The Flaming Lips ● Free Radicals (A Hallucination of the Christmas Skeleton Pleading With a Suicide Bomber)
I'm howling. Literally, I just spent fifteen minutes just howling. This is normal now; I just don't talk about it, except maybe I should.
I'm damaged, but Velma stuck with me. She understood me. Now she's gone. I'm alone. Every day, I'm silently in misery; I'm howling, but there's no one to hear, and even if there was, they'd leave (not that I'm mad about leaving; I'm grateful for every minute my friends and family spends with me).
I'm damaged. I'm alone. But mostly, Velma's gone. She's gone. We were going to spend the rest of our lives together, blissfully. We talked about what would happen if one of us died. It was an uncomfortable subject. I said, especially after the stroke, that I wasn't sure I could make it without her. That distressed her, and she always made me promise that I would at least try.
What reason should I live for? I know that eventually the hurt will ebb. But what should I live for?
I'm trying, Velma.
Every time I choke up.
Helen (Velma's sister) called yesterday as the day was approaching the end. She told me that Velma's New York memorial had gone well, and she told me specific things that made me feel good, as much as possible.
Velma, she said, would say it went passably. I laughed. Laughs are [few and far between]*.
*Myles [looking over my shoulder].
We read to each other, at first constantly, then sputteringly, and then, with my stroke, it ended. I'm trying to assemble which fictions that I read to her. (For some reason, it's much easier to remember the ones I read to her than the ones Velma read to me.)
So, at random, probably added to later:
Joanna Russ, Picnic on Paradise
→ "Nobody's Home"
→ "My Boat"
Barry Hughart, Bridge of Birds
Flann O'Brien, The Third Policeman
J.G. Ballard, "Billenium"
Algis Budrys, Be Merry
Gene Wolfe, The Eyeflash Miracles
→ The Death of Doctor Island
R.A. Lafferty, "Continued On Next Rock"
→ "Nine Hundred Grandmothers"
→ "Slow Tuesday Night"
→ "Thus We Frustrate Charlemagne"
Avram Davidson, "Take Wooden Indians"
→ "The House the Blakeneys Built"
Neal Barrett, Jr, Skinny Annie Blues
→ "Perpetuity Blues"
→ " 'A Day at the Fair' "
Jonathan Carroll, The Land of Laughs
Alasdair Gray, Five Letters from an Eastern Empire
→ "The Great Bear Cult"
→ "Homeward Bound"
Michael Bishop, "The Quickening"
Pamela Dean, The Dubious Hills
M. John Harrison, "Egnaro"
Francesca Lia Block, Weetzie Bat
Greg Egan, "Learning To Be Me"
Kate Wilhelm, "Baby, You Were Great"
Damon Knight, "Semper Fi"
→ "The Handler"
G.K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday
→ The Napoleon of Notting Hill
Howard Waldrop, "God's Hooks!"
→ "Horror, We Got"
Leigh Kennedy, "Her Furry Face"
C.M. Kornbluth, "The Last Man Left in the Bar"
→ "The Advent on Channel Twelve"
Jim Thompson, Pop. 1280
Okay, it's also called Chaetophractus vellerosus, but it loses something in Latin.
Screaming hairy armadillo. Screaming hairy armadillo. Screaming hairy armadillo. Screaming hairy armadillo. Screaming hairy armadillo.
Screaming hairy armadillo!
I read various music blogs, some of them on Blogger. Today I was looking up another person's bio, and I realized that I probably had a Blogger bio, because I had a picture - but I hadn't looked at it in ages. Probably before my stroke.
So I looked. And I did have a bio (the same one that I have here); but I also had a aborted blog: Another Thick Square Blog, which is a great name for a blog, and I shouldn't have punted it. And there was one post, dated 10 April 2008:
Always scribble, scribble, scribble, eh, Mr Gibbon? Scribble scribble scribble Mr Gibbon Gibbon Gibbon. Scribblin' gibbon. Can you say that, Mr Gibbon? Eh? Scribblin' scribblin' scribblin' gibblon. It's a bit of a tongue workout, eh, Mr Gibbon? Mr Gibblon gabblin' gobblin' Gibbon. Eh? Eh? You're a good sport Mr Gibbon, I always say. Thanks for the book.
I don't think I took a Blogger blog seriously....
Hewlett married Hilda Beatrice Herbert on 3 January 1888 in St. Peter's Church, Vauxhall, where her father was the incumbent vicar. The couple had two children, a daughter, Pia, and a son, Francis, but separated in 1914, partly due to Hilda's increasing interest in aviation.
--Wikipedia: Maurice Hewlett
I dislike album titles that pun upon a person's name. It's very easy, usually, and most of the time it doesn't pun any further. Like most puns, it's child's play. (If you must pun on this entry -- I know that some people take it as a challenge -- please pun in at least two dimensions.)
But Roy Haynes, boy: I hope that the title of his 1992 album, When It's Haynes It Roars, wasn't his idea.
Herbie Nichols Trio, Terpsichore
There were two 10" records by Nichols before this, but this self-titled album, The Herbie Nichols Trio, was his first 12".
Katra Turana, Mortera in the Moonlight
A Japanese band. First single (I think), before their first album (which this song was not on), on the Marquee Moon label.
For the last two or three weeks, I plunged into Field Gulls ("The stupidest name in smart football analysis"). It's heady; I didn't know there was a smart Seahawks site, and this one is very smart.
I will be back very soon. I'm not going away.
....and you can ignore it. (Oh, like you usually stay up at night worrying.)
Anyway. "Hot mess" -- unless you are using it in a different way than everybody, please just remove "hot". It's past vogue.
I'm slowly getting together a list of the best albums of 1978, and I'm wondering: is it because the year 1978 was incredible, up there with the best years of music, I'm having trouble thinking of a better year, or even thinking of a competition; or is it because I was fourteen?
edit: 1959 is a strong all-jazz year.