I wanted to express how I feel tonight.
How I walked down the street.
How I moved my feet.
How I studied stray cars and wished upon the first star, worried about loose dogs and knew Summer was here.
How I thought about me/you/her/them/life - without getting bogged down.
How my thoughts jelled, without distinct phrases.
How I'm feeling old.
How youth was just yesterday.
How I sometimes want to die, but mostly I want to live forever.
And how I wished I lived with good people -
because I'm very lonely, lately...
Sunday, February 28, 2010
The Book Was Treasure Island
The book was "Treasure Island." At the time I hadn't read it - but, deep inside my brain, a little voice was peeping.
The world whimpers on - oh yes - dead, but won't stay buried.
"Too late" was long ago, and yet it doesn't matter.
Slipping into chaos and the fan goes 'round and 'round.
Phantoms in the attic grow colder by the year.
I cannot read, I cannot sing, I am sickened daily.
Strangle me if you must, but make it swift and brutal.
Naked trees and a godless wind. Surreal is real - that's what connects us.
Connecting is everything, but nothing to a dead man.
His hand reached out and touched me - tentative, warm and childlike.
The sky was mad and swirling and pressing down upon us.
I dreamed that we were children and we danced among the ruins.
Pagan. Pagan. Pagan. The drumming did revive us.
We placed the horns upon our heads and bellowed in our anguish.
We'll dance and spin 'til we are dead and laugh when death takes us.
The world whimpers on - oh yes - dead, but won't stay buried.
"Too late" was long ago, and yet it doesn't matter.
Slipping into chaos and the fan goes 'round and 'round.
Phantoms in the attic grow colder by the year.
I cannot read, I cannot sing, I am sickened daily.
Strangle me if you must, but make it swift and brutal.
Naked trees and a godless wind. Surreal is real - that's what connects us.
Connecting is everything, but nothing to a dead man.
His hand reached out and touched me - tentative, warm and childlike.
The sky was mad and swirling and pressing down upon us.
I dreamed that we were children and we danced among the ruins.
Pagan. Pagan. Pagan. The drumming did revive us.
We placed the horns upon our heads and bellowed in our anguish.
We'll dance and spin 'til we are dead and laugh when death takes us.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Tommy and me.
One day, when we were about 13 or 14, my best friend Tommy and I were walking down the railroad tracks near my house. We walked everywhere in those days. Some of the biggest, blackest, juiciest briar berries I have ever seen grew along those railroad tracks. Life was a delicious mystery then.
When Tommy and I walked, we talked. We talked about any and every thing - from the mundane to the philosophical to the abstract. On this particular day, while engrossed in one of these "deep" conversations, a train whistle blew. We quickly turned and saw that the train was about 20 feet behind us! You should have seen us tear through those thick briars down into the ditch - screaming through-out the whole procedure. We never heard it coming - or felt it. Of course, it was traveling very slowly, and I think the engineer was having fun with us. But, boy, that whistle was loud!
Once, when we were about 15 and our town was a quieter, more wooded, far less populated and all around better place, Tommy and I were walking down the highway, really late at night. It was dark and there was no traffic (an unheard of thing, now), and we were quietly talking. We were nearing my aunt G.'s house, when behind us we heard "clip, clop, clip, clop." A horse, hooked to a buggy, was slowly making his way down the highway. The buggy was empty and the horse was in the correct lane, as if someone was steering him. We just stood there and watched him pass. It was a very odd thing to see in the middle of a black, misty night.
Tommy has been gone for about 30 years now. I still miss him. I think about him almost every day.
Life is so fragile.
When Tommy and I walked, we talked. We talked about any and every thing - from the mundane to the philosophical to the abstract. On this particular day, while engrossed in one of these "deep" conversations, a train whistle blew. We quickly turned and saw that the train was about 20 feet behind us! You should have seen us tear through those thick briars down into the ditch - screaming through-out the whole procedure. We never heard it coming - or felt it. Of course, it was traveling very slowly, and I think the engineer was having fun with us. But, boy, that whistle was loud!
Once, when we were about 15 and our town was a quieter, more wooded, far less populated and all around better place, Tommy and I were walking down the highway, really late at night. It was dark and there was no traffic (an unheard of thing, now), and we were quietly talking. We were nearing my aunt G.'s house, when behind us we heard "clip, clop, clip, clop." A horse, hooked to a buggy, was slowly making his way down the highway. The buggy was empty and the horse was in the correct lane, as if someone was steering him. We just stood there and watched him pass. It was a very odd thing to see in the middle of a black, misty night.
Tommy has been gone for about 30 years now. I still miss him. I think about him almost every day.
Life is so fragile.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Stutter
I thought it over.
I stuttered through the scenes of screams
of water dreams
of dollops and creams
of fey conclusions
and in-betweens.
It's a small world. It's the grandest of lives.
God, it's all too much, sometimes. But, we tack on the tinsel and continue the loop.
Give up that death-grip on reason and float with me.
I stuttered through the scenes of screams
of water dreams
of dollops and creams
of fey conclusions
and in-betweens.
It's a small world. It's the grandest of lives.
God, it's all too much, sometimes. But, we tack on the tinsel and continue the loop.
Give up that death-grip on reason and float with me.
From "Peoms (sic)."
I never ever saw it - no, not ever - never did I see:
un-dead birds, colliding with their alien counterparts
or the air-ships of Dementia, leaving their gentle, golden, glowing wakes.
I trust these things are truth (Trust and Truth: two powerful [too powerful?] words).
I trust they're true because I have built my house upon them. There's a point where you have to let go and do this sort of thing.
Flow of consciousness. All of these seemingly random strokes and shots and words and sounds will be connected one day. We have been introduced and the fact that we recognize this is the source of our amazement.
Awe.
We, some of us, have been mind-boggled. And we want to go back.
un-dead birds, colliding with their alien counterparts
or the air-ships of Dementia, leaving their gentle, golden, glowing wakes.
I trust these things are truth (Trust and Truth: two powerful [too powerful?] words).
I trust they're true because I have built my house upon them. There's a point where you have to let go and do this sort of thing.
Flow of consciousness. All of these seemingly random strokes and shots and words and sounds will be connected one day. We have been introduced and the fact that we recognize this is the source of our amazement.
Awe.
We, some of us, have been mind-boggled. And we want to go back.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
My heart.
I just got back from UNC hospital. My cardiologist wanted me to start on some new meds and they had to observe me for 3 days to make sure I could tolerate them. I may have slept for 3 hours in those 3 days.
I tried to drive home when they released me last night, at about 11 pm, but didn't get far. It's a 3 hour drive and I was exhausted and unsure of my new meds, so, feeling hallucinatory, I stopped at the first rat trap motel that I could find.
They think I'm going to do OK on this new stuff. I hope so. We'll see. My heart rate has slowed down quite a bit and the tachycardia is less frequent and milder. I just have to watch out for side effects (some serious) and go back up to UNC in 3 or 4 weeks for a check-up.
I had an interesting room mate: a Mr. G. W. He was 89 years old and had been all over the world. He had been in Australia, Burma and had lived in China and India. He flew in the Army air corps in WWII. He was in the O.S.S. and later worked in D.C.
He worked for Newsweek for some time.
He suffered from Dengue fever while in Asia. He used to enjoy a good scotch and smoke Plum cake tobacco in Algerian briar pipes. He has an extensive wine cellar - preferring Riesling. He is a gun collector and a knife maker. His cousin was the president of Duke university for many years. His son is a doctor and his granddaughter writes books.
He said that he had married an angel - his deceased wife, D. He couldn't remember them ever having an argument in the 60 years, 6 months and 6 days of their marriage.
