Watsky and Dumbfoundead and no, please, what is real, how do I validate that?

I guess with batman and then Watsky, I'm making a habit of thinking when I should just get lost in the action. When trading a rare and fleeting high for a week of introspection, I rarely think twice. At the concert in Eugene I didn't have to compromise though. I think I may have the sound guy to thank for that, because if I had been able to hear all the lyrics I probably never would have gotten out of my head. And that was a time to leave the head, because that was some sweet fucking energy. My clearest memory is definitely the moment when the crowd first really roared and he just stood there, and it was like he grew two inches in every direction and you could see that first shout in every smile of the night. Incredible.

The music was more than I expected. My brother and I were going to go to Watsky, because he's really into it and I'm really into hanging out with my brother. But he booked it off to Montana the day of the concert. Not to mention that we had totally forgotten about it. I texted him later to make sure he was proud of me.

The morning before the concert I rode 70 km on my bike. My biggest ride of the summer so far. I'd barely ridden, barely exercised at all in months. I had mono, Gunther was stolen, I went to Madrid for 2 months, I was sick, my foot was infected... Now in the final week of antibiotics I'm getting out and feeling damn good. Took yesterday off to go to the beach. But I'll be back on my new (well, new from craigslist) Cannondale Road Warrior 1000 today, once I'm done writing. And done setting up another opportunity to work for free. Who doesn't want to learn about grant writing?

I digress. After my ride, I prepared to lounge as hard as anyone has lounged in the history of the world. Not even enough spunk left to read a book, goddamn I went straight to facebook. Ahhh vicarious living. But lo! It was a weekend, as one who doesn't work is prone to forget. That means the 9 to 4:45ers are pumped for adventure. But my legs don't want to move. Let's go to Portland! To the coast! To Eugene!

But why would I ever leave this chair?

Then I thought to myself, my friends enthusiasm for adventure cannot be quashed by my own fatigue. This sort of passion should be encouraged. Like a girl at the bar who's found someone with whom simple conversation flows easily, but would rather have awkward pauses punctuated by deep personal revelations (I wonder if there are actually other people like this...) I scanned the pub of life for a sexier alternative to my current black leather cuddle buddy. By black leather cuddle buddy I'm still talking about the chair, I promise. 

Concerts are pretty much my go-to in situations like this. I checked the usual Portland venues and gave a big spiritual fuck you to all of the awesome things you had to be over 21 to see. Soon I will go to those shows and I WILL NOT BUY YOUR OVERPRICED DRINKS. But hey, Eugene may have a much higher jank coefficient than it's other valley cities, but WOW Hall has always been a happy place for me. March Fourth, Portugal. The Man, good times indeed. Thank god it was Camille asking for an adventure, because no one else would have wanted to go to a rap show.

I called a friend who is always up for random shit, and we were a trifecta of weird. Barbequed dinner and I had fulfilled my daughterly obligations. I don't have any pictures, but we wore ironic t-shirts (I would love to steal 'Free Weezy' from Camille because that shirt just felt right) and I threw on the punk vest for good measure. We were going to call Quin and tell him to dress inappropriately hipster, but we figured it would happen anyways. We were right. I hope I'm the first person at a rap show who wore silk hair ribbons and a red airplane earring. There's nothing like the first time, or so I hear.

My CD collection is MIA since I removed it before Madrid, and I am pretty much OVER falsetto after listening to In The Mountain In The Cloud for the last two weeks. American Ghetto is better anyways. Camille kindly burned us Watsky's last release and what she called "Inapropro Rap" but was more accurately "The Worst of KDUK." We listened to both of them. Drove. Parked. Quin offered to smoke us out but I was gonna be driving soon and Camille was afraid of cops. Not to mention the fact that weed doesn't do anything for me unless I'm drunk. Or it's an edible. In short, we arrived. It's a crucial intermediate step.

In, crowd, Jellysicle played and I sang along to the weird looks I got. The opening act would have been fine accept that he said YOLO once. Not easily forgivable. Also, he did that thing where rappers wear oversized clothes and gradually strip during their set. It was not super graceful, and the way he did it was a little bit contrived. I've seen it done well once. Nothing like the first time. I would stop quoting that, but it's so appropriate all the time. Except for where love and sex are concerned because really it only gets better. And the silly thing I think that's mostly what it's meant to refer to. So... intermittently good aphorism choice, Wastky?

Dumbfoundead is a good rapper. Fancy rhymsies, cool beatskies. But there was something about his presence on stage that really struck me. Vaguely metrosexual attire, effortlessly worn. No fiddling and arranging, like that sort of thing often incurs. A misplaced elegance about him. He drank from a dixie cup like it was crystal. If swag could ever be used effectively, I would use it to describe him. Himself and distinctly no one else. And hardly a hint of facade, the way he giggled at the kid in the front. So comfortable that he couldn't have been real. Like a cocktail of oxycodone and cocaine. It was striking. I still don't know what it was, but it hit me. I wonder if I will ever feel how he presented himself. I wonder if he felt as he presented himself. 

