leden 2010

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Well said, crazy Janeski. Post script - that sausage sandwich made me really sick.


Tara H.

A nice account of a most enjoyable evening. Note to Rian: I told you not to eat the sausage.


I don't know if you get a little alert message when someone posts in an old, abandoned thread, but just in case... or in case sometime you're just reading back through it all,
this post really makes me miss... something.
I don't know exactly what I'm feeling, so I'll talk (type).

I went to see Radiohead last summer too - at Red Rocks with my brother Z, whom you know by now, but probably hadn't heard of then. That was the summer before I moved to England.

America, for its many faults, does a lot of things well - and I must admit, there's nothing quite like a summer in the states. Hot, sunny days full of a million guilty pleasures; lazy trips to malls and dollar movies (3 dollar movies if you count using real money) and large carparks and taste-testing in Costco when you've got a prescription to fill and a couple hours to kill.

And concerts.
Large, open air amphitheater concerts.

Its really strange because I remember Rian telling me about that show when it happened - that he went to see it with these two friends of his and one of their sons... that it was in an open-air amphitheater. But he left out the part about the sausage. And his Mini.

I guess the thing thats obvious, or maybe its not, is that for me to get to this posting (what seems to be the second post you made on this site) I have clicked backwards through the last 8 months (5 months if you count using a real calendar), sort of scanning and reading different bits, especially when the characters are ones I recognize.

And here I find myself, now being told about an event I was never even there for by someone who, at the time of the original telling, was like an extra in the cast. But now that person is the main character, and sausages are thrown into the mix.

Its like watching a film where the protagonist sends us back to hang out with his co-stars. You watch it again and you see that secret cameras have followed all the others around.

So I found out that, like me, Ms. J likes Bono (did you see THAT superbowl performance? now there is a halftime show to talk about - but it would be riskier than the JT episode because suddenly we might believe in it [its risky just writing that sentence in a blog]), and I found out that she also likes Rilke, which sort of ties together considering I recently received a Rilke book in the mail from Mr. Johnso.

I found out that, like me, Tara self-edits her private journals just in case someone later finds them, and I found out that hipsters everywhere get caught in a self-referencing conundrum in which we, by simply using the word, imply a negative critique of all that is hip-dom while simultaneously living it out ourselves.

I found out the context for Zooey's Toboggan dream, which I knew about from a poem that he posted on my forum ages ago but never quite understood, and I found out that when I referenced Anne of Green Gables in the Love/Hate post, Z. had (unbeknownst to me) already talked about the film in one of his earlier posts. Which is just plain weird.

I felt suddenly uncomfortable as I saw more bits of people I'd been chatting to as though I'd known them... and then strangely comfortable again.

What seems to be emerging is this eerie, (or comforting, actually) same-ness that becomes apparent when you read the gut level thoughts of a varied group of people that you don't even know.

So this bizarre interaction caused me to keep scanning.

They say that when you load up a webpage, you have to scroll all the way to the bottom, just to psychologically know where it ends. I guess I had to go all the way back to the start. I just wanted to see that first post and I couldn't stop clicking (all I can say is thank heaven you didn't start blogging at age 14. or even 24). As it stands, when I tally up the work I've managed to get done this afternoon, I arrive at a grand total of none.
None work done.

But I remembered a vicarious memory, which made me miss my own concert amphitheater memory, and in turn, miss America and people who know and understand things I know, even though we don't know each other.

And even though I'm semi-freaked out by the internet right now, I feel like there is something of a treasure to be mined. I'm quite enjoying hanging out with the fingerprints of friends.

I think the weirdest thing is that if you see 3% of someone through their writing - maybe 5% if you add their influences - your brain subconsciously fills in another 25% or so with random assingments.

Maybe through a blog we meet a certain 5% of someone that would normally be reserved for a later day, while bypassing altogether the 5% of smiles and hellos and "what-sort-of-work-do-you-do"s that would normally accompany a first introduction.