He told a story about going to India. He said that one of the first things he saw was a "box car sized" sign on a hotel that read: "Great place for sexual relations."
He seemed to know doctors , politicians and big businessmen. And he was a heck of a nice guy. A real gentleman
At 89, he lived by himself.
(I kept thinking about my dad, who was born the same year as Mr. W. [1921]. This guy was still around and vibrant, and my dad has been gone for 35 years!)
Even though I was stressed out by my situation, I felt enriched, somehow, just listening to him talk to the nurses.
I hope he does well with the procedure they're performing on him next week.
I tried to drive home when they released me last night, at about 11 pm, but didn't get far. It's a 3 hour drive and I was exhausted and unsure of my new meds, so, feeling hallucinatory, I stopped at the first rat trap motel that I could find.
They think I'm going to do OK on this new stuff. I hope so. We'll see. My heart rate has slowed down quite a bit and the tachycardia is less frequent and milder. I just have to watch out for side effects (some serious) and go back up to UNC in 3 or 4 weeks for a check-up.
I had an interesting room mate: a Mr. G. W. He was 89 years old and had been all over the world. He had been in Australia, Burma and had lived in China and India. He flew in the Army air corps in WWII. He was in the O.S.S. and later worked in D.C.
He worked for Newsweek for some time.
He suffered from Dengue fever while in Asia. He used to enjoy a good scotch and smoke Plum cake tobacco in Algerian briar pipes. He has an extensive wine cellar - preferring Riesling. He is a gun collector and a knife maker. His cousin was the president of Duke university for many years. His son is a doctor and his granddaughter writes books.
He said that he had married an angel - his deceased wife, D. He couldn't remember them ever having an argument in the 60 years, 6 months and 6 days of their marriage.
He told a story about going to India. He said that one of the first things he saw was a "box car sized" sign on a hotel that read: "Great place for sexual relations."
He seemed to know doctors , politicians and big businessmen. And he was a heck of a nice guy. A real gentleman
At 89, he lived by himself.
(I kept thinking about my dad, who was born the same year as Mr. W. [1921]. This guy was still around and vibrant, and my dad has been gone for 35 years!)
Even though I was stressed out by my situation, I felt enriched, somehow, just listening to him talk to the nurses.
I hope he does well with the procedure they're performing on him next week.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
C'mon Mr. Sun
I've often wondered why there aren't more sun worshippers. It seems like a pretty obvious thing to build a religion around.
It's visible to the human eye, but you can't touch it - or stare at it. You can actually feel the warmth of it. It lights the planet and makes things grow. It's an unbelievably powerful force, in the sky everyday - without fail, and without it we would all die.
Astronomers say our sun is a pretty ordinary star. It is about half way through its life cycle and has about 5 billion years to go. Some say it's not big enough to nova or implode. That it will become a red giant and then a white dwarf. After that?
Here's a song I wrote called "C'mon Mr. Sun":
C'mon Mr. Sun.
Life's gotten to the point where it's no fun.
Kicked out of Eden in disgrace.
I'm embracing my photo-synthetic faith.
C'mon Mr. Sun.
Take the old cosmology and flip it over.
And maybe, just for fun
I could have the keys to your Super Nova.
I just wanna communicate with god.
I can't get through to him, so you're all I've got. (x2)
The power.
The glory.
You know the story. (x2)
C'mon Mr. Sun.
Just burn a hole through the planet and be done with it.
Tell Sister Moon
I wanna take her on a Venus Loon.
I just wanna communicate with god.
I can't get through to him, so you're all I've got. (x2)
The power.
The glory.
You know the story. (x4)
It's visible to the human eye, but you can't touch it - or stare at it. You can actually feel the warmth of it. It lights the planet and makes things grow. It's an unbelievably powerful force, in the sky everyday - without fail, and without it we would all die.
Astronomers say our sun is a pretty ordinary star. It is about half way through its life cycle and has about 5 billion years to go. Some say it's not big enough to nova or implode. That it will become a red giant and then a white dwarf. After that?
Here's a song I wrote called "C'mon Mr. Sun":
C'mon Mr. Sun.
Life's gotten to the point where it's no fun.
Kicked out of Eden in disgrace.
I'm embracing my photo-synthetic faith.
C'mon Mr. Sun.
Take the old cosmology and flip it over.
And maybe, just for fun
I could have the keys to your Super Nova.
I just wanna communicate with god.
I can't get through to him, so you're all I've got. (x2)
The power.
The glory.
You know the story. (x2)
C'mon Mr. Sun.
Just burn a hole through the planet and be done with it.
Tell Sister Moon
I wanna take her on a Venus Loon.
I just wanna communicate with god.
I can't get through to him, so you're all I've got. (x2)
The power.
The glory.
You know the story. (x4)
From "Peoms (sic)."
They've missed the bloody point - again.
The elevator was empty, but they took the stairs.
They're drumming things into my head - again. Mundane, but potentially dangerous things. Full of green sounds. Thick things. Resilient, shock-absorbing things.
I have to be strong.
I try to follow my bliss.
I try to hear that carpenter guy who (unintentionally?) stirred the soup.
Consider de-evolution.
Consider grinding the bones of our ancestors as we dance the dance of life. The pagan two-step, if you will.
Can't they see that denying life is not a religion?
I can see the wheel in the sky. I can feel it burning. To share it with you would be wonderful.
I'm screaming the "yes" mantra - and the old gods are pricking up their ears and pushing back the coffee table.
The spark is alive.
And, even when our sun dies and plunges us into an icy void, I have a feeling it will still be burning.
Somewhere.
The elevator was empty, but they took the stairs.
They're drumming things into my head - again. Mundane, but potentially dangerous things. Full of green sounds. Thick things. Resilient, shock-absorbing things.
I have to be strong.
I try to follow my bliss.
I try to hear that carpenter guy who (unintentionally?) stirred the soup.
Consider de-evolution.
Consider grinding the bones of our ancestors as we dance the dance of life. The pagan two-step, if you will.
Can't they see that denying life is not a religion?
I can see the wheel in the sky. I can feel it burning. To share it with you would be wonderful.
I'm screaming the "yes" mantra - and the old gods are pricking up their ears and pushing back the coffee table.
The spark is alive.
And, even when our sun dies and plunges us into an icy void, I have a feeling it will still be burning.
Somewhere.
Childhood dreams.
My dad used to work at a fertilizer plant. I was practically raised there. The plant showed up in a couple of memorable dreams I had when I was very young. Maybe 4 years or so.
In the first one, me and my youngest sister M. are sitting on a log in a really nice clearing in the woods. Since I'm about 4 years old, she's about 18. All of a sudden, a T.Rex comes out of the woods into the clearing. He proceeds to gobble us up, but he doesn't chew us. We're just inside his mouth - kinda like Jonah and the whale. We can't see, because he has his mouth shut, but we can tell that he's taking us somewhere.
When the T.Rex stops walking and opens his jaws, we're at the far end of the fertilizer plant, actually standing in his enormous mouth. He is standing on the railroad tracks that run parallel to the loading platform. On the end of the platform, waiting for us, are Blondie and Dagwood...
In the other dream, I am in the back of my dad's '55 or '56 Chevy pick-up. It has the wooden slatted sides on the bed. They enclose the bed on 3 sides. The tailgate piece is off. My dad built these sides to carry hogs or cows to the slaughter house, or whatever.
The truck is parked in the gravelly yard that separates the guardhouse from the actual plant. My mom and dad are standing by the truck when this older couple pull up in this really nice car. I can tell they are rich.
