And then I said..2008-10-13T19:18:30ZTrelvixCopyright 2008, TrelvixSPHPBLOGDexter Doodle. Do.I thought of Dexter's indulgent fountain pen today and, for a few moments, felt an undeniable familiarity with the notion of a being who is as much a figment of my imagination as I am of his.
Dexter is one of many ghosts who mist their way in to my line of sight now and again. These are not the ghosts of our childhood - hateful, bloodied, and looming - but rather the distant glimmers or provocative whispers that we accommodate willfully, if not even eagerly.
If you're here then you see them too. I, for one, am not real but rather a fog that floats just beyond your focus.
I move among your ghosts just as Dexter, and his pen, move among mine.
You see, I too have a long-standing, nearly forgotten love affair with pen and ink. When the paper is perfect and the jet flows warmly, the words and turns of phrase take care of themselves. Pen to paper, poetry to music. This is as close as I've come to a religion that I would care to defend and it bothers me that I've allowed it to become anything less than a required element in my daily motions.
Today I looked for something.
I don't remember what I sought but I know that I found Dexter and his pen buried in a basement carton.
For twenty-five years - give or take a decade here and there - I've scribbled and scratched essays, articles, books, songs and feeble poetry. The only writings that have ever earned or merited readers have come from one of the three fountain pens that I've nourished and coaxed for my entire adult life.
I've often thought that, by visiting my boxed manuscripts, I would one day recover the same passion that set me on this path so long ago. And so I keep everything - every brief, every scribble, every discarded verse and every angry margin notation.
Where I found Dexter and his pen today surprised me a bit. In a box of suspended one-liners was nestled an envelope of margin doodles dating from around 1984 - a period during which I worked diligently to cage my muse. I don't know what would have possessed me to save these things but I owe a debt of gratitude to whatever hidden wisdom guided my instinct and scissors.
Looking at my scribbles - holding them in my hands - I may as well have been watching a grainy film featuring my pens, my angst and my life as it was back in the days of poverty and optimism. I knew the paper, I knew the ink, I knew the stories. I recalled even the desk where I'd sat with my cat warming himself under the lamp, the Fred Flintstone-shaped coffee stain on the corner, and the splinters that would lodge in my nervously-bouncing knee as I chased a particularly stubborn idea.
And for whatever reason I thought of Dexter and of his glorious new pen. Willingly or not they took a small step out of the mist and in to the domain of the actual. It will pass.]]>http://www.trelvix.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry081008-2212522008-10-09T00:00:00Z2008-10-09T00:00:00ZElise - Hippie Bagel Bison Nothing fancy. Asiago-Parmesan with plain cream cheese.
Just as Elise had finished applying the cream cheese it struck me that a bit of turkey might make the bagel more of a lunch and less of a hippie impulse buy.
"You know what," I started. "Could you put some turkey on there too?"
Elise looked at me plaintively and sighed. "I'll have to scrape the cream cheese off first," she grumbled.
"Oh you can leave the cream cheese," I assured her with a smile. "That's fine."
"No, it's not fine," she proclaimed, our eyes locked.
She proceeded to explain that, when I'd first given her direction, I'd actually ordered what they call a "Cream Cheese Bagel." When I'd made the rash decision to demand turkey at the last minute I had essentially changed the parameters of our engagement and ordered what they call a "Sandwich." "Cream Cheese Bagels" come with 2 ounces of cheese. "Sandwiches" come with a light spreading of cheese.
This keeps their costs down and is why she: a) prefers that customers order what they really want upfront; b) needs now to scrape off one ounce of the cream cheese.
Message received.
With the newly formed sandwich wrapped and cut Elise asked rather ingenuously, "And would you care for anything else today sir?"
"Yeah," I replied in my own way. "Why don't you go ahead and take the turkey off of the bagel and see how far you can stick the whole thing up your ass, you know, to keep costs down, you miserable bison..."
And so now I'm hungry and decidedly unwelcome in the hippie bagel joint.
I guess that was bound to happen eventually anyway.]]>http://www.trelvix.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry081001-1211282008-10-01T00:00:00Z2008-10-01T00:00:00ZSlingshot Effect? I found the exercise both cute and bold given our current climate. It's okay though. Tony has been the Gilligan to my Skipper for years and I'm eager to see what wonderful things I might do with his side of the island.
"So where are you going?" I asked convincingly.
"I prefer not to say," he answered - his hands sweaty and legs crossed unnaturally like those of a questionable material witness.
"Aha," I chirped. "So this is where we're finally honest with one another?"
"I suppose..." he said with a certain apprehension.
"Well then this is where I let you know that I don't care where you're going," I admitted. "I only asked to be polite. I assume you'll clear out today and spare us all the slow death of your career."
