A Rumination, A Rat Tail, A Rattle, and Clenched Feet

This is my sister.
This is her blog.
She's 26, lives in Amsterdam, and crashes bicycles for recreation. Reading it once reaffirmed the childhood notion that I was the duller child. I've recently held court in constant conversations of why one does art and what it means to be an artist. I've hoisted pedantic bullshit like I was the out of place Mo Williams in yesterday's All-Star Game. Surrounded by the smarter and stronger, it doesn't matter if my reasons are accurate, well thought out, or even legit. Throw enough up an out and I'll belong through quantity alone. Though this makes me feel good, makes you feel good, makes us all feel good about our lazy lump-like lifestyles, it doesn't stand for much of anything. If I were to answer these questions honestly, my answer would be "I want to be like my Sister." She left when I was 15 and became an artist on Bavarian Slopes. We went to visit over Christmas and I recognized a cosmic shift in my sister. Gone was the insecurity of youth, in its place was the recklessness of not giving a fuck and doing whatever she wanted to do. This was not sister I was visiting, this was a monolith!

Seeing her thriving, each and everyday in pure video form, I feel the desire to slit my wrists to slather myself on the canvas and douse my eyes with bleach so my mind will be filled with self-conjured imagery. Her daily dalliances with hair cuts, hitch hiking, and watching porn are among the purest things I've ever read. She read Henry Miller, I read Sportswriting. It shows. Her writing gives feeling--oozing with life in its sheer simplicity. I turn the tongue in weird ways of metaphor and structure in attempts to t be provocative. I'm trying to do something. She's just putting it out there.

It looks as though I'll be living in an RV next year and spend all day doing awesome things. Regardless of what happens it won't be nearly as cool as the imagined life I've given to Tess. It's best not to know your reasons, its better not to try and predict the path...


Life has reverted to a second, much sorer, childhood. With no responsibilities, Driveway H-O-R-S-E has climbed the mantle of "things to do" to become one of my favored pass times. In Indiana, there was nothing. In nothing, everything was beautiful. I'd pick up a book and read the whole thing. I'd watch a movie then watch it again. Things were enough just by existing. Not in Los Angeles. I've got no problems with congestion or the vats of hair gel soaking the head of every stranger's head, making them nothing more than walking oil spills. It's simple because this place is too damned complex. There's too much going on to focus on anything. "What's Nick doing?" is no longer a question but a fiery jihad.

I like Horse because I'm good at it.

Big handed and confident, I've never lost a game of HORSE on my rim until today. We invited Brock to play and it stopped being a game of basketball skills. Having no knowledge of the game or muscle memory to boot, Brock stumbled into it like most things he does, half drunk, half dressed, and completely silly. While we sat in the driveway spinning balls and hoisting jumpers, he stayed in his room, occasionally popping up after a chorus of "Brock it's your shot" like 25th street's Oscar the Grouch. The game wasn't even enough to grab his interest, just a moment's diversion from the task of cleaning his room. Leaning out the window or tip toeing along the roof, he let loose an endless of barrage of half-assed shots. In basketball, one's trained to hold their fingers a certain way, release the ball at a certain point. As if the laws of physics were temporairily paused by his joy in dismantling me, ball after ball knuckled through the rim. It's giving these shots too much credit to say he aimed. It might even be too much of a complement to call them shots. This wasn't basketball, this was whimsy. I used my Erector set to make a crane. He used his to make a confusing jumble. I turned my head cock eyed and became dumb in imitation. I mean this as the highest compliment in the history of Brock-centric compliments.

Climbing on the roof, teetering on the windowsill, I was a far cry from Brock Alter. In the land of shingles, I was club-footeds and aloof while you whisked from tile to tile. They crumble below you're sandaled feet but you kept on smiling. As someone new to the game, he was left without a repetoire or shot list, making him a spelunker. Half of me wants to play Horse with Brock everyday. The other half of me wants to forget basketball ever existed so I can play it like him. You're a genie my friend. I think you'd like my sister.