Tuesday, January 11th, 2011
Here is, friends, the only thing written by Wife that ever got laid down. Not even by the full family, but by Doug Milliken as Ichabod Hate on his new album Rat Park out on Father Time Records. This is the video he put together for our song, Smacks of Ashely. Mike always wondered what that meant. There were vocals, but god knows what they were.
Also recently in the world of Doug: one of his other projects with another pal o’ mine Erich Schwann, the Yòü-Tü, just put out a brilliantly good and beautiful new album, Send Off Smoke. We’ve also just recently put up a bit of interactive planar fiction by Doug over at NaDA. Ben Nigra 1982 which can be read and folded online. It’s an experimental work in an experimental format. Check it out. Check Doug out. He’s been busy this Winter.
Friday, May 28th, 2010
A straight line into the Northwest. Took the wind out of me this time. Hills to contend with unlike the others. Wandering mind to contend with. The straight path is curious in what it does to the mind. Many twists, turns, and directions keep you on your toes. The line–you’re either in it or struggling. You are at once so aware of how tired you are, and how much effort it will take to get you back to any relative comfort. In spite of this you keep going. You end up. You turn around. You return. A gorgeous ride against my will on the second most beautiful day in history.
Wednesday, May 26th, 2010
You may now begin to normally purchase copies of White Horses by Douglas W. Milliken at the very regular price of $12. OR you can go check it out from the Portland Room of the Portland Public Library if you are opposed to the concept of ownership.
Friday, May 14th, 2010
Monday Thursday to Sebago Lake and back. Biking off map (written directions only) is such an experience. You feel completely lost in space. You have no familiar context, no real sense of place. You get lost. You figure it out. It is a wonderful and unsettling feeling that seems to rarely happen in the modern world, and yet it’s just there. Right out the front door practically.
Saturday, May 8th, 2010
Monday Wednesday ride to Old Orchard Beach and Back.
I was fighting going on this ride- “It’s so nice out. I’m tired. I just wanna lie out in the grass and read.” -”What!” I said out loud. “How many times have I clocked into work and not wanted to?” “Ok.”
Monday, April 26th, 2010
I spent today in search of Lyman. A vague place 30-ish miles to the Southwest of Portland. I added about 20 extra miles to the journey because the self, it turns out, is a difficult thing to find, and not really worth the journey according to locals. I found myself off map around Alfred- a charming little hampshire itself, and proceeded to get more lost from there. The whole ride today was gorgeous- no wind, sun for most of the trip, through absolutely beautiful and untrafficked countryside. Once I got to the back-roads outside of Hollis (which has an incredible bridge over the Saco River) there were very few cars out at all- only rolling hills, deep trees, beautiful old farmhouses, and pots of gray water. It was very different having both a non-distinct and unknown destination and page of fairly complex directions for this ride. Brunswick was a destination I knew well, with a great lunch waiting, and a straight shot there and back. This journey had me weaving in and out of old state roads and looking for long-non-existent signs. The suspicion of going off course really occupied a large chunk of my thoughts- even when I was on the right track. I stopped to get directions and a banana in Alfred and got some vague directions that set me off on a circuitous route that bordered on disheartening. I was happy for the ride itself, but I had come a long way, and very much wanted to find this place that I had a name in common- if for no other reason than that. I did eventually pass through Lyman- had that banana from Alfred on the bleachers of the boarded up middle school. It wasn’t until I got back home and plotted my points that I discovered just what I had managed to accomplish (or not accomplish depending):
Note the location of Lyman smack dab in the middle of that huge circle I drew in search of it. I’m at this point unsure if I have to now journey back. If I would have plotted a straight line there and back there would be no feeling, but I’ve managed to encircle MYSTERY! I’ve created a giant (w)hole, with the attempted destination right in the middle. I don’t know if I can ignore the potency of that kind of pull. I would have never known if I didn’t look it up when I got home. We’ll have to see if I journey back that way. So what should have been a 53 mile ride turned into 77miles. I feel pretty great actually. Brunswick last week got a lot of the creaks out of my joints. I am fairly exhausted though, and believe I’ve earned my spot in bed tonight. Go in search of the self- find it when, despite being lost, you give up your objective and trust your intuition. That’s how I found Lyman today. Beautiful. Exhausting. Out there still.
Tuesday, April 20th, 2010
Mondays are my days off. I intend to spend the next few months of Mondays on 40+ mile bike rides around Portland. Yesterday was the first. I went 56miles round-trip up Route 1 from Portland to Brunswick. One of the longer rides I’d taken in a long while, and I was thrilled to get back into it. The first five miles (especially when you’re against a strong wind) seem like the worst idea. You want to turn back, you want to quit, your legs and back are already getting sore. At some point though, you let go. The ride, the discomfort, the surroundings become the full reality- simply the way things are. There are no thoughts of stopping, no thoughts of turning back. You talk and sing to yourself, reacting to people and signs you pass. You’re aware of your own discomfort, but only so much as you’re aware of your body ever. On the way back I composed a poem. It is this:
alas and alack!
no wind at my back
but returned home again all the same
my body and hair
no worse for the wear
in fact, maybe better from strain
two hours there
and two hours back
to travel three sixty degrees
a line in my head
while lying home in bed
mocks the pain of a lifetime of ease
yet no mountains climbed
and still so much time
to know: not the places we sleep
but the rides that we share
with the cool springtime air
it’s the rides, not the places we seek.
Monday, April 19th, 2010
A poster image I just finished up for the American Irish Repertory Ensemble here in Portland. Good folks them.
Monday, January 18th, 2010
The other night some of us did this. This is proof.
“Ladies and Gentlemen: it would be superfluous – aside from a certain absurdity in an author’s speaking of his own play – for me to come here and preface with a few wor, after such famous critics have cared to discuss it — among whom I must thank, and with these few all the others, M.M. Silvestre, Mendès, Scholl, Lorrain and Bauer —, if I did not feel that their benevolence had found Ubu’s belly big with more satirical symbols than we can possibly pump up tonight. The Swedenborgian philosopher Mésès has excellently compared rudimentary creations with the most perfect, and embryonic beings with the most complete, in that the former lack all irregularities, protuberances and qualities, which leaves them in more or less spherical form, like the ovum and M. Ubu, while the latter have added so many personal details that they remain equally spherical, following the axiom that the most polished object is that which presents the greatest number of sharp corners. That is why you are free to see in M. Ubu however many allusions you care to, or else a simple puppet — a schoolboy’s caricature of one of his professors who personified for him all the ugliness in the world.”
Next (only other) show, February 4th a Space Gallery
Wednesday, November 4th, 2009
“Puritanism- The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.” -H.L. Mencken
Half the population of Maine is very sad to have to go back to waiting for the future.