Nautical Miles

"I'm bound off for California, by the way of stormy Cape Horn. And I'm bound to write you a letter love, when I am homeward bound" -The Leaving of Liverpool by The Clancy Brothers

I woke up early. Its been happening lately. The Sundays which I used to spend in bed 'till at least noon, are now like all other days. They begin with an anxious eye upon the strip of light which shines between the the window frame and the ill fitting curtain. And then there is the sense that I need to get up, and do something. Though, especially these days, there is a scarcity of pressing matters, in addition to a scarcity of matters pressing. But it doesn't matter. I still wake up looking for something to press. I usually settle for the click of my camera. I think all this has something to do which getting older and what Morrissey described in a more than slightly melodramatic tune as 'the urgency of life.' I have a cold and laryngitis. I take a Fisherman's Friend lozenge, which tastes like a fisherman's hand.

It's about 7:30 in the morning, and I listen to one side of a crackly old Irish folk album I picked up at Academy Records in Williamsburg, which may be the best thing about Williamsburg these days. I walk to my car, a slightly world weary blue station wagon, currently looking terrible as it is covered in dirt and road salt from the blizzard last week. I stop by the Korean bakery where the girls giggle at my scraggly sideburns and dark sunglasses on the Sabbath. But they know my morning order by heart and repeat it in one continuous syllable when I walk through the door "Thai ice tea milk no sugar egg bun and whole wheat bun to go." I'm back in my car by 7:36 but I'm not due at my parents for dinner until 2pm. Its an hour and a half drive out to the midway point of Long Island where my parents live, and where I grew up. I had given myself many hours to wander. Maybe half on purpose. I don't know.

Remember a few blogs ago where I talked about an idea for an art project called 'the confrontations'? When I mentioned that, I was specifically thinking about going to places in New York City, haunted places which affected me & my art growing up. I thought about sitting on the sidewalk in front of the Dakota where Lennon was shot. I thought about having a pint at Dorrian's Red Hand, where Robert Chambers and Jennifer Levin met the evening of Jennifer's death...what would eventually be known as 'The Preppy Murder.' But all of those sort of places merely play a tangential role, an aesthetic role in my secret history. They are abstract. But returning to the sound, the docks of Port Jefferson where once I lived for an endless fortnight with a mermaid...that was a real confrontation. And that was where I was driving to, even if I didn't realize it until I was virtually there.

As I pulled into town, I saw that the ferry was in port, picking up and dropping off passengers whose cars would rest inside her steel bones. There were a couple different ferries, but they all traveled back and forth between Bridgeport Connecticut and Port Jefferson New York. This one was called the Park City. I thought about what the mermaid had once said to me, that "reality was mostly just one's perception." An idea which I had accepted and repeated without giving much thought. But seeing the Ferry really kind of brought it home. At first I thought. "Alas me ship has sailed, and I shant be on it."

But as I coughed into the cold wind, with collar turned up, I thought why not "Me ship's come in."

A choice of perceptions. A theory of relativity. How we save our lives. But in the infinite thinness where the light hits the water...between the devil and the deep blue sea...could anything ever be real enough again?

In essence the Park City belongs neither here nor there. New York nor Connecticut. Perdition nor Providence, nostalgia nor amnesia. The past nor the future. It belongs only to the ocean. The rest is, as they say...perception. You will forgive me for feeling a bit like that craft that morning. Bound for ceaseless travels between points which offer no quarter. Waving at the mermaids and princesses, troubadours and blacksmiths which trade places with me upon those docks. In this we are all sailors. And places are not haunted by people, but rather possibilities. In my case, that the little apartment above the tackle shop could have been home.

But home is where you hang your hat (Not where you hang your head...whose song is that Tom Waits?) and these days I'm hanging my very suspicious looking Holden Caulfield Hunters cap in Apartment 3F in Long Island City. Not far from the water, with Manhattan's skyline over my shoulder. Perhaps that's where my ship will come in. Or perhaps we will all meet up, either here or in Kingdom Come, when we learn to walk on water.

There was a lot of traffic getting home.