As is my way, I'd spun a fiction and made a man cry.
The truth of the matter is that I am the black hole to Antonio's supernova. His talents should never rest so close to my lot.
He'll be a star - either because or in spite of me.
And he'll remember me - in cause or in spite.]]>http://www.trelvix.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry080929-2223452008-09-30T00:00:00Z2008-09-30T00:00:00ZFrom a distance
Hot Air from Trelvix on Vimeo.]]>http://www.trelvix.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry080927-2033362008-09-28T00:00:00Z2008-09-28T00:00:00ZTaters and Shit "Sir?" she complained. "I don't appreciate that sort of language in front of my children."
"Sorry Mrs. Quayle," I replied. "I didn't realize that your children had grown these potatoes."
Aim high kids. If you're lucky you'll inherit a bankrupt theocracy where people hide language from you.
Vote.]]>http://www.trelvix.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry080926-2258242008-09-27T00:00:00Z2008-09-27T00:00:00ZMedium "Yeah, I'd like just a small iced coffee," I told him through the window.
"We don't have small," he burped back.
"What do you mean? You're out of 'small'?" I pressed.
"No," he replied. "We don't have small here. We only have medium and large."
"So you have two sizes?" I asked.
"Right."
"A small size and a larger size?"
"Well, actually medium and large," he insisted. "Would you like a medium iced coffee?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I'm still trying to wrap my arms around this. Do you have a minute or are you late for something?"
"Actually sir there are a few cars behind yours..."
"Oh I know," I said. "And they're probably wondering what we're going on about up here, huh? I suspect they'll be good and pissed off by the time we're through."
"...<static>..."
"Do you have a suggestion box, Hector?" I probed.
"Excuse me?"
"A suggestion box. Do you have a suggestion box - you know - a place where you can send word up the chain of command when you have a sure winner of process improvement or product marketing? A suggestion box?" I explained.
"No sir, we don't have one of those. Is there anything else I can get for you?" he wondered politely through the window.
"No Hector," I conceded. "Just the medium coffee."
I'll have the same conversation next week. If not with Hector then with his analog. ]]>http://www.trelvix.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry080925-2238402008-09-26T00:00:00Z2008-09-26T00:00:00ZSid, Apocalyptica, Bagpipers and The PickleWhat the f*ck? Where's your writing? You turning this shit in to a video blog or something? You'll lose everyone if you do that - mark my words."
I'd not realized that I'd found everyone in the first place or that they were mine to lose.
With that in mind - my weekend video blog: Sid, Apocalyptica, Bagpipers and The Pickle.
I flew over my hometown today. It didn't see me - didn't even know that I was there - looking down and straining to catch whatever glimpse the clouds could afford.
This is pretty much how it's been since my father died seven years ago today.
He never really pulled me back there; he never really brought me home.
But his absence has certainly seemed to keep me at bay. Curious that.
I don't have a story today. The day just never let me come up with one. And so I'll borrow words that my friend Pascal shared elsewhere this week. I know he won't mind as we're on similar journeys.
My father was a clergyman who received regular gifts of various food items and skinned woodland creatures from doting members of his country parish.
More often than not the food was inedible and therefore discarded promptly upon returning home from chapel.
When asked how the family had enjoyed the offerings my father would invariably say something along the lines of: "Oh Frances. Thank you so very much. You know, a pie like that just doesn't last long around our house."
And that's how my father taught me to tell the truth without ever fully committing to the lie that powered it.
Next year I'll set aside a story of my own.
]]>http://www.trelvix.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry080919-2304192008-09-20T00:00:00Z2008-09-20T00:00:00ZPhone I am of course a genius when faced with a technical challenge and thus it should come as no surprise that it took me fewer than four days to appreciate the fullness of my card.
And so I prune. The obvious result of my pruning efforts is a sort of visual mix-tape that I'm storing here.
You're more than welcome to give it a look but I can't imagine why you would. If you're a glutton for this sort of thing then I would recommend headphones for the full effect.
]]>http://www.trelvix.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry080915-2349052008-09-16T00:00:00Z2008-09-16T00:00:00ZRemix. Smackdown in Midtown: Sister Smackdown Gets Her Wings Midtown Smackdown: Sister Gets Her Wings from Trelvix on Vimeo.]]>http://www.trelvix.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry080913-2204572008-09-14T00:00:00Z2008-09-14T00:00:00Z
For twenty-five years - give or take a decade here and there - I've scribbled and scratched essays, articles, books, songs and feeble poetry. The only writings that have ever earned or merited readers have come from one of the three fountain pens that I've nourished and coaxed for my entire adult life. 