The older couple are really nice. They tell me that they are my real parents and they have come for me. I start crying, because I want to stay with my mom and dad.
I did used to think I was adopted, until I realized that I looked just like my grandfather on my dad's side. It's just that I never really fit in with my family.
Those dreams are as vivid to me today as they were when I dreamt them 45(!) years ago.
In the first one, me and my youngest sister M. are sitting on a log in a really nice clearing in the woods. Since I'm about 4 years old, she's about 18. All of a sudden, a T.Rex comes out of the woods into the clearing. He proceeds to gobble us up, but he doesn't chew us. We're just inside his mouth - kinda like Jonah and the whale. We can't see, because he has his mouth shut, but we can tell that he's taking us somewhere.
When the T.Rex stops walking and opens his jaws, we're at the far end of the fertilizer plant, actually standing in his enormous mouth. He is standing on the railroad tracks that run parallel to the loading platform. On the end of the platform, waiting for us, are Blondie and Dagwood...
In the other dream, I am in the back of my dad's '55 or '56 Chevy pick-up. It has the wooden slatted sides on the bed. They enclose the bed on 3 sides. The tailgate piece is off. My dad built these sides to carry hogs or cows to the slaughter house, or whatever.
The truck is parked in the gravelly yard that separates the guardhouse from the actual plant. My mom and dad are standing by the truck when this older couple pull up in this really nice car. I can tell they are rich.
The older couple are really nice. They tell me that they are my real parents and they have come for me. I start crying, because I want to stay with my mom and dad.
I did used to think I was adopted, until I realized that I looked just like my grandfather on my dad's side. It's just that I never really fit in with my family.
Those dreams are as vivid to me today as they were when I dreamt them 45(!) years ago.
Fortune cookies.
I was cleaning up and I found these fortune cookie...well, fortunes, that I had saved. Sometimes they feel very significant.
"Sing and rejoice, fortune is smiling on you."
"Your principles means more to you than money or success."
"The current year will bring you much happiness."
"A sound mind and a healthy body will bring many happy events to your family." (Huh?)
And here are 2 that I love:
"You are capable, competent, creative, careful. Prove it."
"A nice cake is in your future." (At first, I thought it said rice cake.)
"Sing and rejoice, fortune is smiling on you."
"Your principles means more to you than money or success."
"The current year will bring you much happiness."
"A sound mind and a healthy body will bring many happy events to your family." (Huh?)
And here are 2 that I love:
"You are capable, competent, creative, careful. Prove it."
"A nice cake is in your future." (At first, I thought it said rice cake.)
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
My heart.
I got a call from UNC hospital today telling me that I need to go back up. My cardiologist wants to start me on some new medication and they have to keep me for a couple of days for observation. It's a 3 hour drive and I've already been up twice in the last week or so. This means missing more work. And taking more chances with my 11 year old car, that needs shocks, windshield wipers, tires, brakes and front end alignment.
I wish I wasn't alone, at times like these. I wouldn't even care so much about the outcome if I had someone to stand by me.
But, I have to do this. If my tachycardia keeps progressing, I'll have a heart attack and die.
I'm 49. I don't want to die just yet.
I have so many songs to record. I have plans for at least 15 paintings. And I've got enough home repair projects to last me for years.
My appointment is for Thursday. I hope everything goes well.
I wish I wasn't alone, at times like these. I wouldn't even care so much about the outcome if I had someone to stand by me.
But, I have to do this. If my tachycardia keeps progressing, I'll have a heart attack and die.
I'm 49. I don't want to die just yet.
I have so many songs to record. I have plans for at least 15 paintings. And I've got enough home repair projects to last me for years.
My appointment is for Thursday. I hope everything goes well.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Validated (and I Feel Groovy)
Sub-atomic particles. Can you imagine?
Imagine.
I feel quite tenacious, as I hang from the end of a root, that protrudes from the side of the cliff. Metaphorically, of course.
"Of course, of course," he mumbled.
His crow was underdone, but he was attempting to wash it down with a cheap white Zinfandel.
Laughing children ringed the periphery. He couldn't spell on this day. His mind was unruly.
It was those tall elves. He couldn't lose the image. And yet, the image was a shadow image.
Sub-atomic.
I will write the book of love.
I will travel to the desert and paint the bones of Georgia O'Keeffe.
I attempted to shake Dali's hand , once, in a psychic dream. Instead, I shook his mustache. He bowed and said something like "M'lady," except in Spanish. Or, at least, I think that's what he said...
Desultory? You bet!
RED/BLACK/WHITE.
These are the colors of being. These are the primary colors. These separate the strong and validated from the weak and cancerous.
He feels half-baked.
He has the shakes.
"Think fast," she said - and his thoughts came so furiously that he was light years away and much too late.
Life is full of such irony. I see it every morning in the mirror. It's forever associated with Moby Dick. Don't ask me why. I could tell you, but don't ask.
Christopher Thomas.
Sub-atomic particles.
Imagine.
Imagine.
I feel quite tenacious, as I hang from the end of a root, that protrudes from the side of the cliff. Metaphorically, of course.
"Of course, of course," he mumbled.
His crow was underdone, but he was attempting to wash it down with a cheap white Zinfandel.
Laughing children ringed the periphery. He couldn't spell on this day. His mind was unruly.
It was those tall elves. He couldn't lose the image. And yet, the image was a shadow image.
Sub-atomic.
I will write the book of love.
I will travel to the desert and paint the bones of Georgia O'Keeffe.
I attempted to shake Dali's hand , once, in a psychic dream. Instead, I shook his mustache. He bowed and said something like "M'lady," except in Spanish. Or, at least, I think that's what he said...
Desultory? You bet!
RED/BLACK/WHITE.
These are the colors of being. These are the primary colors. These separate the strong and validated from the weak and cancerous.
He feels half-baked.
He has the shakes.
"Think fast," she said - and his thoughts came so furiously that he was light years away and much too late.
Life is full of such irony. I see it every morning in the mirror. It's forever associated with Moby Dick. Don't ask me why. I could tell you, but don't ask.
Christopher Thomas.
Sub-atomic particles.
Imagine.
Neon Ass
Emitting phrases, so unexpected. Unannounced. (Un-called-for?)
Popping in to say "Hi." That's cool...
I want to weave a spider's web, with a golden voice.
I want to ponder the infinite - at a decent wage.
I want to create, although nothing is created.
GIMME ART! (Or, give me a flesh wound...)
I have to dance. That's basic.
Oh, to sprinkle Pixie dust on you - and touch myself.
Sometimes, they step in. Sometimes, they take over.
Promise me something, or defeat the purpose.
Aliens have landed and colored my vision. Muddied my perception.
He's a hedonist - he admits it. But, he's not happy.
"Make me happy!" I cried, spiraling down.
Can you envision it? Hear my plaintive wail?
With down-cast eyes, I ride through the gates of the city, on a neon ass.
Fill my glass.
All things must pass.
Gone at last.
Clumsy aliens, sputtering over the horizon.
I'm abandoned on clouds of angel hair - adrift in the sea of possibilities.
My third eye fluttered and I ordered a cocktail.
Scotch and Coke.
Popping in to say "Hi." That's cool...
I want to weave a spider's web, with a golden voice.
I want to ponder the infinite - at a decent wage.
I want to create, although nothing is created.
GIMME ART! (Or, give me a flesh wound...)
I have to dance. That's basic.
Oh, to sprinkle Pixie dust on you - and touch myself.
Sometimes, they step in. Sometimes, they take over.
Promise me something, or defeat the purpose.