Till next dawn we tread,
Michael 'Mickey' Grace

Primitive Painters

and I was thinking back to the time when I was nine and you were ten, you had a magic set that turned me into you...
- Felt

So I spent the weekend mostly indoors, painting my bedroom walls blue (which unlike my discussion of a Mona Lisa jigsaw puzzle is not a metaphor). I painted them Ralph Lauren's Shoreline Blue.

I've decided a little bit of home improvement is just the way to get 2006 off to a good start. Elevate my mood a little. So I am attempting to change the atmosphere in my bedroom from Erik Satie's Final Resting Place to something like Brideshead Re-re-re-revisited. Like most of my projects, the abstraction is still in the process of becoming.

The weekends two feet of snow cancelled my plans to go to Brooklyn to see a short film called Finisterre (end of the world in Spanish?) which was originally commissioned for the Saint Etienne record of the same name. So record shopping and Thai food, and said film with chum was replaced by painting of the fourth wall....which sounds deeply metaphysical, but again...is literal.

I don't have a lot to say this week. I think I'm self medicating with Shoreline Blue, and a duvet cover with botanical drawings. I sketched a tattoo with a Latin inscription. If my tax refund comes through...

...I'm getting said tattoo and going down to the Spouter Inn.

I wrote a song about a long boat ride "on the wood they christened Liberty"
It needs a title.
I hope you all get to hear it.

When lacking inspiration why not another round of 'Viewer Mail'?

Regarding You Go Brave

Anonymous said...
Happy New Year, Mr. Grace!You're really brave for spending New Years alone. Interesting entry as always. I love your thoughts on Strong Island, which I think is why I love My Favorite lyrics so much. (Syosset over here.)I find it especially interesting what you and killaferra were discussing. I think I might be considered a "hardcore Zionist", though to me that is really just genuinely loving Israel. I spent Christmas day at my first real Christmas party ever in the Arava desert of Israel with a bunch of fellow Jewish-Americans, Jewish Israelis, Arab Israelis, Palestinians, and Jordanian Christians (hence the party), which made clear to me how beautiful the Middle East can be... A Merry Christmas indeed! Sandy
9:21 PM

Without turning this blog into a political one (though I would secretly love to) let me just say that my thoughts on Israel have really changed over a ten year period. As a 22 year old Marxist I took the party line that Israel was another quasi-racist bully using guns and cash to take what it wanted from those without recourse. However as a 32 year old reading the Torah, the real context of history unfolded, and the emotional and spiritual meaning of the place came to life, and I truly don't think anyone can really question Israel's right and purpose there. However, that doesn't make all of my old Marxist critique inaccurate. There is truth in both. I guess my definition of a hardcore Zionist (not my cleverest or most accurate terminology) is someone who sees and treats the Palestinian people like so much street debris that's needs to be swept off into the gutter (that is when there not doing the crappy jobs Israel needs done.) I believe in an Israel which makes land concessions in the name of peace, to a Palestine, and indeed an Arab world which accepts the Jews timeless right to be there. I believe in dignity, and fraternity for all human beings. Based on the tone of your message, you are way ahead me.

killaferra said...
Dear Mr. Grace,I think there is misunderstanding about me; I am in fact a fourteen year old boy. (maybe its the silly letter format)I saw Au hasard Balthazar a couple weeks ago. I think it was one of the rare films that truly can not be described with words, only to say that it is the most startling film I have seen. In the special features Bresson talks about the future of art and how it [was] evolving, I play a lot of video games and I see them as the new form of art (an example is ICO, http://www.us.playstation.com/Content/OGS/SCUS-97113/Site/) . Roger Ebert (who I think is not a very good critic) said that games can not be art because Video games by their nature require player choices, which is the opposite of the strategy of serious film and literature, which requires authorial control.Do you think this is true? George Bush is not a friend of peace, because there is no such thing as peace.Season Greetings,killaferra
8:44 PM

First off...you are bumming me out...with that sign off. There is such a thing as peace. But we may not see it until something resembling the big END. But let's aspire to the best of our nature anyhow. I am so glad, you saw and like 'Au Hasard Balthazar'...it really can't be described well with words. Can video games be art? Well first of all you are being extremely kind by saying that Roger Ebert is not a very good critic. And his comment that the strategy of serious film and literature is 'authorial control' is slightly creepy, and completely wrong. All great works of art create space for an audience to create, to write, to dream concurrent to the text. The author control's what he does, but not what the audience experiences. I read it, then I wrote it again... So video games have as much potential to be art as anything else...though not Grand Theft Auto.

