my little flying machine

I'm over the halfway point in Chuck's new book Snuff, cruising along at about 30,000 feet on a Boeing that's bound for fabulous Las Vegas on my way back home, when I happen to glance out my window and catch a glimpse of a beauty that struck me to the core.

Out my window it was nearing sunset. The sky was that pallet-blend of orange and purple with tints of blue and yellow at every corner. Below me was an alien landscape, a plain of white fields that was too serene to be inhabited by men. The ground was made of this coiled mass of gray and white that resembled brain matter or perhaps the intestine. At some points it simply looked like cotton a second-grader would pull and spread over the bottom of a shoe-box-diorama. In between the cracks and folds there was nothing but the darkest colors the eye can see. Every once in a while a burst of goldish-orange would erupt from the depths, a twinkle of light glowing far below. Probably some cruise ship.

It was in this moment, as I was taking all this in with a heavy sigh, that I marveled at what a stunning opportunity it was for me to be granted this vision.

The first commercial flights took place around the end of the 1920's. At first it was a thrill only the rich could afford, but advancing technology made it a common way to travel for patrons throughout the 30's. Eighty years. We've been privileged enough to grace the skies for a measly eighty years of human history. And that's what struck me so deep. A hundred years ago no one would have even dared to conceive what the world looks like traveling above the clouds in the stratosphere. Although thousands of people cruise around up there everyday now, at one point in history the thought of a human flying was considered blasphemous.

The reason it hit such a chord with me was simple. I take so much of our civilization for granted. It's easy to point out our flaws, to belittle our accomplishments for all the harm we've caused. Any one can look back on what we've achieved and ask ourselves "but what did it cost?" and the answer is never pretty. But flying over mass distances in a manner of hours while watching the sun set into the distant sea from the safety of my little flying machine is just too cool a thing to take lightly.

The Factory

Here's what I'm currently working on:

*Recording various pieces to be used in projects for Mongrel Studios (including our new web series which will be debuting soon)

*Still in early stages on putting together a "cover" album to be recorded under the Mongrel Studios name and released for free. (Covers that I'm thinking about recording include tracks from The Zombies, The Postal Service, and Regina Spektor)

*Searching for a topic for my next "Mongrel Digs" entry. (Any suggestions?)

*Rehearsing and arranging additional musicians to join me for live shows. (We've practiced!)

*Acting in another Mongrel short. (The details of which are so mysterious even I don't know all of them!)

*Getting back into the swing of booking shows. (I took some time off and now I have to whore myself again.)

*Struggling to keep my immortal soul from falling into the hands of evil. (It's a living.)

So don't come at me with this "You never do anything with your life" bullshit, I do plenty and it takes a constant stream of weird craziness to not lose my sense of self in this onslaught of "Things-to-be" madness.

OK,
QA

A drop of water drips from the back of my faucet; a clear insect darting on the surface of everything. My nose drips. The world commands and my body responds. I envy those who are sane enough to not call themselves artists. Creating is the worst thing you can do with your life. To create is to assume that what you've given life to will learn to stand on it's own in the eyes of others. But nothing I create will ever mean as much as what I put into it.

f'ed

life is fucked. love is fucked. the american dream is fucked.

-Q