Its like shaking my small intestine instead of my hand... or when we first meet, kissing my spleen instead of my cheek.

You know that its kind of weird, but you think,

we like Radiohead - and we think Rian is a genius...
and no one else I KNOW shares quite that same familiar combination. So I'll hang out with these people I DON'T know, but we'll pretend like we do.
I mean we may not have met, but we self-edit journal entries.
That's gotta count for SOMETHING!"

Jane Herself


As you may have read, in sifting through the mulch of my website, I often question the validity of the entire project on a fundamental level. Tara's post about self-editing her journals is right on target with that conundrum, because I think we all do that, and I have journals hidden away that, if they were ever exposed to the prying eyes of anyone but me, would be pure mortification... Still, I know the value of my processes, and that those things that embarrass me now really had their place for me then. I begin my reply to you here with those thoughts because I feel like I want to tell you why I began the "Crazy Jane" project because it will help me tell you how much I love your comments here.

I started this project with the desire to force myself to write things that are not of that secretive, journalling nature, and also, to find the line between writing that is close enough to the heart to have some stake in the landscape of TS Eliot's "significant emotion," but are not part of a self-indulgent morass, away from which one must certainly steer clear. I don't suggest that I have in any sense ACHIEVED those aims, but I have some hope that as I get up to speed, here, I may.

The second aim was the experiment of seeing what would materialize over time. What kind of a revelation would it be for me to record these things, and share them with my friends and even with people I don't know? I don't want to sound like an egomaniac here in calling myself an artist, but Art is an attempt at communication, and for that, one needs someone to offer it to. Jean-Paul Sartre, in an essay called "Why Write?" said "With each of our acts, the world reveals to us a new face." He goes on to suggest that in the dialectic of reading and writing, that revelation can't take place without an audience.

Which brings me to my gratitude to you for this post to my old Radiohead thread, in which you have revealed something to me about the face of my project here - this collage of pictures and writings, excerts and interactions that tells a story of these people, connected in strange and suprising ways. Your comments have given me a glimpse of the richness of that in a way that I could never have seen, and which gives me a renewed courage, and a sense of the value of this undertaking, which is a gift of inestimable value, really.

So, thank you, Dear Nathan.

Now tell me more about you. Are you not in America? For some reason, I pictured you in New York...


So, I started writing this post a while ago.. I'm not sure when because my brain is a little confused.

In answer to your question, or questions, I'll describe my tuesday onwards.

No, lets skip forward a bit to tuesday afternoon - when I was writing and reading on your website. Sitting in my fairly large room, with 12 foot ceilings, next to my very cool industrial kitchen (and this may sound like I'm bragging, or something, but I'm not - I'm just excited about it all) which is just a few minutes walk from what is often a blustery beach on the south coast of England.

So that was when I got 'none work done', but after that I had some friends over for dinner and we talked about a talk I gave at our church that week regarding talents. The discussion was excellent and quite encouraging and partly consisted of commenting on what we thought each other's talents were. The thought crossed my mind to write down what they said about me, but if writing about my cool kitchen has a slight bragging whiff about it, writing about my talents smells like aged bleu cheese.

Anyway, the last visitor filtered out around 2am, at which time I began packing in earnest. I believe I finished that in about an hour, and then proceeded to dig up what I had been writing regarding radiohead, and write a bit more and then post it onto your site. That took me to 4.30am, at which time I slept.

I consider myself a morning person, which is why, I think, I decided to take off my shirt before going to sleep. This is my reasoning: no matter how short your sleep time is, if you don't truly get ready for bed, it feels like a nap. I got an hour that night. Some would wonder why I even tried to sleep at all. Its because I needed to GET UP. Something very important for a morning person.

Maybe its all swings and roundabouts, as they say over there (over there being England, as I'm over here now [being Denver]) and speaking of roundabouts, let me just say I'm glad that at 5.45am, there are very few cars out prowling around the streets of Bournemouth.