scribe said...
Just stopping by to say hello. I enjoyed this omnibus post. NYE wasn't stunning for me either, but now we have a whole new year to make up for that! There's always better Indian food around the corner too, if all else fails! Heh.
5:57 AM

I had some killer Tikka Masala the next week to make up for it.

killaferra said...
Dear Mr. Grace,I making an online radio station (I guess you could call it a My Favorite fan station) and would like permission to call it Absolute Beginners.Also did you go to William Floyd? Thanks,killaferra
1:18 PM

You have my permission and best wishes, send me the url when it's up. No I did not go to William Floyd, though he came to me!

bADaMBASSADOR said...
just to tell you tIat i didn't know how to start my blog...so i decided to start talking about My Favorite.hopefully i will see you playing here, in italy, sooner or later.cheers

I would love to come to Italy to play with the new band, hopefully that happens someday. Buono fortuno con il bloggo mio amico.

Regarding A Walking Tour Of Your Soul

Louise said...
I want to audition for the new band. It's a shame that Melbourne is too far away...Also, Mondo danceparty sounds a lot like Weekender and Panic that we have here. mmmm..!
9:56 PM

The Mondo Danceparty is a lot of fun, and I've taken to drinking Tiger Beer at Luke & Leroys. If you're in NYC you should come and have one with me. And if you sing like an angel you should just move to NYC and join The Haunted Hearts. You can have my bedroom, I'll sleep in the tub.

terrigoat said...
rude of you to visit my museum without calling. did you visit our mutual ancestral homeland's Antonello da Messina while there as well? i look at it almost everyday. think of you often when i should call you more,clothimus maximus (F.S.)
6:44 PM

Sometimes I feel as though my whole life is a series of people thinking of me often when they should call me more. I enjoy brunch.

thestile said...
not less than three weeks ago, in a boredom and ennui-laced mood, I, too, found myself trekking up to downtown Cleveland to take pictures of the skyscrapers, the Lake, decrepit industrial sites, old bridges, and trendy loft apartment buildings... That's why I loved visting New York, and that's what I like about my own humble part of the world. I even drove the 50 miles (and 60 years into the past) to Youngstown two weeks ago, in the hopes of taking more pictures, but contented myself with just driving around the sad old place, because taking photos of such faded-glory and discarded hopes seemed too much like tawdry exploitation. Sometimes there is a dignified beauty in decay. A friend's band, The Secret Sound of the NSA, once penned the lyrics "Go to sleep Captain Future in your lair of art-deco, you were our pioneer of progress, but tomorrow's been postponed." thestile

Tomorrow's been postponed indeed. That reminds me of a work by the 70s/80s artist Victor Burgin...Today's The Tomorrow You Were Promised Yesterday. Sorry the text is not so readable, look up the piece if you can. Something you wrote though really struck me. I think its possible that some of the last My Favorite songs were 'photos of faded glory & discarded hopes'. Did I accidentally engage in some tawdry exploitation? Perhaps it's different if they are your own discarded hopes. And either way I agree that there certainly can be (though rarely achieved) a dignified beauty in decay. I tried.

killaferra said...
Dear Mr. Grace,I always connect most with painters of the Middle Ages like Angelico. My favorite museum in the City is probably the Cloisters. I really love those Corinthian columns.Killaferra
5:44 PM

Yes Killaferra...who is a 15 year old boy NOT girl. I don't know why I assumed an intelligent teenager was a girl (probably from personal experience...I was a dope.) It is a thing of odd & complex beauty that you care for people like Angelico whilst your schoolmates are watching Laguna Beach. Keep at it. I, on the other hand, just can't seem to keep my columns straight...so to speak.

Penningtron said...
Ah, Michael, I wish you and your closet glam dance parties were yet closer. I remember the time Lio and Dez invaded Tiswas and played "Electronic Renaissance," when they should have been playing the London Suede. Do you listen much to your latter-day countryman Giorgio Moroder? The pictures add to the nice stream of consciousness vibe you have going, I encourage their continuance.

