That, incidentally, was a explanation, not an excuse. I believe in the former but have little patience for the latter.
Per usual, insomnia haunts me, even when the very marrow of my bones moans for rest. You'd think that all this late night wakefulness--if not alertness--would be conducive to blogging. Sort of. I wrote a long, personal post on Tuesday, read it fresh on Wednesday and stripped out half, read it fresher yesterday and decided it was too naked, that it violated my own and others' privacy too much. That I shouldn't attempt posts like that when I'm glassy-eyed and thin-skinned. So it's shelved indefinitely. (I know, I'm such a tease.)
Last night, I didn't even try to write--just lay in bed listening to twilight songs that sound like sleep even when they fail to usher it in.
Piles of Clothes - John Weinland
A pile of clothes (or what appears to be) is one of the most fraught images we regularly encounter. Seen from a distance while driving, it might be a dead animal. On a city sidewalk bunched against a building, it's a homeless human being. In a basket in our homes, it's work--laundry either dirty in want of washing or clean in need of putting away. John Weinland--which is a band, not a person--disturbs this mound of cloth, nudging it for its uneasy symbolic value: the unfolded, unfinished, unsaid. Singer Adam Shearer's warm, shaky tenor and a ragged troop of guitar, violin, mandolin, piano, brushed drums (more?) animate the pile, raise a warm blanket and offer it to your cheek. An unexpected comfort.
Also, n.b., James Merrill's "The Mad Scene": Again last night I dreamed the dream called laundry.
From Demersville (artist direct, CD Baby, iTunes). John Weinland's Web site.
Journey - Metallic Falcons
Light, then darkness, then light, then darkness again. A blink sears angels on eyelids.
From Desert Doughnuts (Amazon, eMusic). Metallic Falcons' Myspace.
Said The Gramophone has an essential post from guest John K. Samson of The Weakerthans. It all too sorrowfully accompanies something that happened here in Chicago last week.
On a lighter note, and admittedly a little dated now, Heather Havrilesky of Salon echoes my dismay about one of the new television season's seemingly most promising, but as the rolling weeks have revealed, actually most loathsome, programs. When it comes to TV, I always seem to throw my lot in with losers. Such is Jericho.