But truth, cher ami, is a colossal bore.
- narrator, Camus' The Fall
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    dear reader/listener/viewer/enjoyer/co-conspirator:
    lest i be judged for it, i inform you now that this project continues to be a scratch pad, a space for experimentation

    in other words, enjoy what you find here, and feel free to participate, but try not to take anything personal, and don't believe that this project presents an accurate view of me or my life

    this is a window, certainly, but one that hasn't been cleaned in quite some time

    your view may be foggy, obscure...you may see things that aren't really there...

    --harold

    want some background music?
    please consider downloading my most recent music podcast.

    and yes, i love my mom and my dad;
    they've always been good to me, no matter what impression you may have received here

    they never locked me in a cellar or anything
     
    highlighted post from the archives: me rambling about a new job (from two years ago)
    i recently messed with the archives, so they may not work correctly, but you may take your chances:
    December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 November 2007 February 2008 March 2008 May 2008

    i once was an active member of the

    association of music podcasting

    musicpodcasting.org

    along with these fine music podcasters:

    all florida indies - bing futch
    audio gumshoe - rich palmer
    audio popcorn - krash coarse
    aural icebergs music cast - tiffany rapplean
    capital rock show - bucket aka jason
    darkhorse radio - alan carr
    ears to hear - jill lawton
    eclectic mix - george l smyth
    homegrown podcast - nic treadwell
    indiefeed - chris macdonald
    le jazz affair - sal calfa
    rubyfruit radio - heather smith
    sober cafe podcast - gracie hollombe
    sundown lounge - larry winfield
    tempo of the down - harold (that's me!)
    the darkcompass podcast - rowland cutler
    the fabrications podcast - matt macfarlane
    the phill(er) - phill ramey
    the radiozoom podcast - john bollwitt
    thepillarcast.com - jon tucker
    uc radio podshow - michael yusi
    zaldor's world - les zaldor

    ¡the text on this blog wants to leap out of its borders!

    this is...

    something that happened

    somethingthathappened.com
    		stories by harold j. johnson, in various formats - including text, audio, video, and podcasts
     
     
    Monday, May 24, 2004  

    Another phonecall from her new home, the administrator alerting me that it's not working out, mom's not on the right cocktail yet, the staff is up in arms because she's on a rampage again, hitting and swinging and grabbing and pushing the staff, fracturing resident's fingers and everyone in fear of their lives and shying away whenever she's near. The administrator is set on Haldol, an antipsychotic (We've had good results with other residents...), since the seven or nine medications mom's currently taking don't seem to be working, she pulling up flowers and creeping out behind the shed, banging on B___'s door until a caregiver has to retrieve and guide her back to the main building, mom awake at all hours and constantly distressed or angry or both, asking about him unceasingly him while uncomprehending her condition nor why anyone would need to assist her in bathing/dressing/eating/toileting, her dinners getting cold and evenings becoming late nights and early mornings while she continues to wander the halls as though midday sunlight shines through the windows and doorways, the administrator advising her staff to fill their pockets with candy to "get on her good side", and all this just days after her most recent hospitalization. 5/24/2004 06:58:00 PM (0) comments





    Wednesday, May 12, 2004  

    I finished my prior post with the phrase, "Pills, thrills, and bellyaches." Well, I don't want anyone to read too much into that one; it just came to me as I was finishing off the post. It's actually the title of an album by the Happy Mondays, and unlike those infamously intoxicated blokes, I'm not a regular pill-popper; I only ingest the lowest dose of Tafil (Mexican Xanax) whenever I'm feeling particularly anxiety-ridden, such as when my heart begins its revolt, jumping out of my chest and compelling me to lay down in order to restore my composure. During those moments, which often stretch into minutes or hours, I find the only way to gain relaxation is through exercise, meditation, masturbation, or sleep. Yet these aren't always readily available options - for example, when one is riding a crowded bus in L.A. on a swelteringly hot day in August on the way to a Check Cashing place in a scary neighborhood, all the while accompanied by someone you love who is very ill (who has a disease of the brain, in fact, an illness which confuses its bearer, rendering her hopelessly challenged by all conflicts, great and small) and who couldn't be expected to understand your anxiety since you don't understand it yourself - under these circumstances, one can not be expected to quench anxieties' appetite through sleep, meditation, exercise, or other. There is no place to sleep on a bus in which one is standing for lack of seats; any attempts at the silence of meditation are disturbed by the jostling of passengers and the turbulent, noisy progression of the bus. Exercise is futile: beyond the meaningless stretch, there is no hope for exercise in a space occupied by three but intended to provide room for one; I don't believe I have to provide explanation for the challenges of onerism on a crowded bus.