Aliens have landed and colored my vision. Muddied my perception.
He's a hedonist - he admits it. But, he's not happy.
"Make me happy!" I cried, spiraling down.
Can you envision it? Hear my plaintive wail?
With down-cast eyes, I ride through the gates of the city, on a neon ass.
Fill my glass.
All things must pass.
Gone at last.
Clumsy aliens, sputtering over the horizon.
I'm abandoned on clouds of angel hair - adrift in the sea of possibilities.
My third eye fluttered and I ordered a cocktail.
Scotch and Coke.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
I Tripped and Fell
I tripped and fell and never recovered.
Never expected to be "smothered, yet unloved."
What's the use?
Tossed with the refuse.
Jumbled, tumbling, impotent omens
and gratuitous premonitions.
Oh, and what's this?
Slanderous kudos? Pour moi?
Leave me alone.
I'm weaving my spell (some say, "garnishing my torment for dramatic purposes").
Reasoning, oversimplified.
Forcing back the burning tide.
Still,
I am I.
I.
Individual.
Never expected to be "smothered, yet unloved."
What's the use?
Tossed with the refuse.
Jumbled, tumbling, impotent omens
and gratuitous premonitions.
Oh, and what's this?
Slanderous kudos? Pour moi?
Leave me alone.
I'm weaving my spell (some say, "garnishing my torment for dramatic purposes").
Reasoning, oversimplified.
Forcing back the burning tide.
Still,
I am I.
I.
Individual.
Acid Eye Grinch
Derailed / busted / on charge
Rationalized / fantasized
Blurring the distinction
Nearing extinction
Intellectual genocide
Comatose blushing bride
Azure sky / open wide
Coincide: humble pie
Dip deep down and entertain the notion
Celebrate the motion
Recreate the Trojan
Shoot on sight
Might makes right
Sophomoric and trite
Bark, don't bite
Like a Man Ray eye
Like Man Ray, I
come through in a pinch
(Like an Acid Eye Grinch).
Rationalized / fantasized
Blurring the distinction
Nearing extinction
Intellectual genocide
Comatose blushing bride
Azure sky / open wide
Coincide: humble pie
Dip deep down and entertain the notion
Celebrate the motion
Recreate the Trojan
Shoot on sight
Might makes right
Sophomoric and trite
Bark, don't bite
Like a Man Ray eye
Like Man Ray, I
come through in a pinch
(Like an Acid Eye Grinch).
Blunt (Day 3, 1990)
And I don't even live today.
And your motor's got nuthin' to do with it.
I'm warm in a hoarse kinda way.
If you imagine it differently, then you're dreaming.
In a game of blunt sensations, I'm draggin' myself back over.
Now! Dancing the instinctual sun-dance.
And you don't even know what I mean.
I wrote numbers and drew a heart around them.
I sat, quietly, at home, while they traveled the globe.
I know that I would have killed him, in my dream, if I had caught him -
but the bastard escaped in the thicket.
By the rules of dull emotions, it's back to the land of the "living."
Naked, numb and howling at the moon.
And you don't even know what I mean.
And your motor's got nuthin' to do with it.
I'm warm in a hoarse kinda way.
If you imagine it differently, then you're dreaming.
In a game of blunt sensations, I'm draggin' myself back over.
Now! Dancing the instinctual sun-dance.
And you don't even know what I mean.
I wrote numbers and drew a heart around them.
I sat, quietly, at home, while they traveled the globe.
I know that I would have killed him, in my dream, if I had caught him -
but the bastard escaped in the thicket.
By the rules of dull emotions, it's back to the land of the "living."
Naked, numb and howling at the moon.
And you don't even know what I mean.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
My Dad.
I got off to a weird start talking about my dad (in the post "In a dream last night I realized..."). I have some wonderful memories of crawling into bed with him while my mom did whatever it is that women do in the bathroom to prepare to retire for the night. He would tell me stories about when he was a little boy, before and during the great depression. I had my favorites and I would say, "Tell the one about such and such or so and so..." At some point, my mom would come in and tell me to go to bed.
In the 20's and 30's, you had to take a ferry across the Cape Fear river. There were no bridges. Going to Wilmington was a big deal to a dirt poor kid, in those days.
My grandfather (who I never knew) told my father one day, when he was a boy, that in 2 weeks he would take him and his brother, Bubba (my uncle Oscar, that I never knew) to Wilmington with him. Well, they got very excited and marked the days on the calendar. When the fateful day arrived, however, my grandfather, for some reason, said he could only take one with him. He took Bubba.
My dad was incredibly upset. I think he cried. When my grandmother (who I never knew) found out what had happened, she was furious. She scraped up the little bit of money she had been saving, grabbed my dad, hitched a ride with someone she knew to the ferry and took him into Wilmington, herself.
On the way to Wilmington, my dad saw his dad and brother coming back on the ferry. He said he remembered thinking that it felt good that their trip was over and his was just beginning.
Dad said he had enough money to buy 2 little cheap pocket knives - one for him and one for uncle Bubba.
Once Pa, as my dad's father was known, had a horse that he would hitch to a wagon. Well, this horse, whose name I can't remember - I heard these stories over 40 years ago - had a bad habit of stopping in front of a particular house, along the route from home to the country store, and taking a dump. It happened every time. One day, as Pa and my dad came back from the store with a buggy full of groceries, this horse began to make his regular stop. As soon as my granddad saw what the horse had in mind, he said, "I'll break you from this!" He took the stick he used to spur the horse along and whopped him good across the backside. This act was such a surprise to the horse that he erupted - blowing shit all over Pa, my dad and the cart full of groceries.
In the 20's and 30's, you had to take a ferry across the Cape Fear river. There were no bridges. Going to Wilmington was a big deal to a dirt poor kid, in those days.
My grandfather (who I never knew) told my father one day, when he was a boy, that in 2 weeks he would take him and his brother, Bubba (my uncle Oscar, that I never knew) to Wilmington with him. Well, they got very excited and marked the days on the calendar. When the fateful day arrived, however, my grandfather, for some reason, said he could only take one with him. He took Bubba.
My dad was incredibly upset. I think he cried. When my grandmother (who I never knew) found out what had happened, she was furious. She scraped up the little bit of money she had been saving, grabbed my dad, hitched a ride with someone she knew to the ferry and took him into Wilmington, herself.
On the way to Wilmington, my dad saw his dad and brother coming back on the ferry. He said he remembered thinking that it felt good that their trip was over and his was just beginning.
Dad said he had enough money to buy 2 little cheap pocket knives - one for him and one for uncle Bubba.
Once Pa, as my dad's father was known, had a horse that he would hitch to a wagon. Well, this horse, whose name I can't remember - I heard these stories over 40 years ago - had a bad habit of stopping in front of a particular house, along the route from home to the country store, and taking a dump. It happened every time. One day, as Pa and my dad came back from the store with a buggy full of groceries, this horse began to make his regular stop. As soon as my granddad saw what the horse had in mind, he said, "I'll break you from this!" He took the stick he used to spur the horse along and whopped him good across the backside. This act was such a surprise to the horse that he erupted - blowing shit all over Pa, my dad and the cart full of groceries.
My Dad / My House.
Two rooms of the house I live in came from the house my dad grew up in. And that, with a porch, was about all there was to that house. The rooms are now a spare bedroom (once my brother's and then mine) and the kitchen. They were, before they were moved here, a bedroom and living room/dining room, that had a fireplace where my sink is now. It was my understanding that the lumber to build that little house came from my dad's grandmother's old log house and that those 2 rooms are about 100 years old. And it shows.