I drove to my friend's house who was going to london anyway and promptly fell asleep in his front left (passenger) seat.

He dropped me at a station and after meeting a friend for a morning coffee (which for me, means anything BUT coffee) I hopped (so to speak) on the underground (read: subway) and made my way to Heathrow. Thank Apple for iPod.

I must say that 3 hours of sleep doesn't prepare you for the lengthy spectacle that is Master And Commander: Far Side of the World. After snoozing through the end of Film #1 (of 2) That I Can't Believe Is Nominated For Best Picture, I was ready for the real treat of the flight: Lost in Translation. I loved it. Maybe there is room for more discussion somewhere else, but I don't want this post to be the same length as a transatlantic flight (and seeing as I've got jet lag on my side as an excuse for just about anything right now, let me take this chance to recommend the new album from Death Cab For Cutie entitled Transatlanticism).

I arrived, then, at DIA, which is my favourite airport (except, perhaps, for the Barcelona airport, but I was young then and I may be adding a certain element of romanticism to those memories) and proceeded to cut a giant lightning bolt into the side of my head and follow my hairdresser's invitation to a bar called the Hi-Dive where we (my friends and I - the hairdresser was nowhere to be found) danced the night away to pounding '80's tunes in a sea of Strokes-look-alikes. It felt very strange, but after I saw how you do that sort of dancing, I picked it up and must admit to having quite a fun time, apart from all the times I was acutely aware of my facial expression; my carefully concocted presence or lack of a smile.

Tomorrow will hopefully see me doing my final preparation for a week of teaching I will be presenting this week, subject: Biblical Studies, and then on Friday I will accompany my brother and father to a little place I like to call New York to visit the formidable Mr. Zooey and categorically GET DOWN.

So, next weekend, feel free (and feel correct) to picture me in New York, and after that feel correctly free to picture me in the United Kingdom, BUT after that - say about the middle of March - I hope you will be able to not picture me at all, as there is a slight chance I'll be in Los Angeles and we will not need pictures, as we will be hanging out at, say, a Jon Brion show, all of us internet friends.

At least, thats how I've got it pictured.


Finding his way back in the archives, Mr. N's sizeable accounts, Ms. CrazyJane's sizeable replies, and Mr. N's sizeable subsequent answers, are going to take the blame, I've decided, for yet another sleepless night, and I find it an able bearer of such blame, as N. himself put down a good bit about time, including, as I love, the exact digits on the clock at various times of sleeplessness, and also including that one bit where he takes off his shirt. woo woo!

I'm again memorizing lines, but not Shakespeare tonight, and so we shant expect my more flamboyant influences to creep into my writing. If they do, I assure you it is out of pure spite of my decision to exclude them.

I like the apprehension of interweb communication that both of you mentioned (and that you, Ms.CrazyJane, detailed in your other post), and I also enjoyed the good light that both of you shed upon this undertaken that I've found myself so strangely drawn to. The only websites that I seem to be able to post on are, as I suspect coincidence may not take entire credit for, this one and N's, save when I write under the psuedo name of "cute girl" on my former band's website, exclaiming to no end about how absolutely cute and rippling Z's (my) biceps are. I hope the both of you take my enjoyment of your websites as a compliment, although it is a double-edged sword as it is only your two websites that bear the brunt of my nighttime expounding.
(the other websites I like won't let me write on them.)

CrazyJane: far from a "self-indulgent morass," your writings are stimulating, eye-opening, funny, and beautiful, even if I don't know what "morass" means.

May I also say that N. is of the particularly infuriating sort of brother that can say, "It's like shaking my small intestine instead of my hand" and get away with it, for which I will forever be jealous. He's just said, "It's like shaking my small intestine instead of my hand," but the only clue you have that, rather than (or, more accurately, along with)saying something very profound and wise and serious, he's said "It's like shaking my small intestine instead of my hand" is that you almost fall over when you read it.

