Which is so novel for me, and so welcome. Pretty damn near a night of uninterrupted sleep.

A lot of times, I find that music does help me get to sleep — the right music, that is.

Tonight, it was (as it is so often) “Secret Agent Radio” from Soma FM. Streaming radio that’s mostly downtempo, lounge, and all sorts of other stuff mixed in with bits of dialogue from various spy movies and detective shows.

Soma’s got all sorts of other weird and cool stations. Check them out here: http://somafm.com/listen/

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I finished “On Truth” by Harry Frankfurt last night. Thought it was far better and more coherent than “On Bullshit.” I felt that in the latter book he took such a limited view of what constituted honest speech, at one point suggesting that a simple metaphor (“I feel like a dog that’s been flattened by a truck”) demonstrated “the essence of bullshit” because the speaker didn’t actually know what a dog felt like after it had been flattened by a truck. (He was expanding on an anecdote about Wittgenstein saying the same thing to a woman in the hospital when she described herself that way.)

Anyone else read these books?

It’s back to Lakoff’s “Metaphors We Live By” now. Then I think I’ll retackle Harrison’s “The Dominion Of The Dead.” Seems like all my reading lately is this philosophical stuff regarding the nature of truth, reality, and the influence of cultural conditioning on a world view. It’s stimulating some poems, by Jove.

I do wish I could read more fiction, but I find it all so…boring? pointless? Not sure what the right word is. I can’t think of the last time I read a work of fiction, or started to, that held my attention for more than a day. This includes everything from Sue Grafton to Umberto Eco. I’ve got Ian MacEwan’s “Atonement” here, courtesy of Barbara Adler, and I’ve started it twice — no dice.

I read a lot of fiction when I was younger, in my teens and twenties — I read voraciously back then, and read a wide range of stuff. Now it’s pretty much poetry, philosophy, and cultural studies, with a lot of topical magazines tossed in for good measure. Interesting shift.

in the house — dead battery. I was supposed to go to drgeorge‘s father-in-law’s wake tonight, but that didn’t happen. Funeral tomorrow if the f@#$*&g thing starts.

Considering the weather, it’s not all that bad, I suppose. Just have to stay in and write.

a new toy in the hope of getting bored enough to sleep.

Picked up a cheap (very cheap) digital camera today, and thought I’d introduce you to my little friend…

Meet Henri Gargoyle

Lying down too early in the evening frequently turns into waking up at 10:30 with no chance of going back to sleep.

Grr.

I may be all set in terms of steadier employment — waiting for final contracts to bring me on more regularly as a trainer for the company I’ve been independently contracting for. I’ll still be self-employed, but it’ll be through a different branch of the company so I’ll be doing work more regularly and closer to home.

Considering my last post, interesting timing.

I have to get out more. I’m becoming a full-time poet, something I swore I would never do. I don’t do much of anything, or come into contact with a lot of people who aren’t poets. And I’m pretty tired of that.

stone laughter
peeks over the top
of the laptop’s screen.

i call him henri, henri
gargoyle. henri
sits back on his haunches
with his long arms touching down
between his feet.

henri’s mounted between
the speakers, head just showing
its wide shapeless mouth, all of it
tilted back and i just know he’s laughing.

if a gargoyle’s job
is to drive off demons, henri
must do it by mocking them. he’s
a great friend to this poet.

this is not the poem
where henri actually moves, by the way.
i’m still waiting for that one. in all the years
i’ve known him he’s never moved. in all the years
i’ve moved him around he’s never complained. even when
i used him as a pen rest for a while,
sticking a Waterman in his mouth,
i never saw a scowl or squirm. this gargoyle is loyal,
stoic, shaped like a belly laugh coming out of horror.

one day i just know henri
is going to step around to try the key board
and i fear i’m going to have to smash him to bits. (don’t tell him,
i want it to be a surprise.) i could never bear
to change places with him, demons being demons and all;

demons being demons, and henri gargoyle
understands demons. knows it’s not a battle, but a war.
he chips away at them
as patiently as a stonemason.

it’s those flakes stinging my arms and face
that goad me to poetry. but if henri
wants to become a poet, he’ll have to find
his own.

it’s not that i’m ungrateful, henri, mon frere,
it’s that i haven’t got the tools.

Even pulled out the sketch pens and sketch pad I bought a while back. Might try to do something in the visual arts, which I never do. I’m an auditory guy at heart. But it should be fun to try.

Of course, this is also vodka and olive tasting night — I’m gonna drink Bushmills, since I don’t like vodka. Does Irish whiskey go well with olives? Stay tuned.

If you’re coming over…see you later! If not…um, see you later too, although it’ll be likely be later than the first later, if you know what I mean.

a dreadful fate
would be to wake up someday
and find i’ve been reborn
as a pop song.

worse yet, born into a family
of pop songs.
(worse again, born a twin.
it would be intolerable
to look to my left
and find myself.)

i’d cringe if all my other siblings were
catchy and simple.
what fear to have
a mother and father at the top
of whatever charts might exist
in such a place.

i know i could never stick
in anyone’s ear long enough
to become a favorite.
even if i did, i am sure
it might happen once at most
in my life. i could never
carry my own tune. i could never be hummed
by millions. i could never make
my family proud.

the worst fate
i can imagine
is to wake up someday
and find i’ve been reborn
as a pop song.
worse yet,
born into a family of pop songs.
(worse again,
born a twin.
it would be intolerable
to have someone to always sing in unison
with me.) i’d cringe
if all my other siblings were
catchy and simple.
what fear to have
a mother and father at the top
of whatever charts might exist
in such a place. as for me,
i would never want to stick
in anyone’s ear long enough
to become a favorite.
even if it did, i am sure
it might happen once at most
in my life. i am certain
i would never be hummed
by millions. i know my family
would never be proud.

A long day with some unexpected travel and such. I’m tired as hell, so no Cantab for me tonight, which bums me out a bit to say the least — Regie Gibson being one of the few poets I can see feature more than once a year (hell, I think I might be able to see him four or five times a year at least and would be willing to test the limits far more often).

I finally got paid for all the work I did in November and December — when you think of it, it’s only about five weeks after the dates so the pay cycle’s not bad for contract work. A good chunk of change, even after I pay off bills and such.

Still thinking about creating an over-30 slam here in Worcester. Put it in a bar, once a month, with a 100 dollar cash prize. Maybe use iWPS format. Maybe not. Enforce the age limit strongly. Maybe put together a team for regional competitions. Maybe not.

I want to create a place for those of us who, after much study, have determined that “emo” is just a synonym for “young,” and who believe that the poetry scene is way too “emo.”

And maybe, just maybe, to create a place that people will want to pay some dues to get into.

It’s too fucking cold.

I’m off to do errands; finally (FINALLY) got paid for all that work I did in November and December.

Tonight: possibly the Cantab for Regie G.

EDIT: Battery is dead. Looks like I’m here for a bit…