Those 2 rooms were moved here in the 1950's when the government put in a railroad to supply the Sunny Point military depot, near South Port - the largest depot of it's kind on the east coast. The land was bought up and people, including my family, were forced to move.
The rafters had to be turned the opposite way to attach it to the house my dad was building. He told me he worked night shift and came home and worked on the house during the day. The construction is pretty odd. People did the best they could do back then (as I do now). And, he was in a hurry - his family needed a home.
My dad was born in that original bedroom - and died in the bedroom he built at the opposite end of the house. I was there, with him, as my sisters desperately tried CPR. I will never forget that night.
So, this house, my home, is haunted. Haunted by the spirits of many people - some dead, some still living. A lot has happened in this house. You can sense it. I don't mean to sound ominous - to the contrary - this house has lived. And lives on. It's my home. Lots of people have houses, few have homes.
Those 2 rooms were moved here in the 1950's when the government put in a railroad to supply the Sunny Point military depot, near South Port - the largest depot of it's kind on the east coast. The land was bought up and people, including my family, were forced to move.
The rafters had to be turned the opposite way to attach it to the house my dad was building. He told me he worked night shift and came home and worked on the house during the day. The construction is pretty odd. People did the best they could do back then (as I do now). And, he was in a hurry - his family needed a home.
My dad was born in that original bedroom - and died in the bedroom he built at the opposite end of the house. I was there, with him, as my sisters desperately tried CPR. I will never forget that night.
So, this house, my home, is haunted. Haunted by the spirits of many people - some dead, some still living. A lot has happened in this house. You can sense it. I don't mean to sound ominous - to the contrary - this house has lived. And lives on. It's my home. Lots of people have houses, few have homes.
My Mom.
My Mom.
I loved her so much. Still do. To me she was the best person in the world. She was loving and caring and brave. She read Aesop's Fables to me as I sat on her lap as a child. She taught me the names of different dinosaurs when I was about 4.
She told me stories about growing up in Brooklyn, N.Y. - about watching zeppelins (airships, dirigibles, blimps) from the rooftop and playing hide and seek in a huge Chinese cemetery.
She told me about people she knew: some Italians (I remember a man named Pasquale, nick-named Patsy), some Jewish people and some Germans who ran a speakeasy.
My mom grew up with all of this diversity. She said she saw the Statue of Liberty as much as we see the Battleship USS North Carolina. And probably gave it as much thought.
She told me her last memory of leaving New York was the lit up skyline at night as her family drove over (I guess) the Brooklyn bridge, moving to North Carolina. I still have a View Master reel, that I got as a kid, that, according to my mom, looks just like her memory of that. All they could take with them, as far as furniture, was a dinette set, strapped to the top of the car. My sister still has that table.
That my mom and dad ever met is amazing to me.
Aug. 19, 2002
My mom loved waltzes. I heard the "Blue Danube" on the radio, today. It made me think of her.
I loved her so much. Still do. To me she was the best person in the world. She was loving and caring and brave. She read Aesop's Fables to me as I sat on her lap as a child. She taught me the names of different dinosaurs when I was about 4.
She told me stories about growing up in Brooklyn, N.Y. - about watching zeppelins (airships, dirigibles, blimps) from the rooftop and playing hide and seek in a huge Chinese cemetery.
She told me about people she knew: some Italians (I remember a man named Pasquale, nick-named Patsy), some Jewish people and some Germans who ran a speakeasy.
My mom grew up with all of this diversity. She said she saw the Statue of Liberty as much as we see the Battleship USS North Carolina. And probably gave it as much thought.
She told me her last memory of leaving New York was the lit up skyline at night as her family drove over (I guess) the Brooklyn bridge, moving to North Carolina. I still have a View Master reel, that I got as a kid, that, according to my mom, looks just like her memory of that. All they could take with them, as far as furniture, was a dinette set, strapped to the top of the car. My sister still has that table.
That my mom and dad ever met is amazing to me.
Aug. 19, 2002
My mom loved waltzes. I heard the "Blue Danube" on the radio, today. It made me think of her.
Hydra Breath
Come with me.
I'm calling your wild spirit with a juju all my own.
It's a psychic thang, can you sense it?
Didn't we see the moon descend and walk the earth?
Didn't we explore the sensations of rusted midnight honesty?
I'm ready for truth.
Fling your "yes" at me like a pair of wet panties -
like, like a soul that's finally caught fire -
like, like some bold, new, lunar desire.
Sample my hooks and bind my books,
while D.Atomicus wrestles "knowing" from the man with the frozen scream -
while angels fall like flies
and love-sick giants paint the skies.
We'll merge with the living mandala
and dance our way to a sticky heaven.
We'll inhale the breath of the Hydra and toss caution upon the fiery breeze.
We can build gilded temples - then rain destruction on them.
(The times call for action. Teaching without teaching.)
Come.
Follow me to the land of bashful dogs - where life is alive!
I keep writing your name, while bored ghosts attempt to entertain me -
rattling their chains in a blase fashion.
I'm being drawn into this dry, hot world.
This world of weary spectres.
A town full of eclipsing night-birds.
A street that's dead on both ends.
A house filled with rocks and shells and bones.
Thrown down and trampled upon (like yesterday's art), I saw time in many dimensions.
I heard the color of your sad eyes and tasted your body in an act not quite cannibalistic.
I lit the great candle and let loose the midnight howl I had been saving.
I suffer no delusions.
I feign no grace.
I'm up to my ass in shit, but I have a grip on god's big toe.
I'm calling your wild spirit with a juju all my own.
It's a psychic thang, can you sense it?
Didn't we see the moon descend and walk the earth?
Didn't we explore the sensations of rusted midnight honesty?
I'm ready for truth.
Fling your "yes" at me like a pair of wet panties -
like, like a soul that's finally caught fire -
like, like some bold, new, lunar desire.
Sample my hooks and bind my books,
while D.Atomicus wrestles "knowing" from the man with the frozen scream -
while angels fall like flies
and love-sick giants paint the skies.
We'll merge with the living mandala
and dance our way to a sticky heaven.
We'll inhale the breath of the Hydra and toss caution upon the fiery breeze.
We can build gilded temples - then rain destruction on them.
(The times call for action. Teaching without teaching.)
Come.
Follow me to the land of bashful dogs - where life is alive!
I keep writing your name, while bored ghosts attempt to entertain me -
rattling their chains in a blase fashion.
I'm being drawn into this dry, hot world.
This world of weary spectres.
A town full of eclipsing night-birds.
A street that's dead on both ends.
A house filled with rocks and shells and bones.
Thrown down and trampled upon (like yesterday's art), I saw time in many dimensions.
I heard the color of your sad eyes and tasted your body in an act not quite cannibalistic.
I lit the great candle and let loose the midnight howl I had been saving.
I suffer no delusions.
I feign no grace.
I'm up to my ass in shit, but I have a grip on god's big toe.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Listen, PT.2: Sugar Water
Dripping with "meaning," I heard the call:
Sugar water! Sugar water!
It's a drive by. It's a rush from hell. It's "f-ed-up" and I'll deal with it later.
Lost and messy, a man can infer or imply.
A dual reality. A diversified unity.
Leave me with my stasis.
Outside it's willy-nilly.
I don't know you. I'll never know you.
I dream in Brian DePalma fashion - my vision severed down the middle.
Put a tinted lens on my imagination and turn me loose.
Or, turn me out.
Leave me to funk at my own risk - at my own pace. I'll create worlds - I swear I will.
The sugar water call echos down, lost in the mix. A sticky archetype. A mound of symbols, dissolving.
Dissolving.
