Savannah in the Morning

Savannah drinks black coffee from a mug the color of cigarette smoke and Spanish moss. She watches the sky change from predawn blue to a rusty red to an even cover of slate gray. She watches a lone early morning walker cross 37th Street, pass the library, the uptown precinct, pause outside a coffee shop to catch the smell of bread.

The city has a multitude of lovers. Some abuse her, hock her jewels, need her desperately even as they wound her.

pours another coffee and this time adds big heaping spoonfuls of sugar. She cradles the mug and enjoys the rhythm of the traffic lights changing in triplets, green-yellow-red all down Liberty, all up Oglethorpe.

Some of the city’s lovers want to change her, think she’d look better if she dressed a little classier. “A Dior dress, perhaps,” they say to a polished black-vested bartender. Other lovers wonder where she’s put her crinoline and lace, petticoats and broad straw hats. “She’s not the woman I fell in love with,” they whisper to the mirror and adjust their bow ties.

brushes her teeth, combs her hair, and opens a bottle of champagne. She listens to the clatter and pop as the cafes set out chairs and raise umbrellas. She hums along to the risk-rasp-risk of bike chains. She smiles at their hope and faith in her on a gray dawn.

Lovers come to the city for a night, a weekend, a year. Each leaves believing they know her: a quiet lady of culture; a party girl with a wicked grin; a wise and stern teacher. She takes them, one and all to her bed, but she takes great pains to see that they leave, each and everyone, before the dawn. She keeps morning for herself.

climbs out on the roof and breathes wet air, lightly salted, jasmine perfumed, piqued with the earthy scent of manure and the bitter tang of ammonia.

She loves them all; collects them all like rare and treasured porcelain figures.
Her horses. Her mad laughers. Her children. Her old leathery men with faded tattoos on the beach. Her cutting winds. Her bankers. Her highway. Her peach-colored girls with fresh ink on their backs. Her river. Her travelers. Her insane Augusts. Her dusty black men and their palmetto roses. Her smokers. Her sensible Aprils. Her Vegans. Her one night stands. Her blackouts. Her romantics and dark cynics. Her lightning. Her childhood sweethearts.

She loves them all. She lays a cool hand on every cheek and breathes a shivering secret in every ear.
The city has a multitude of lovers.
She will never let them, not any one of them, ever forget her.   

Writing, living....

I haven't been around here much. Quick version: I quit my job, and am trying to act like writing and music are my real job while I do enjoyable things that make money. Behind the cut is stuff about a long story I'm writing...really, it's probably a novel. I've always tried writing shorter things, but I'm almost more comfortable knowing I have to come up with Lots of ideas and that I have space to relax into the world of this work. I'm not looking for help on specifics, which is why there aren't many below, but more on attitudes.
Well, that was rambling and more than a little vague. I want to talk about this story, but I feel like its bad luck to actually show it to too many people at this point. If someone is going to tell me it sucks, I want it to be a big thing that sucks hard. Again, If anyone has advice about dealing with these types of choices, I'd love to hear it.

High school music

I would do the 'high school soundtrack' thing, but I was in school from 1998-2002, and looking at that list, those five years sucked hugely. There's lots of Celene Dion and Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears. So, yeah. We're not doing this.


One late breaking show highlight:

Apparantly the Savannah PD received a call that there was a riot beginning on Whitaker Street. Multiple police cars and a helicopter respond. (they got there after we left).

Dramitization of the conversation:
TC, the owner of the pizza joint we were playing in front of: "Riot? Nah, they were just playing music and having fun.
Cops: So no riot? Are you alright with them playing there?
TC: Uh, yeah...they were using my electricity.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but street musicians getting mistaken for a riot is probably a good sign. At least in terms of our crowd-appeal. Maybe not in terms of police priorities.  

I wanna be Keith Richards when I grow up, but without the massive drug use.

The World's Greatest Street Musicians (actual name: Superdork & the Wishy Washy Let's-Not-Talk-About-Its) played again last night. Who knew that playing a bunch of rampantly odd songs with a crew of rampantly wierd guys outside a late-night pizza joint would make me feel like a better human being?
It does, if only because it means I'm creating something while drinking cheap beer, as opposed to just sitting around drinking cheap beer. some show highlights:

--We set up. we tore down. we set up again around the corner. we don't have an extention cord. we do have beer. we have an extention cord. we kick twelve kinds of ass.

--We out played a 12 piece klezmer band that broke the truce of "Y'all be over there, we'll be over here" by moving their set-up to directly across the street from us. Our five-foot, 96 pound singer/guitarist bellowing "That's fucking rude!" in place of the actual lyrics of the chorus is probably one of the best moments of my life.