That line of thought goes on to infinity. The music was really fun, especially the cellphone song. I didn't quite get the hang of putting your hand up and down until later in Watsky's set, but it seemed to make them happy so I did it too as my contribution to the performer's enthusiasm. 

Then came that moment when Watsky came on stage and absorbed all of the wild/raw that the crowd could yell at him. It smoothed the transition from this presence to a kid who's gimmick is that he doesn't really know who/what/where/why/how yet. Not gimmick in a bad way, really. Gimmick in an 'I didn't buy a big fat thesaurus and it's almost the right word' kind of way.

So what did I overthink, apart from DFD's aura? I thought about what makes a good story. About what I consider weakness, and how that should change. I thought about being a good person, and how I've watched that slip down the ladder of my priorities because I've decided that it comes naturally. I thought about passion for your work. I don't think I'll ever physics as hard as Watsky rhymes, and I won't want it as badly as he does. I've forgotten what passion really means because I settle for less. I dip a little bit into everything and I come out with a full coat of paint but it peels and warps and I start all over again with a new color scheme over the pigments that barely diffused into my skin. 

Feels good to get all of that out. Feels good to write smooth and without embarrassment again. Without motive AGENDA. I should have waited for the right word when I wrote gimmick, instead of just picking up what surfaced. I kinda like it now though, too late. I hope the gimmick you read is the gimmick I wrote.
Check this out, if you're where I'm at.

Another Book about Heroin. A Weekend that Merits Reflection.

Da Vinci Days continues to confound me. A festival of arts and sciences should not just be right up my alley, it should pave the alley, it should decorate the walls of the buildings on either sides, and it should put up a sign that says 'closed to traffic' (my personal neurosis about alleys goes back a long ways.) Somehow, it is hard for me to interest myself in it.

The part that has been most fascinating for me is the film festival. My strongest memories of Da Vinci days take place there. I remember seeing the man Gillian and Amelia thought I would identify with. His boots were largely inspired by chameleon feet. he sat on the floor curled up in his green poncho, legging'd knees drawn up to his chin. I also remembered watching the "Mature Narrative" part of the festival. It was interesting to see what was set aside for the adults, especially as an 18 year old. It was like a portal offered. It didn't give me any insight, but it was interesting just to be there. Also, somewhat disturbing.

At Da Vinci Days, I ride with the Kinetic Sculptures. Over the years, this has become less and less rewarding. I miss anything that might actually interest me, and I am underwhelmed by the Kinetics experience. The Port Townsend race is much more my style. There are moments of happiness, but they all come from watching other people be happy. I think it would take having my own sculpture to really embrace kinetics.

And who knows, I have a welder.

Finally, Da Vinci Days has been on an auspicious weekend for the past two years. It falls directly after country fair. Country fair has, for the past two years, fallen directly and I mean DIRECTLY after adventures in Europe. That makes Da Vinci Days my first weekend at home for the summer. I think that's another source of the disdain for Kinetics. It holds me back from my life for one more weekend. But it's also interesting because Da Vinci Days is a meeting place for my age group. It gives me a place to run into people for the first time. Sometimes I'm ready for that and sometimes I'm not. But it's always interesting.

To put an end to speaking in generalities, this weekend I read Junky by William S. Burroughs. I read it while waiting during Kinetics, I read it hiding from crowds during Little Feat, I read it waiting for friends in the fluorescent glow of the merch booth. That's where I finished it, and where I met Graham and expounded on its many beauties. Mostly, I talked about how the appendices on my edition showed three perspectives on the book, none of which are mine. It brought into high relief the parts of Trainspotting and Junky that brought me in, when they were supposed to push me out. Namely, the withdrawal stories. It felt like reading about love. I saw authors trying to describe moments more intense than the high, more intense than anything. It was a place people came back to, regardless of the cost, because of the reward. And then the cost suddenly consumed them. It seemed that every time a description of withdrawal was presented, the withdrawee reacted differently. Sometimes they were determined, sometimes they begged for drugs, sometimes they cursed everything, sometimes it was a routine. 

As I finished that book, a puncture wound sustained at fair gradually swelled and filled with puss. I thought that I had fully excavated the hawthorne, and because it was on the side of my foot I didn't feel the pain immediately. So as I limped over the past few days, in almost constant pain, I wondered what it would be like, to be in the constant torture of heroin withdrawal. I am not a good judge of pain. I don't know how much it hurt. Sometime I would try to walk normally, but that hurt so much that my body wouldn't let me. I guess I will never know. But it's a fascinating thought experiment, if an unsuccessful physical one.

Well, that leaves a lot of unconcluded thoughts, but it's time to hunt down my antibiotics (it's rather past time, actually.) If I were to add one or two more paragraphs, I would talk about how later on the night I finished the book, I watched The Dark Knight Rises. I found strange parallels, and it was a fun movie to grossly overthink.