Blend it with the now. Drawn from the ages.
Reaching for heaven in the penthouse of Babylon Central.
I'm calling you.
Answer the damn phone.
My ring says "urgent."
My head says "Yeah, right..."
Sugar water! Sugar water!
It's a drive by. It's a rush from hell. It's "f-ed-up" and I'll deal with it later.
Lost and messy, a man can infer or imply.
A dual reality. A diversified unity.
Leave me with my stasis.
Outside it's willy-nilly.
I don't know you. I'll never know you.
I dream in Brian DePalma fashion - my vision severed down the middle.
Put a tinted lens on my imagination and turn me loose.
Or, turn me out.
Leave me to funk at my own risk - at my own pace. I'll create worlds - I swear I will.
The sugar water call echos down, lost in the mix. A sticky archetype. A mound of symbols, dissolving.
Dissolving.
Blend it with the now. Drawn from the ages.
Reaching for heaven in the penthouse of Babylon Central.
I'm calling you.
Answer the damn phone.
My ring says "urgent."
My head says "Yeah, right..."
Listen, PT.1: Dreaming the Big Dream (I Fall to Pieces)
Considering all that's gone down - it's all there in the files - considering the space and time I've been left with - it's a wonder I haven't crawled into a hole.
But, at night I dream...
Swirling interaction, relationships, people (living and dead - and the living dead), places, situations and symbols, symbols,
SYMBOLS.
There's a sparkle and a crackle - an alive quality - not found in my daytime world. A connection. A vital unity.
An artist doesn't belong in the "real" world.
"More real than real."
Yeah.
You left your visions. These symbolic treasures. Your link.
Just knowing that certain people exist gives me a little strength.
We are the vanguard. I don't know another way. This path may seem alien to you, but it feels like the way home to me.
I'm dreaming the big dream. I'm coming home.
Sometimes you just have to go Dada on 'em.
But, at night I dream...
Swirling interaction, relationships, people (living and dead - and the living dead), places, situations and symbols, symbols,
SYMBOLS.
There's a sparkle and a crackle - an alive quality - not found in my daytime world. A connection. A vital unity.
An artist doesn't belong in the "real" world.
"More real than real."
Yeah.
You left your visions. These symbolic treasures. Your link.
Just knowing that certain people exist gives me a little strength.
We are the vanguard. I don't know another way. This path may seem alien to you, but it feels like the way home to me.
I'm dreaming the big dream. I'm coming home.
Sometimes you just have to go Dada on 'em.
Browned (and Buttered)
Sentimental preoccupation.
Tribal unity - conversation.
Keys on a platter and similar things that seldom matter.
Flip flopped and tied to an anchor -
perimeters set, the games begin.
Browned and buttered. Useless words uttered.
I'm thinking of you
and I'm breaking in two.
I stare at the colors.
A gift, an empty man.
My edge has corroded.
My mind's been decoded.
The myth: exploded.
I'm still waiting for that sign -
a revelation, stadium size.
A clue from heaven. A satanic guide.
Rip me apart.
I want a new start.
A god with a heart.
SEX DEATH ART.
Tribal unity - conversation.
Keys on a platter and similar things that seldom matter.
Flip flopped and tied to an anchor -
perimeters set, the games begin.
Browned and buttered. Useless words uttered.
I'm thinking of you
and I'm breaking in two.
I stare at the colors.
A gift, an empty man.
My edge has corroded.
My mind's been decoded.
The myth: exploded.
I'm still waiting for that sign -
a revelation, stadium size.
A clue from heaven. A satanic guide.
Rip me apart.
I want a new start.
A god with a heart.
SEX DEATH ART.
Frisbee Inventor Dies.
Walter Fredrick Morrison, the inventor of the Frisbee, died recently at the age of 90.
Jim Stafford used to say that he was a Frisbee-tarian. And when Frisbee-tarians die, they believe that their souls go up on the roof and you can't get them down.
RIP, Mr. Morrison. The Frisbee was a "Good Thing in the World."
Jim Stafford used to say that he was a Frisbee-tarian. And when Frisbee-tarians die, they believe that their souls go up on the roof and you can't get them down.
RIP, Mr. Morrison. The Frisbee was a "Good Thing in the World."
Anticipation/Surprize (written for Bendeco)
Hear the rough boys raise their voices -
tempestuous, incestuous, intense and alive.
Sounds like angels, dipped in honey.
Feels like electric current and midnight soul kisses.
Slip-shod and sanctified. Twirling, whirling, spanked and crying.
I need more than the obvious.
Give me shadow, shade and texture. Add more grey to the mixture.
I'll cling as tight as your aura - and then I'll fall to pieces.
Rattled, tattered, scattered - in a world that's outgrown me.
Ah, but when my motor's revving - I feel so clever.
I want to break down and give in.
And kiss the perfumed ass of sin.
And grab the straining horn of passion.
And be the agent of disaster.
tempestuous, incestuous, intense and alive.
Sounds like angels, dipped in honey.
Feels like electric current and midnight soul kisses.
Slip-shod and sanctified. Twirling, whirling, spanked and crying.
I need more than the obvious.
Give me shadow, shade and texture. Add more grey to the mixture.
I'll cling as tight as your aura - and then I'll fall to pieces.
Rattled, tattered, scattered - in a world that's outgrown me.
Ah, but when my motor's revving - I feel so clever.
I want to break down and give in.
And kiss the perfumed ass of sin.
And grab the straining horn of passion.
And be the agent of disaster.
You Woke Up Trembling (And We Joked About It)
Purple baboons dance on my grave.
What set these dreams in motion?
What causes you to forsake me?
Why does the damn clock say 10:10?
Where does this begin?
How can I just go on now?
Pornography, psychology and Ernest Hemingway -
I've shelved them all.
The colossal stall.
I've flipped my lid - I'm on the skids.
I'm two ton tripping and it's not a pretty picture.
It's the ballet of the absurd - within the realm of broken symbols (themselves symbolic).
It's a congress of madmen.
It's the dawning of midnight.
Clank! The gates are sealed up tight.
You're like a child, yet dangerous.
You're like a child, yet innocent.
Don't let learning change you.
Don't walk through coals - they'll burn you.
Don't close your mind -
I want to come inside.
I want to run and hide.
I thought of suicide.
I lived and died a lie.
King birds go careening, boisterously, into the echos of the past.
A spectacle for lesser men and mirror people.
A numinous moment - so recant and go primitive.
My mind's abuzz - I've trashed it.
I've cashed in.
Sold out.
Thrown in the towel.
Took a dive.
Jumped in the lake.
I swore I'd defend you, but I could break my word.
A left-over god in a broken-down part of the universe.
Women masturbate while men talk of war.
I see no more.
I'm winding down - a pathetic, yet treacherous, clown.
Stack them high and stack them long.
Send them in - I'll fight them.
I've bent my plow into a sword.
I'll give them the word.
Goodbye Nico.
Goodbye Warhol.
So long Dali...
What set these dreams in motion?
What causes you to forsake me?
Why does the damn clock say 10:10?
Where does this begin?
How can I just go on now?
Pornography, psychology and Ernest Hemingway -
I've shelved them all.
The colossal stall.
I've flipped my lid - I'm on the skids.
I'm two ton tripping and it's not a pretty picture.
It's the ballet of the absurd - within the realm of broken symbols (themselves symbolic).
It's a congress of madmen.
It's the dawning of midnight.
Clank! The gates are sealed up tight.
You're like a child, yet dangerous.
You're like a child, yet innocent.
Don't let learning change you.
Don't walk through coals - they'll burn you.