--We were invited by an ex-Ranger, ex-con biker named Shadow to play at his gang's clubhouse anytime. Group leadership has decided it's probably not worth it to go there. I'm good with not getting the shit stomped out of me by bikers.

--the drummer got hit on by a girl the rest of us know to be insane. his line: "I'm kinda crazy too. I like crazy." the sagacity of the bassist: "you don't want [her] kind of crazy."

Other than that, I've been feeling sort of empty, but in that bucket-to-be-filled expectant way. Which is probably an improvement.
  • Current Music
    Algebra & Prostitution (in my head)


I think I saw a flying squirrel tonight. Do we have flying squirrels in georgia? in north america?

[three minutes later...]

Yes! yes we do!

"The Southern flying squirrel (Glaucomys volans) is one of two species of the genus Glaucomys, the only flying squirrels found in North America (the other is the somewhat larger Northern flying squirrel, G. sabrinus). It is found in deciduous and mixed woods in the eastern half of North America, from southeastern Canada, to Florida, USA. Disjunct populations of this species also have been recorded from the highlands of Mexico, Guatemala and Honduras."

The only reason I think it was a flying squirrel, and not just a plain well-groomed rat squirrel, is that it made about a 12 foot jump from the top of a lamp post to the trunk of the magnolia tree in front of the Inn.

Of course, I didn't get that great a look at it. It could have been a bird.
But it wasn't. I'm gonna call him Rocky.

What I've been reading.

A lame subject, but the books have been awesome. I suppose I should mention that I've moved into a new place, and now have no roommates, and so without the amusement of drunk friends, I've turned to somewhat more solitary pursuits. Books, mainly, because that's what I always turn to.

Wind, Sand, and Stars by Antoine de St-Exupery. This was written by the same fellow as The Little Prince, which you have heard of if you've ever taken a French course. A bit different from a children's book, Wind Sand and Stars is a memoir of sorts of St-Exupery's experiences as a mail pilot in the 1920s and 30s, with a fair amount of the type of philosophy you'd expect a man who has a job where people regularly disappeared forever. Mostly it's set along the flight paths from Toulouse to Casablanca, but there are other segments in South America; he tells a story of a colleague who crashed in the mountains--in winter, and walked out five days later. The bulk of the book is about St-Exupery's own big crash in the Libyan desert, starvation, dehydration, eventual chance rescue by a random Bedouin. Wonderful stuff, really. Because I happen to have brought St-Ex to work with me, you get a sample:

Wind, Sand, and Stars ExerptCollapse )

Yeah. I read it twice in a week.

The other book I have now finished for the third damn time in two weeks. (the first two readings were about 15 hours apart, but only because I had to sleep and work.) Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman, hit me rather hard between the eyes. This will come as no suprise to one of you, who told me about this book in the nineth grade, but I don't think I would have been ready for it then. I needed to wait until I knew more about the nature of stories and fairytales, and until I had been working straight night shifts for the better part of two years and understood how it feels to drop out of the world in a lot of ways. So. um. yeah. Fucking wow. It's the first book since I read October Country as a kid that lit the same kind of fire that those Ray Bradbury stories did in me. Maybe it's the first book in a long time to make me feel like a kid again.
Those of you who know it don't need me to talk about it. Those of you who don't, probably should have bought it yesterday.
  • Current Location

hello again

So according to the Lj gods, I haven't posted in 34 weeks. which is pretty odd. i'm good-ish.
I'm going to be making the effort to post regularly, but i probably will fail pretty hard at it. at the moment, i just wanted to write out a seed line somewhere i won't lose it. (i have not really been writing anything much, but am warming up to the idea again.)

"It's not that I'm scared of my own shadow,
I just don't much like looking at it." He says,
cupping another cigarette.

"That's why I work nights. Well, that--
and to avoid the heat of the day." He mutters
something about mad dogs and about Englishmen. [eh, work on it.]

"But shadows, sneaky bastards, stretch and shrink.
Under streetlamps, they're predictable." [Something here...

"Daytime is a nice place to visit,
but you wouldn't want to live there."

so actually a little more than jotting down a line. editing notes too.

(no subject)

I dunno. I just try to not sound uneducated most of the time.

What American accent do you have?
Your Result: The Northeast

Judging by how you talk you are probably from north Jersey, New York City, Connecticut or Rhode Island. Chances are, if you are from New York City (and not those other places) people would probably be able to tell if they actually heard you speak.

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What American accent do you have?
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