Will continue taking pictures I promise. Played Moroder's E=MC2 at Mondo a couple times though Millie doesn't think it works. Need to get more Moroder, only have a few tracks on comps and such. Did he do music for Dario Argento?

Regarding Our own Witness

carrick said...
Thought this post was particularly beautiful. We have to take in a museum together sometime soon. And for me it was "boy with the thorn in his side" at 13.

Thank you very kindly. At 13 I was throwing rocks at station wagons while hiding in a ditch. That's both literal and metaphoric. Free for museum walks anytime...

Aron said...
I am so pleased to see you have a blog. Not that I read them too often, but...I saw some of you at Bar Tabac not too long ago resistedited the urge (after 4 Blody Mary's) to flash the devil horns and scream "You guys are My Favorite!". As it should be. Looking forward to the next show. You made me cry at the last one.
12:17 AM

I'm presuming you're aware of the sad fact that there shant be another My Favorite show (that is until our reunion tour in 2028 with Tully Craft). However we will do our best to make you cry with our new band, though currently finding the right singer is making me cry. As far as flashing me devil horns and shouting when you spot me cracking into my creme brulee...why not trace a halo and and come over for some greetings spoken at a civil volume. Better yet, bring over a Dewars & Coke.

cloff said...
gracie signor, next time we discuss "boy with wounded eye" from Egyptiantian collection (actuaIly i think they renamed it "youth with surgical incision" but that doesn't have quite the same ring to it). Hung out with yaccordionist'sst's room mate in the clark gate wing of St. Luke's last week but that is a whole other story.lurk with you soon,cloth

'Boy With Wounded Eye?' why Jack I think you've just written half my next record. You really must invite me out now...you can't hang out with my 'accordianist's roomate' and not me! It's scandalous. Seriously.

OK boys & girls. That's all for now. More soon.

Our own witness

'And what would I look like standing by the well? More like a woman and less like a girl...'
Belle & Sebby, upcoming record


When I discussed going to the Metropolitan Museum in my last posting, I failed to mention my moment with a painting by Antonello da Messina. I was sort of in 'speed round' mode when I jotted those last thoughts, and knew this particular experience required a couple quietly written sentences. When the show was mentioned in particular by a commenter to this blog (a man of the cloth so-to-speak,) I felt I should do it sooner than later.

His painting of The Annunciation (which according to Gospel is the moment where an angel told Mary of her miraculous pregnancy) has most likely become my favorite painting of all time. It replaces the almost inverse Bar at the Folie Berger By Eduard Manet, which according to me is the moment where an inner voice tells a barmaid (in those times frequently also a prostitute) that all that glitters isn't gold, and that she...in her divine nature...is not for sale...like the ale and tangerines.

The greatness of Da Messina's painting is that it is not dependent upon whether or not one connects to, or believes the stories in the New Testament. Where as all the paintings I had ever seen of The Annunciation before featured an actual winged angel visiting, standing beside Mary...Da Messina's gains its power from its lack of 'supernatural spectacle.' It doesn't ask us to believe of grace, anything more than the solemnity it brings to a teenagers face. It is about a human experience, repeated in all our lives, as we alternate between opening and closing the shades to the street lights. You see the conflict, the fear, but ultimately the beauty of Mary's surrender in this painting. The courage and dignity of those who try to make sense of their calling, of their soul's work. You see it in the faces of teenagers when they come upon art or verse or friendship which cuts through the static of sex, drugs, and capitalism. You probably saw it on my face when I first heard Hatful of Hollow, at 17. But you would have seen it gripping the manchild by the shoulders and shaking him when I saw Michelangelo's La Pieta at 28. Pure illumination. The struggle between that which is so young and vulnerable in our beauty, and that permanence which is revealed as the former passes away. Our flesh and our spirit, together for this life. Our burden. Our blessing. The search for the child we become again through inspiration. Even at 28, I relapsed 'like a dog to its vomit' when I returned to New York from Italy. The Flesh and The Static. Oh to have had the silence of the desert, or the sea, or even the room where Mary waited for her song.