Busy with Summer

It has been quite a while that I have posted anything. Last time I wrote, I was sitting on my Grandma’s couch in Junction City, Kansas. Since then I’ve been back to Tennessee, then up to Wisconsin, and now back down to Tennessee (and I am leaving for North Carolina for two weeks, tomorrow). As a result, I haven’t had all that much time to write, either on here or inside my journal.

Even with the ongoing feeling of being constantly in motion this summer, the past two weeks or so have been great. In Wisconsin, I was able to go to two nights of Dead and Company at Alpine Valley. I hadn’t seen Dead and Co before, but they really were excellent. As someone who has listened to a fair amount of Dead for my age, I had some things I really liked about John Mayer as lead guitar and some things I wasn’t as fond of. Regardless, they were great shows. I had a ton of fun being surrounded by people who made me feel comfortable, eye-balling everyone’s outfits, and dancing my butt off. It felt good. Also in Wisconsin, I was able to go sailing for the second time. I love being out on the water – the hot sun, Wisconsin-cool lake – time disappears.

IMG_6322

Madison from the sailboat.

IMG_6288

Alpine Valley!

Since I have been home, I have been doing typical “Knoxville” things. In July, there is a wildlife/park where there are just fields and fields of blooming sunflowers. I spent some time there, goofing around in between the rows, taking silly pictures with my best friend. I ran around downtown, looking around all the little shops and having lunch with my Dad. Knoxville still really feels like home.

IMG_6360

Little baby bee!

IMG_6403

Bestfriend lookin’ good.

IMG_6422

downtown ramblin’

 

Advertisements

For the ones who raised me

The albums are how I will keep my parents
after they have joined Jerry in the ashy dirt.
The voters of their bootlegged vinyls
hand stenciled in a cheap tent with tabs under tongue
will always look like my father’s fingers
searching for the rhythm on the steering wheel,
the frantic cry of sunshine daydream
is my mom, spatula in hand on Thanksgiving
rattling her bones against our hardwood floors
a skeletal frenzy
The cd shelf dedicated to live recordings
over the living rooms black box speakers,
Do you hear what the guitar is doing there?
Dad’s hips too slow for Mickey’s drums,
Mom’s hips too fast
a whirlwind of smoky bathrooms
swollen joint hands over a smooth fretboard
so pleased to finally find the right note,
I was getting it there at the end, wasn’t I?
My dad a dancing bear,
mom the bolt of lightning.

 

I know this is kind of a cheesy poem – but you’ve gotta write bad love poems for your family every once in a while. 

 

A Criticism

The ombre sky
rusts unevenly from corner to corner;
the acidic tinge
of spattered light pollution and
tabs under tongues
infests the city with its
crystalized
caucasian complexion.

and so the
gentrification
begins.

the usual sultry mix of
languages,
the even fade to black
and back is
stopped behind the
Chicago-style buzz of layering horns,
as an alabaster sea
drowns six lanes of traffic.

Gratefully

It was announced a few days ago that the remaining members of the Grateful Dead are getting together this summer at Soldier Field to do a show. Back in the day, people would decorate the envelopes that they put the ticket requests in. For this show, I decorated the envelope that we’re sending in. Wanted to share a little bit of my craftiness with anyone who might appreciate it- whether out of love for art or the Dead, either way works for me.

IMG_0296 IMG_0010

On the same topic, I did a similar design when I made this mug! I bought a reusable mug from Starbucks, decorated it with Sharpie, and then knitted a sleeve for it! Ta-Da.

IMG_8369 IMG_2678

 

 

Curtain Fires

Years of tripping acid has Bob Weir forgetting the lyrics of the songs he wrote, but it’s okay, because I can’t remember the next line. Swaying in some semblance to dance, the pauses of switching picks and forgetting words are quick to fill. She puts the song lyrics as her picture captions, and wants to be in the counter culture. But she can’t tell me why “cherry garcia” is a funny name for an ice-cream.

Bootlegged albums with hand-drawn covers sound the same as my Dad’s big green van doing 90 through the mountains, with dancing bears plastered on the windshield. Us? counter culture? My Dad answers that with a quote by his favorite philosopher – “I went to a show to find counter culture. I found neither.” In a hasty attempt to not be a molded American, she refuses to say the pledge of allegiance and yells at pro-lifers, loudly entering the same miserable society. I’m jumping of bridges I should be burning, she’s off taking a slightly more sinuous path to sameness.

I want to love you night and day, You know our loving wont fade away. People are screaming “Bobby, BOBBY” and my Dad notices his hand shakes a little on the guitar strings – years of hard living ends you with an unsteady grip and a microphone. Eyes wide and shiny, grasping a lighter back and forth, the flame seems a little too close to the curtain. I don’t hold my breath. There’s wonder in watching something beautiful burn.

By and by the morning sun will rise, but the darkness never goes from some men’s eyes. And in waking up, I’m partial to honesty and three letter words – there’s no room for romance. But in her mass of complications, she says she’d rather call it making love. Butt all I love is poetry and throwing stones, and if it isn’t feeding those curtain fires, what’s in it for sticking around?

Ashes to ashes all fall down.