Don't close your mind -
I want to come inside.
I want to run and hide.
I thought of suicide.
I lived and died a lie.
King birds go careening, boisterously, into the echos of the past.
A spectacle for lesser men and mirror people.
A numinous moment - so recant and go primitive.
My mind's abuzz - I've trashed it.
I've cashed in.
Sold out.
Thrown in the towel.
Took a dive.
Jumped in the lake.
I swore I'd defend you, but I could break my word.
A left-over god in a broken-down part of the universe.
Women masturbate while men talk of war.
I see no more.
I'm winding down - a pathetic, yet treacherous, clown.
Stack them high and stack them long.
Send them in - I'll fight them.
I've bent my plow into a sword.
I'll give them the word.
Goodbye Nico.
Goodbye Warhol.
So long Dali...
From "Peoms (sic)."
There's a rainbow across the moon.
The sun is still in view.
The clouds are all askew.
It's a wild world.
I stumble home - weary.
No purpose. No answers.
I crumble easily. Try it and see.
When the world gets too heavy, I have to put it down. I have to change it around.
GREETINGS! from the planet of human torches.
All too real - and they ask what it means.
The first real poem I ever wrote was called "Worlds." Now, you tell me.
A design so intricate, so subtle, that it's overlooked.
"You live in a box," Russell said.
"Not so," came Tommy's reply.
I suggested it may be a box with a removable lid.
"Life's a circle," I said.
"Maybe a tree, branching off," was Tommy's offering. But, later he said, "I think I have it: a sphere!"
A sphere.
Moving in a circular pattern, yet varying enough so it's always covering new ground. Like a circle, but reaching like a branch.
Yes.
But when the world gets too heavy, I have to put it down. I have to change it around.
The sun is still in view.
The clouds are all askew.
It's a wild world.
I stumble home - weary.
No purpose. No answers.
I crumble easily. Try it and see.
When the world gets too heavy, I have to put it down. I have to change it around.
GREETINGS! from the planet of human torches.
All too real - and they ask what it means.
The first real poem I ever wrote was called "Worlds." Now, you tell me.
A design so intricate, so subtle, that it's overlooked.
"You live in a box," Russell said.
"Not so," came Tommy's reply.
I suggested it may be a box with a removable lid.
"Life's a circle," I said.
"Maybe a tree, branching off," was Tommy's offering. But, later he said, "I think I have it: a sphere!"
A sphere.
Moving in a circular pattern, yet varying enough so it's always covering new ground. Like a circle, but reaching like a branch.
Yes.
But when the world gets too heavy, I have to put it down. I have to change it around.
Greased Up
OK, life - is this it?
Quick - take a piss
Do a jig
Greased up nitty-gritty
Cheek to cheek
Dust to dust
It's 1:06 - buy that
buy this
It's the sky high lie
Deal with it your own way
Nothing to say. I'm sick and unworthy.
I'm a reader of magazines.
I'm a painter of sacred dreams.
A howler - a drooler
Warped up and unstable
Defrocked, I lie in bed - naked, hot, cold and sweaty.
Filtered through a window pane
My passion is a crashing train
I'm cast aside - left to die
The play is over. Head for the exits.
Quick - take a piss
Do a jig
Greased up nitty-gritty
Cheek to cheek
Dust to dust
It's 1:06 - buy that
buy this
It's the sky high lie
Deal with it your own way
Nothing to say. I'm sick and unworthy.
I'm a reader of magazines.
I'm a painter of sacred dreams.
A howler - a drooler
Warped up and unstable
Defrocked, I lie in bed - naked, hot, cold and sweaty.
Filtered through a window pane
My passion is a crashing train
I'm cast aside - left to die
The play is over. Head for the exits.
My heart.
I had a catheterization done yesterday and all went well. No complications with the procedure. But, the doctors still don't know what's causing the increase in tachycardia. I may just have to live (or die) with it.
That's life.
I was just leafing through Strunk and White's "The Elements of Style" (a book I find to be invaluable and maddening), and I came across an example of a quotation. It said, "Never worry about your heart till it stops beating."
That's life.
I was just leafing through Strunk and White's "The Elements of Style" (a book I find to be invaluable and maddening), and I came across an example of a quotation. It said, "Never worry about your heart till it stops beating."
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Katy's Drier Morning
She was a child of the occupation.
She built tall churches in her imagination.
She awoke from a dream of her mother shaking.
Katy's drier morning.
He fell from his gilded throne/high-chair
into the devil's bog of despair.
Would things be different if it were
Katy's drier morning?
I scooped up the infant from a sink full of knives.
Ten thousand were slain before I blinked my eyes.
I fell to my knees - someone had to cry
on Katy's drier morning.
She built tall churches in her imagination.
She awoke from a dream of her mother shaking.
Katy's drier morning.
He fell from his gilded throne/high-chair
into the devil's bog of despair.
Would things be different if it were
Katy's drier morning?
I scooped up the infant from a sink full of knives.
Ten thousand were slain before I blinked my eyes.
I fell to my knees - someone had to cry
on Katy's drier morning.
My heart.
I'm getting up at 4 in the morning to drive 3 hours to a hospital to have a catheterization procedure performed. The doctor seems to think I may have some arterial blockages. I'm not feeling so well and I'm stressed and worried about it.
I've been so preoccupied that I locked my keys in my office at work and had to break in to get them. I then had to fix the lock.
The doctor prescribed some additional meds. When I went to get them filled yesterday, I got to the checkout, the girl rang me up and I realized that I had left my wallet in my car. So I had to run to the far side of the parking lot, in the pouring rain, to get it.
I came close to locking my keys in my car today.
I'm almost scared to drive.
I've just begun this blog. I hope I live a while longer. I have a lot to say and I'm just getting started.
I've been so preoccupied that I locked my keys in my office at work and had to break in to get them. I then had to fix the lock.
The doctor prescribed some additional meds. When I went to get them filled yesterday, I got to the checkout, the girl rang me up and I realized that I had left my wallet in my car. So I had to run to the far side of the parking lot, in the pouring rain, to get it.
I came close to locking my keys in my car today.
I'm almost scared to drive.
I've just begun this blog. I hope I live a while longer. I have a lot to say and I'm just getting started.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Mon. night 12/9/02
There was a moment yesterday when it struck me that I might actually be losing my mind. I might be on the downward spiral.
All of the quirks and free thinking of my younger days, that seemed so innocent and adventurous and necessary and right(!), have now become sad and unnerving antisocial behaviour.
It's always been a badge of honor with me to push things to the limit - to stare into the sun ('cause mama, that's where the fun is...). But, I now feel that enough is enough and if I am to survive - both physically and psychicly - I've got to reign this shit in. Somehow.
I just grabbed my trusty dictionary to check on the correct spelling of a word I used above (it's "psychically") and it fell open to page 177 with the word "Buddhism" staring me in the face. As it was the last definition on the page, it was also at the top of the page. There was no escaping it. What's weird is that I had been thinking about Buddhism for some time and was actually thinking about it as I was writing.
A sign?
You know me. I have to be hit over the head.
Buddhism (bood'iz.em, boo' da)
n. A mystical and ascetic religious faith of eastern Asia, founded in northern India by Buddha in the sixth century B.C., teaching that the ideal state of Nirvana is reached by right living and believing and peace of mind through meditation.
I've been oddly depressed lately. I've been thinking about how I've perfected the act of keeping the world at bay.
Isolation as an art form.
But, I'm here and I'm alive and for that I have to say "Thank You!"
We're all trying. We're doing the best we can.