Goodday.

Goodbye Madrid

I've been playing "This is My City" by Timothy Victor ever since it got stuck in my head walking home at 6 am from a night club on the other side of Madrid. I stopped and looked at a map of the metro, and broke down in tears. It was such a familiar picture. Here I was, on a street I'd never been on before, but perfectly confident of my way, many kilometers home, because by now I get this city.

I wasn't even sad about leaving it until yesterday. Until I read some of "Silicon Processing for the VLSI Era" for the very last time. I cleaned out my desk, said goodbye to the professors by sharing some pastries and gifts with them, and walked to the Ciudad Universitaria metro stop for the last time.

On the way, I dropped off my extra keys, and I walked through the Alphonso XIII botanical gardens. I followed weird twisty streets until I found myself completely disoriented but where I needed to be. It was a nice little adventure. I almost regret not following the path I had taken every other day. I always want just one last time.

Having consumed of pastries, I went to the Prado. One last time. I cried there, my first goodbye tears. I was very subtle about it. I hope. Mostly, I just wanted to see Saint George's battle with the dragon. I took a last look at the Garden of Earthly Delights as well, and some of my favorite Verones and Murrillos. It's funny, the first time I went I was frustrated that I kept forgetting which stories were being portrayed. By my fourth visit, I know every myth. Well, not all of the christian mythology, because I'm really not very interested. I can definitely pick Saint Augustine out of a crowd though.

Leaving the Prado was difficult.

I slept afterwards. I was going out with Sophia (the daughter of the professor who set everything up over here) and in Spain 'going out' means until the sun rises. So, I needed the rest. When I awoke, I was still without wardrobe inspiration. I could write a whole blog post on why self-expression in Spain is disasterously difficult. In the end, I got a classy but weird dress that fits like a glove. I was glad to be comfortable with what I was wearing.

We were meeting at 12:15, at a club near my house, but also near a metro station. I guessed a 15 minute walk. I was right, but I also started at about 12:13 so I was quite late. Somehow starting a load of laundry is an activity that warps time. When I got there, I asked the bouncer if he'd seen a blond girl with few other girls. He shrugged unhelpfully. I stood a few meters away debating whether to go in and look for them or just wait outside.

Waiting outside proved to be the right decision, bless my shyness, as a group of 7 girls approached, Sophia in the lead. They hadn't had anything to drink yet. I'd taken a shot of vodka (something a room mate left behind) which I chased with nutella, at home. Awful, to say the least. They were carrying around a bunch of booze, most of them under 18.

When they found out it was 12 euros to get in, they decided to go to Catz, which was the original plan before they decided to try something new. So, we got on the metro to Guzman el Bueno. They were an animated group, and I learned all about their gossip, which was fun. There was also a lithuanian or latvian (she was too sarcastic for me to figure out which one was true) girl with them. She'd met one of them in Ireland, where she lived now. So she required English conversation, which I was all too happy to indulge. I'm not sure I've ever met anyone with so forceful of a personality. It was funny until she accused me of breaking her teeth with a glass. Then it was annoying. Her teeth were fine. But that came later, at Catz.

Anyways, before going to Catz my compatriots needed to get drunk. Drinking in the streets is illegal, and drinking under 18 is illegal. And the cops rolled by. The girls denied any involvement with the bag of drinks, and Sophia pretended to be an exchange student with me since no one in Spain speaks English anyways. In the end, the cops just ended up sticking around, and the girls were desperate to get their money's worth on the booze. So, some of us went ahead while others waited for the cops to leave.

We mixed vodka and Sunny D Light in the shadow of a hospital and drank from the bottle, in an effort to remove any semblance of class. The mood was much lighter without the cops around, and we had a good time. The rest of the group caught up, and then we were off.

By this time it was past two, when we would have gotten in for free because of our femaleness. 6 euros got us in, and a free drink went along with the entrance. I had a "black vodka" which was excellent. Sour, and boozey and lovely. After that, I was a little drunker than I wanted to be, so I didn't drink any more that night. Just danced. The club was projecting the last game of the Eurocup on the wall, and the proprietors would announce whenever a goal was about to happen. The music was mostly Spanish pop, which I was glad of. It far exceeds American Pop in general grooviness.

At 5:30 we all split. The girls had a long ride home. I had a long walk, by myself, in a tight dress. I was only harassed by one man, who was unconventional about it and avoided most of the things I hate about being hit on, so it was a good trip. I might have even flirted with him had I not been about to break down in tears at the idea that I had actually built something of a life here, that my identity now had Madrid woven in, and that this was my city.

I know Madrid better than Portland. I have more favorite places here than I do there. My Reed Recovery took place here, and it was hard and intense and I was alone and scared and I survived and now it's gone.

The research group invited me back next year. Even though I don't think that microelectronics will ever be my specialty... I'm tempted to return. Just for Madrid. My Madrid.