Sunday, February 22, 2009


the moon was full, he felt the pull and wandered from the hunt
his father called and brothers all, yes we will find my son 
oh brother lost oh brother oh a vale of trees he found
oh brother lost oh brother climbed in high above the ground

tightly squeezed through thorny trees, he saw a pool there
in it a maiden bathing and the moonlight draped her hair
oh brother lost oh brother oh she hadn't on a stitch
oh brother lost oh brother let a whistle from his lips

stillness breached she could not reach up to her folded dress
oh his eyes burned she quickly turned and soaked him with a splash
oh brother lost oh brother oh all wet and in a daze
oh brother lost oh brother oh it did not break his gaze

if luck befell, you're free to tell you saw me in the nude
now afright, the moon alight, his feet grew into hooves
oh brother lost oh brother antlers sprouting from his crown
oh brother lost oh brother now he's scared and off he bounds

o'er hills and logs, the bark of dogs lends him to a breath
he turns to shout, come get me out, but his mouth the message kept 
oh brother lost oh brother oh they're gaining on you now
oh brother lost oh brother chased down by the hounds

father yelled, my boys be well, our hounds have found a stag
although one less, our god has blessed and filled our hunting bag
oh brother lost oh brother oh we search unto the dawn
oh brother lost oh brother oh yes we will find my son

quoncunque jeceris stabit

Friday, February 20, 2009


[las-i-tood, -tyood]

–noun 1.weariness of body or mind from strain, oppressive climate etc.; lack of energy; listlessness; languor.
-noun 2.a condition of indolent indifference
1525–35; < L lassitūdō weariness, equiv. to lass(us) weary + -i- -i- + -tūdō -tude

Our story begins in the mind of a writer. Inside this writer's mind lay a vast depository of letters, numbers and symbols commonly strung together to form words and the words strung together to form sentences. This writer strings together sentences to form paragraphs and the resulting paragraphs are then sold on a piecework basis to the Economist.

The second paragraph starts with me biting my nails and waiting on an elevator. I am in the Federal Reserve, where I replaced a machine, and I am taking the mail to Janet Yellen. I am drinking your coffee and I am reading the Economist. The word lassitude catches my eye and my brain will not come up with a matching definition. I try to continue flipping through the magazine, perusing, gorging myself on events over which I have no control. Alas, I cannot. I must know.

Our third paragraph has me continuing through the building, floor by floor, catching peoples' eye and asking them if they know the definition of "lassitude." Classic icebreaker. I give the example in context. Only one, of maybe thirty, hazards a guess. Very few even reckon. The blank eyes of the chronically indifferent. Almost all silent and stone faced.

I find myself alone in the elevator thinking is there a name for this state of languor? This lack of energy or these weary eyes? With spring just around the corner; will I come back to life? What do you make of these lines that keep appearing on my face? Is this environment not suitable for neurons to fritter and synapses to fire? What is this state of indifference; this stasis; this?

Some questions just never get answered.


dear toby,

i had a dream last night:

i was playing bass for guns and roses on this enormous stage in front of thousands of people. before we went on, axel gave me a piece of paper with all the changes for all the songs. when we got on stage, i had lost the paper, didn't have the changes. the stage was so big that the other band members were literally a hundred yards or more away, so i could barely see them. i couldn't hear my bass at all in the monitors but the soundman behind me kept yelling that it was fine on the house speakers. so the throngs could hear what i was playing but i couldn't. therefore i had no idea if what i was playing was right. i kept playing in A and hoping for the best, thinking someone would surely tell me if i was out of key. no one did. the soundman in my dreams probably just turned me down in the mix. fucker.

yr friend,
chris m

Well Chris M.,

You did the right thing.