Cecil Vortex

Back to back

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My 3-year-old and me
back to back at a
Route 5
pee shack
and there's this mighty roar
pours out his two-foot frame.
The rush of my doom.
As I'm flushed
out the room.

Family smiles

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Family smiles down
long tables at
loud restaurants
there’s an extra calmness
there sometimes
and even family
blank stares and
family glares still
jaws with an
inch or so between them and
all the muscles
hanging comfortably
loose.

Strom

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Senator Strom Thurmond belongs to my gym.
I see him there three, four times a week.
On the treadmill.
Sculpting his biceps.
His rock hard abs.
He doesn’t listen to music while he works out.
He just stares straight ahead
with his iron skull and his
wide, bony eye sockets.
I try to tell him it’s overkill.
“Senator, really.
At your advanced age
one time a week
would be more than enough.”
He snarls at me. “Son,” he says.
“You don’t know beans.”

The Gravity’s Rainbow Deathmarch, Week 17

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In which our journey ends….
Congratulations and my thanks to everyone who took to the trail, you 35 or so who started this journey and enabled us achieve launch velocity, and you 13 or 14 who will make it through to the other side, 750 pages and 350+ comments later. A survival rate to be proud of, I think, given the history this book has for breaking people’s spirits.
Me myself, I’ve still got about 30 pages to go, which seems appropriate — I’ve been just a little behind most of the way. I’m savoring the last little bit now, sorta soaking up the sauce. Just got to a sequence this morning that seemed an excellent sharp-elbowed response to anyone understandably searching for a tidy wrap (page 733, p/v):

Underneath, someone else has written, in English: Good drawing! Finish! and underneath that, in another hand, It IS finished, you nit. And so are you.“

Defensive jabs and all. I’ve just loved the hell out of this book. The first 100 pages or so were pretty rough going for me, as I struggled to get the rhythm of the thing. And there were a few parts in the middle where he almost lost me. But certainly, from the Casino on, the pure fun factor has been much richer than I ever expected.
All in all, there are few books I’ve gotten more out of than this beast. And there’s just no way I would have ever gotten past page 30 without the group. So here’s to you all, with a mighty clink to clinking mugs in celebration.
Next week: We take a little bit of a break and soak our feet in preparation for the next trail — something a little bit easier on the knees and a great deal shorter. Look for “The Pale Fire Deathmarch” — coming soon to a cecilvortex.com near you.

Mystery solved

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We got snapped at this weekend, asking for directions. We pulled up next to this pleasant seeming, elderly type lady, and we rolled down the window, and we said: “Hi! Excuse me! Can you tell us how to get to thusandsuch? Do we take this turn?” And she said, with a huge twinkly smile, “Yes, you take that right and go straight for 17 miles.” And then, still smiling, but now sinister and suddenly cold, the moisture on her eyes flash-freezing like a splash of water zapped to the far side of Planet X: “Why don’t you buy a map?”
What?!
For the next two miles we ran through different scenarios. What was her problem? I mean, I love to give directions around my hometown. Drive up beside me. Roll down the window. You’ll see how inappropriately pleased I can be, showing off my vast knowledge of the local grid — “Oh yeah, you’re almost there — just three more lights up!” or: “OK, so. Go down past the park with the climby train, take the first right and then the soft left at the high school — you can’t miss it. Hey, you have a nice day too!” Great stuff.
We swung around a wide curve in the road and a jagged stretch of coastline came floating into view. From our vantage point driving along the high cliffs, the beach looked a lot like a squiggle drawn by satellite sensors. And then of course. It was so obvious. What incredible bad luck! — an angry cartographer! We’d stopped an angry cartographer and asked her for directions. It all made sense. No wait, not angry. Just sad, really. In a bittersweet way.
“Why don’t you buy a map?” she’d said. And it echoed echoed echoed as we rolled along toward thusandsuch. “I’m so hungry. No one will hire me. I hate mapquest. Please. Friend. Why don’t you buy a map?”

Project “Fun-Time Challenge Project” Presents: Cauliflower Jam

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Just when you thought all the Cauliflower had been eaten, The Challenge returns! From the mysterious guitar-plucking fingers of a man called “xourmas” comes today’s shimmering turn of the Melon wheel. It takes Jake’s sax piece which took eb’s vocal piece which took the original piano piece…and it spreads a groovy guitar line across the top. The result: Cauliflower Jam.
For a quick recap of the journey there and back again, here’s the whole sequence:

If you’re out there and still thinking of jumping into the melon, just start with any one of these, make yer music, then email whatcha got to: vortex@mediajunkie.com. Thanks for listening. And thanks again to everyone who’s jumped in to-date. This project is the gift that keeps on giving. We’ll have to try another one sometime down the line….
-CV
xourmas’ Remix – Cauliflower Jam
time: 1:07; specs: 1MB
Press Play to play.

Pooh

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My wife was reading the last few pages of Pooh to our kids the other night and it made her cry. So I took over, and yes, yes it nearly made me cry.
Flat out, Pooh is one of the great tragedies. Which got us and our good pal “So-Called Bill” ruminating over how much sadder even the saddest story would be with Pooh in the lead.
Of Mice and Pooh. “Do I get to take care of the bunnies? I want to take care of the bunnies.” I mean come on. What’s sadder than that?
Flowers for Poohgernon. In which Pooh becomes really really smart. And then gets reduced back to being just a bear of little brain. I’m crying right now. You know? It’s amazing. I’m typing this, and I’m actually sobbing.
The English Pooh. In which Pooh is left in a cave. To die.
Or worst of all: Old Pooh. In which Pooh gets rabies and, and Christopher Robin, he has to go get a shotgun and — and he — I’m sorry. I need a moment.
OK… Deep breath. So Old Pooh. In which Pooh gets rabies and he starts to foam around the mouth and Charlotte, she’s just dead. And it doesn’t matter if three baby spiders stay because Charlotte’s still dead and Wilbur, he’s all alone. And then Wilbur gets a gun and shoots Pooh.

Kennedy

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He tries so hard
to look bright around the eyes
bright Kennedy eyes
kind crinkles soft
wisdom star fire big pupils with
flecks of genius
knowing, nodding
but it always
comes out
crazy.

Blog’versary

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A tad over twelve months ago, I blogged my first post. It’s been a fun year, writing these poems, reading that book, collaborating on that cauliflower, making that monkey noise, and whatnot. Thanks to everyone who’s been dropping by. And special mad props to xian who makes this all possible and who suggested I getta blog in the very first place back in March 2003.
On a related note, I’ve been really enjoying the blogs of comrades such as RaptorMage, Kim Said, and the notorious Mrs. T. I know blog blog blog, we’re all pretty burned on that word. But the thing about blogs is, they’re an amazing gift to folks who like to write — just a really powerful way to get yerself off the stone. Or perhaps on that stone. Or just by the corner of said stone. In a writerly way.
All to say, let me highly recommended the blogging life to any of youse writers what want to be writing a little bit more, and you know who you are….
In other news, as the Gravity’s Rainbow Deathmarch nears its wrap, here’s a heads-up that we’ll be starting DM2 with a somewhat smaller though still challenging book right around the end of May. More details soon. Hope to see ya there,
-Cecil