Brown
Rest in Peace Pop Pop
6/12/11
Don't be a "fake ass green yuppie"
Tango Till You're Sore's Sustainable Living post calls some folks out for being lazy and living a green-washed lifestyle. Avoid being a "fake ass green yuppie" and recycle the packaging and products you have invited into your life by choosing to buy them. Here are all of the recycling drop off locations in Cleveland. (click the image to see the full picture or to zoom in)
More information about recycling services.
I take my recyclables with me in my shopping bags on the way to the grocery store. When the bags are empty, then I can fill them with groceries. My friend calls it "reverse shopping".
6/3/11
Global Cleveland
Today in a downtown drugstore an elderly Indian man with jet black hair--white at the roots-- was buying a box of hair dye and other sundries. The check-out clerk rings him up and then leans over to the clerk who was ringing me out and asks, "you have his coupons?". My clerk glances at his purchases and then ruffles through a stack of coupons and hands over two.
His clerk announces in a loud voice apparently reserved for those who don't speak English well, "you saved ten dollars". The Indian man raises his eyebrows, smiles, and starts fumbling with the gum at the counter. He hurriedly grabs 3 packs of orange Trident and adds it to his purchases.
He pays and gives a pack of gum to each clerk in gratitude. "For you, for you, for me," he says.
My clerk looks at me and explains, "I always keep his coupons for him. He never remembers to bring them. He's been coming here for years. He doesn't understand much English, but he understands ten dollars."
5/22/11
Crooked River Dancing
I made a Weebly today. After a conversation about artistic collaboration last night with Kate Sopko, I decided it was time I had a choreography website-- an online portfolio of sorts. I know that someday I'll have a real website, but I think it will do for now. Next step? Make a dance so I have something to put on the homepage. www.crookedriverdancing.weebly.com
5/11/11
raindark, countercat, athwart
I've turned 26 pages of Suttree by Cormac McCarthy-- a favorite author of mine. I've read most of his novels with the exception of 2 of his earliest, The Orchard Keeper and Outer Dark.
His books are compelling, spare, intelligent and poorly/brilliantly (un)punctuated. He makes up words, but I don't read it as gratuitous. I usually end up sacrificing a night's sleep with a McCarthy novel. My intention is to take my time with this one.
The book begins with an italicized intro. Here is just one crazy good sentence from it:
Down there in grots of fallen light a cat transpires from stone to stone across the cobbles liquid black and sewn in rapid antipodes over the raindark street to vanish cat and countercat in the rifted works beyond.
The first chapter starts like this:
Peering down into the water where the morning sun fashioned wheels of light, coronets fanwise in which lay trapped each twig, each grain of sediment, long flakes and blades of light in the dusty watersliding away like optic strobes where motes sifted and spun. A hand trails over the gunwale and he lies athwart the skiff, the toe of one sneaker plucking periodic dimples in the river with the boat's slight cradling, drifting down beneath the bridge and slowly past the mud-stained stanchions. Under the high cool arches and dark keeps of the span's undercarriage where pigeons babble and the hollow flap of their wings echoes in stark applause. Glancing up at these cathedraled vaultings with their fossil woodknots and pseudomorphic nailheads in gray concrete, drifting, the bridge's slant shadow leaning the width of the river with that headlong illusion postulate in old cupracers frozen on photoplates, their wheels elliptic with speed. These shadows form over the skiff, accommodate his prone figure and pass on.
Keep in mind that the dialogue that follows is Hemingway-spare.
5/2/11
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