    So you escape the bus and all the stares and whispers of its passengers ("Look at that guy..." "...clutching his chest..." "...heart attack or something..."), and find yourself sprawled on the sidewalk near the corner of Venice and Sepulveda, the heat aggravating your anxiety, your heart quickening as you lay your head in the shade - that tiny area of darkness under a bush, rare to find in a business district at noon. Your companion asks what's wrong, her awareness of your condition escalating from fear to terror, you replying that you just need a moment's rest, a moment to breathe and relax, yet your companion doesn't let you relax, she doesn't understand, she's terrified and thinks you're having a heart attack, and you can barely speak enough to explain the situation for each word steals away more of that much-needed oxygen, and it wouldn't matter if you could speak anyway because she still wouldn't understand and chances are it would confuse the situation even more. Salespeople from a nearby car dealership approach and inquire, and you try to explain that you'll be fine, you're probably having a panic attack or something, but they insist on calling 911, and before you can protest they have gone to make the call, and you feel ridiculous and scared at the same time, managing to gather yourself enough to rise and follow them into the dealership to stop them from making the call but it's too late, the ambulance is on its way, you'll be hearing sirens soon. A month or two later, after another few attacks, you find yourself driving to T.J. one afternoon with your companion, explaining that you are going on a little road trip. You've brought your girlfriend along for moral support, and the three of you walk through the maze of gates and succumb to a restaurant barker who encourages you to buy tacos and cervezas, and you walk past a guard into a pharmacy where your girlfriend negotiates with the clerk in spanish while you keep your eye on the guard, wondering whether he'll make a move, and a phone call is made to a pager, and a doctor arrives, leading you to a building down the street for a consultation in a small, dark room above a restaurant.     5/12/2004 11:15:00 AM (0) comments





    Tuesday, May 04, 2004  

    It's great to see that Anne is on track again. Meanwhile, I'm a wreck. Not to sound cliche-ish, but the days have seemed unusually dark and full of despair. I almost always live with an undercurrent of anxiety, but usually I'm somehow able to shake off my demons and pretend to live. Lately, however, I've been having a particularly difficult bout with the beasts. They keep coming and coming and they just won't let go. Which explains why I haven't been around much here--I haven't been able to blog regularly for over a month now, and though I've had the time to do so, I haven't found the inclination. I've been, effectively, "staring at the wall", even when the wall has been replaced by my computer's monitor.

    There's always a seed in a pile of shit, however, so here it is. My Internet radio station has received the honor of Best New Station in the 2004 Best of Live365 Awards. Which may turn out to be the crowning achievement of my life. (Let's hope not.) I'm thrilled my station was recognized, however. Perhaps it will inspire me to other achievements. Anyway, keep checking my other blog, Transmitting to Earth, for pictures of the Mikey (award) when it arrives in the mail. Thrills, pills, and bellyaches.     5/04/2004 12:58:00 PM (0) comments





    Monday, May 03, 2004  

    I don't have anything to offer you at this time. But Joe Frank most certainly does. If you missed his live performance April 9th at the Evidence Room, you have another chance to catch him live on May 15th at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County for the L.A.: light/motion/dreams exhibition. 5/03/2004 12:14:00 PM (0) comments





     
     

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