But, as I'd try to fit one of these in anywhere, especially as it now seems very fitting, I must include a little Salinger quote:
"Do I go on about my brother's poetry (writing) too much? Am I being garrulous? Yes. I go on about my brother's poetry (writing) too much. I'm being garrulous."

I can't remember the rest of the quote, but it's very profound and wise and serious.

I feel as if I'd like to say more in response to both of you on this reopened topic, but I have a sneaky suspicion that, whether or not I know what the word means, I would be being garrulous. That didn't stop Salinger, but he was getting paid to write a book.

I only add that the only person I'd like to hear a week-long teaching on Biblical Studies from is N, and (as you, N, knew I would) I contend that it is not mere coincidence that he is not a pastor. May I also, in praise of you, brother, yet while temporarily removing you from such position, say that this has nothing (and I now add the obligatory "or at least, little, if anything") to do with his being my brother, which is to say that listening to N talk about Biblical Studies is better than reading a book or going to the movies, if not better than watching Anne of Green Gables, and while still (but with ever-dwindling conviction) holding that the only reason I ever watch that goddam movie in the first place is because my older sister is making me. I must also admit, with what I assure you are altogether too many reservations, to being aware of using the Lord's name in vain within the same paragraph that is championing a good teaching of Biblical Studies.
I can't help myself.

And I'm by now being absolutely garrulous (I'd imagine, from my habit of defining words by context because I'm too lazy to pick up a dictionary), and I feel that I'm veering precariously close to self-indulgence, a phrase (and action) I've been known to "shake intestines" with.

As Mr. N used jet-lag to cover his bum, I'm going to follow suit, and suggest that if this post has become garrulous, it is because I don't know what "garrulous" means, therefore making it unavoidable, and because I've had to go to the bathroom since I started writing it.

Jane Herself


England. The Blustery Coast. An Industrial kitchen. Late Night Writing. Shirtlessness. Transatlanticism. Dancing to the 80's. Biblical Studies. NYC with the charming Mr. Z... I don't mean for this to sound naughty at all, so with that caveat in place, let me say that I would dearly love to hear your friends' assessment of your powers and talents. I like Bleu Cheese!

"Lost in Translation" is a little sparkling jewel, and I loved it. I've never been to the airport in Barcelona, but Barcelona itself is a favorite place, though not more favored than Sevilla, which is nothing sort of magical at Easter with streets filled with the scent of orange blossoms and incense.

There's a very short list of things that could possibly be as delightful as the prospect of finally shaking your hand, Mr. NathanJ, when you come to Los Angeles. After all the good things I have been told, and all the picturing you have so generously laid before me here (and which has been truly charming in every single respect), I feel that there is indeed a most pleasant prospect before me!

Zooey: I think you should come, too. We can look up what "garrulous" means in my Oxford English Dictionary! Meanwhile, I am so pleased by your compliments that I am going to go down to the cafe immediately to tell Ms. H all about them.

Ms. C. Jane


Ms. C. Jane
I apologize for not responding to this newly-revised old post which again has become old. It was because, at the prospect (even hypothetically) of looking up 'garrulous,' I went immediately into a bout of apathy. I have a slight aversion to looking up words. I don't know why. Perhaps it's because back in my old Christian grade school, if we got a word wrong on a vocabulary test, we were forced to write out the word and definition about a million goddam times. Which, you know, served us right.

In fact, one time I forgot to put my name on my paper, and was forced to write that out fifty times, which is probably why I'm narcissistic.
After you write your name out over and over for about two hours, you sort of can't help but think that you must be something pretty special.

Anyway, though, I'd love to come out to L.A. Last time I was out there, Mr. R.C.Johnso took me out for a couple of big nights on the town, and I even got to see Fiona Apple in person. That was actually sort of bad, though, because then I fell in love with her, which was the start of a big long meaningless and contactless relationship.

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