Nonphenomenal Lineage

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Captain’s Log, Stardate # 4782

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20 something gigs of music on my iPod and I’m bored of it all. The only thing to do is illegally download more music or shuffle the songs in the hope that the randomness will pump some lifeblood back into the song library. Downloading music takes time and energy. So I’m shuffling songs. Shuffling songs is interesting because it’s unpredictable (unless you cheat and peek at the queue). It has a subtle way of reminding you how much you do love your music.

I am always interested in seeing how My Past Self has rated songs. I have rated almost all of my music in my iTunes. The scale rating is between one and five stars. Sometimes, when I’m on these random shuffles, I am reintroduced to a song, out of context from its album, which catches my attention. Listening to something out of context, if the mood is right, can make an ok song great. One song in particular is Bjork’s “Desired Constellation” from the album Medulla. I originally gave this song a rating of only two stars, which means I don’t like it very much. However, hearing it again now, I like it much more. The rating goes up.

I hate being at my house these days. Hating how hot it is and how I feel trapped to do nothing about it. I discussed in a previous post that my roommate and I decided to not run the air conditioning anymore because our electricity bill was outrageous. I thought I would be ok, I said I could quit anytime I wanted to. It’s the second half of September, I have my window open. I didn’t realize just what I would be giving up. It’s super hot in my room, and the only way I can tolerate it is to strip down to my underwear and wait for it to get cooler. My fan doesn’t help. It just seems to push air on me, which makes me angry.

I think about air conditioning like a junky: Maybe I could turn it on for a little bit. Just a teensy little bit. I would feel OK after twenty minutes. Then I could turn it off and we could forget it ever happened. Problem is, my roommate’s home and she would notice I turned it on. Then I would have to explain to her why I breached our contract. I don’t like those types of confrontation. And I can’t handle paying that insane bill again.

Since I don’t like being here, I’ll do anything to get out of the house and spend as much time as I can out until the middle of October, which seems like a date when it will be naturally, sufficiently cool in my house. Problem is, my job pays beans and thus, I’m incredibly poor these days. So I have to get creative about what I do when I’m not in the house, because being out of the house makes me want to get rid of my money,and I simply have none to get rid of that isn’t already used up for bills. I’ve tried exercising. That’s helping. Riding my bike, because, wouldn’t you know it, it’s wonderfully cool outside. But none of that seems to be getting in the house, even though I have the window open. I have gym membership that I have ignored all summer. Truth is, I actually DO go to the gym, but I can’t make myself do a single damn thing when I feel like a sausage covered in a thin layer of white gravy. So I sit. Or leave.

Side note: I came upon a Calexico song in my music shuffle, which just made me skip the shuffle and go straight to my list of Calexico songs. They’re so excellent, especially for the desert. They sound like a lost country band from Mexico with silky melodies borne out of camp fires and twilight on the range just south of the border. You must listen. And think of how dry it is here in Nevada. It rains just 5 times a year.

Tonight I went to one of the local farmer’s markets with Andrea. We arrived at 7:15. It was almost dark. I got a hot dog from a stand and a roasted corn on the cob that was only half cooked but I couldn’t bring myself to tell the man from whom I bought the corn because he was such a sweet little old guy. It was a small market, but the hot dog vendor made a point: it’s the desert, we have to ship everything in, so farmer’s markets will never be like the ones you see in California.

I brought my camera, but I didn’t take any pictures because I forgot to. Mostly I shouldn’t care, because there wasn’t anything spectacular at the market, but partly I do care, because, for some reason, I feel a strange urge to photograph everything. To catalog everything everything everything about my life with my digital camera. It’s so easy to use, my digital camera. I snap the picture, the picture sits on my camera until I upload it to my computer. Then it lives there forever. I can return to my iPhoto at any time to see where I have been and what I have been doing in the last year. Cataloging and chronicalling have always been a half-assed passion of mine. I have been doing it in one form or another since I was a child.

In fifth grade, my friend Dixie Bush and I decided that we could become spies and keep tabs on everyone in school if we only knew their grades. In order to do this, we decided that we could collect from the wastebasket in the corner by the pencil sharpener the discarded pop quizzes and spelling lists tossed there by the students. We would be scrupulous (and covert) about collecting every paper in the wastebasket, and making a list of all the students and averaging the grades on the tossed tests and assignments into overall grades. We figured that by the time report cards came, no one would be the wiser and we would know the grades of everyone. At the time, this did not seem like a flawed method. It sounded perfect, and sneaky. It lasted for one day, and I was the only one who did the wastebasket collecting. Thankfully my mind did not continue in this way, or I might be one of those poor people who collects recyclable materials out of everyone’s trash so that they may eat dinner and perhaps have enough money to sleep at the YMCA. And then the fifth grade logic begins to unravel…

But still, I gather and I chronicle. Part of it must be locked somewhere deep in the primordial ooze that inhabits my center. Something about collecting and storing for future use just in case, JUST IN CASE has a stranglehold on my subconscious, because I never can never satiate my appetite for recording everything.

I also like collecting information OTHERS have gathered. This is why I love books. I have quite a few, but considering the book collections of a few of my friends, I am not the only one embedded with the collector dna. I was wandering around The District tonight,a posh shopping center in Henderson. I went into a Williams Sonoma. I like Williams Sonoma, they’re the richer, snobbier distant aunt of Crate and Barrel, my one true retail obsession. We don’t have Crate and Barrel in Las Vegas for me to drool over, and I can afford to purchase nothing online, so I have to content myself with surrogate Williams Sonoma. I walked in there tonight, ogling the super expensive, super colorful Le Creuset dutch ovens and mini pots. I glanced around and had a moment where I almost had to buy a funny looking whisk, but I resisted. But what trapped me the longest was the large and impressive cook book section they have. Now, I love books, and I love kitchen ware, and I especially love food. And when the three are combined it is potentially dangerous.

I started perusing the books. Martha Stewart seems a little omniscient a tad bit evil and sterile, but my oh my the design is beautiful in her cook books. Oh yes, I love design too. I immediately got that urge to buy every book in the store. But I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and left the store with my wallet intact. See how far I have come?

Ah well, I’m rambling. But I’m so god damn hot and typing doesn’t make me much hotter. I was reading a book lent to me by Chops, JPOD by Douglas Coupland. It’s fun. Writing and reading are the only activities I can face when I am hot and stinky. I should get my head wet and try to go to sleep.

Currently listening to Calexico

Written by pocheco

September 20, 2007 at 5:57 am

Posted in Uncategorized

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