All of the quirks and free thinking of my younger days, that seemed so innocent and adventurous and necessary and right(!), have now become sad and unnerving antisocial behaviour.
It's always been a badge of honor with me to push things to the limit - to stare into the sun ('cause mama, that's where the fun is...). But, I now feel that enough is enough and if I am to survive - both physically and psychicly - I've got to reign this shit in. Somehow.
I just grabbed my trusty dictionary to check on the correct spelling of a word I used above (it's "psychically") and it fell open to page 177 with the word "Buddhism" staring me in the face. As it was the last definition on the page, it was also at the top of the page. There was no escaping it. What's weird is that I had been thinking about Buddhism for some time and was actually thinking about it as I was writing.
A sign?
You know me. I have to be hit over the head.
Buddhism (bood'iz.em, boo' da)
n. A mystical and ascetic religious faith of eastern Asia, founded in northern India by Buddha in the sixth century B.C., teaching that the ideal state of Nirvana is reached by right living and believing and peace of mind through meditation.
I've been oddly depressed lately. I've been thinking about how I've perfected the act of keeping the world at bay.
Isolation as an art form.
But, I'm here and I'm alive and for that I have to say "Thank You!"
We're all trying. We're doing the best we can.
Monday, February 8, 2010
My Dad
My dad, who everyone knew as "Blue," and hardly anyone knew as Howard, could cure warts. (Now, that's a great opening sentence for a book!)
People came from all over to have him cure their warts. Young and old. People who had their warts cured in the past would bring their children to be cured. Folks swore by him.
He told me that when I got older, he would tell me the secret. His father had passed it down to him and he was going to pass it down to me. But, he died when I was 14.
My mom said that all she ever saw him do was rub the wart while he quietly spoke to the person. She wasn't supposed to see any of this. He would always take the patient behind the house or somewhere where they could be alone and he could work his mojo.
I always thought that if it wasn't for real - if it was just a bunch of bull - that he would've said that he could cure something more glamorous than warts. I looked forward to the day that I would obtain this secret knowledge, but it was not to be.
I never got that goat he was always promising me, either.
My dad had a saying: "I would jump in the fire for you."
I knew in my heart that he would.
People came from all over to have him cure their warts. Young and old. People who had their warts cured in the past would bring their children to be cured. Folks swore by him.
He told me that when I got older, he would tell me the secret. His father had passed it down to him and he was going to pass it down to me. But, he died when I was 14.
My mom said that all she ever saw him do was rub the wart while he quietly spoke to the person. She wasn't supposed to see any of this. He would always take the patient behind the house or somewhere where they could be alone and he could work his mojo.
I always thought that if it wasn't for real - if it was just a bunch of bull - that he would've said that he could cure something more glamorous than warts. I looked forward to the day that I would obtain this secret knowledge, but it was not to be.
I never got that goat he was always promising me, either.
My dad had a saying: "I would jump in the fire for you."
I knew in my heart that he would.
Just an idea...
I had an idea that that we (humans) might have been created by aliens - that we're just really complex machines. And for some reason, they abandoned us on this planet (or did they?), but failed to leave an instruction/repair manual.
Maybe our whole existence - our search for scientific knowledge and philosophical and religious meaning - is just our feeble attempt to write our own manual.
Jeez, I'm starting to sound like Kilgore Trout...
Maybe our whole existence - our search for scientific knowledge and philosophical and religious meaning - is just our feeble attempt to write our own manual.
Jeez, I'm starting to sound like Kilgore Trout...
Sunday, February 7, 2010
"Oh Yoko!"
I had this idea for a sitcom (or, at least, a recurring skit on Saturday Night Live). It's called "Oh Yoko!" And it uses the Lennon song as its theme song.
The deal is, you have 4 actors playing the Beatles and, of course, you have someone play Yoko Ono. Every week Yoko does something to break up the Beatles. So, when this happens, at the end of each episode, someone says "Oh Yoko!" Then Yoko throws up her hands in an "oh, well" or "uh oh" kind of gesture.
Cue theme song.
By the way, no lovable mop tops will be harmed in the making of this series.
(Just for the record, I love Yoko. And it's silly to think she broke up the Beatles.)
The deal is, you have 4 actors playing the Beatles and, of course, you have someone play Yoko Ono. Every week Yoko does something to break up the Beatles. So, when this happens, at the end of each episode, someone says "Oh Yoko!" Then Yoko throws up her hands in an "oh, well" or "uh oh" kind of gesture.
Cue theme song.
By the way, no lovable mop tops will be harmed in the making of this series.
(Just for the record, I love Yoko. And it's silly to think she broke up the Beatles.)
July 2, 2001 (Losing some heroes.)
OK, this is different. I'm at work, outside on my lunch break, writing on the hood of my car.
It's July 2, 2001. I woke up this morning with laryngitis, or something. I can barely talk. We're supposed to practice tomorrow night. I may have to cancel if I can't sing.
Bad news lately. Chet Atkins died 2 days ago. In my family, he loomed large. Now he's gone.
John Lee Hooker died recently. Who's gonna replace him?
Joey Ramone died a couple of months ago. That was a shock. The Ramones were a huge influence on me.
Also, I'd like to remember Lonesome Dave Peverett, who died last year. I once strummed his guitar from the front row of the Mad Monk. The very same guitar I saw him play on Don Kirshner's Rock Concert on late night TV, back in '73 or '74. That was one of the few places you could see rock-n-roll bands on TV back then.
I was lucky enough to see Chet (or Chester, as they call him in Nashville) perform at Thalian Hall a few years back.
I saw the Ramones 3 times.
Never got to see John Lee.
Now they're all gone. Just like that.
It's July 2, 2001. I woke up this morning with laryngitis, or something. I can barely talk. We're supposed to practice tomorrow night. I may have to cancel if I can't sing.
Bad news lately. Chet Atkins died 2 days ago. In my family, he loomed large. Now he's gone.
John Lee Hooker died recently. Who's gonna replace him?
Joey Ramone died a couple of months ago. That was a shock. The Ramones were a huge influence on me.
Also, I'd like to remember Lonesome Dave Peverett, who died last year. I once strummed his guitar from the front row of the Mad Monk. The very same guitar I saw him play on Don Kirshner's Rock Concert on late night TV, back in '73 or '74. That was one of the few places you could see rock-n-roll bands on TV back then.
I was lucky enough to see Chet (or Chester, as they call him in Nashville) perform at Thalian Hall a few years back.
I saw the Ramones 3 times.
Never got to see John Lee.
Now they're all gone. Just like that.
Eagle Goes to Three
Funny how my blood was on the page before I ever wrote a word.
A vessel of plasma, trapped in the miasma
Of our "profundity." Fecundity.
Obtuse and morose.
Look out mama, I'm comin' home.
A butterfly bereft of wings
and other sad and silly things.
A vessel of plasma, trapped in the miasma
Of our "profundity." Fecundity.
Obtuse and morose.
Look out mama, I'm comin' home.
A butterfly bereft of wings
and other sad and silly things.
I Found My Pen (100% chance of rain)
I found my pen, so I opened my head and let the na na's out. I had to, you know. My fate was sealed - in that matter anyway.
While pondering the magic of impressionism, I spun out and lost the race.
Buckles to laces. Toe to toe.
Call down the Valkyrie.
Send in the next contestant.
Do I really need my na na's validated?
Do I have any power left in this life?
We fortify ourselves with our little boxes - more holy than any cathedral.
Me? I'm wilting slowly in the winter sun - unable, it seems, to fight anymore.
Too intuitive for this world. Too much like a Monet.
The colors have run together on the big pallet.
Trying to sleep.
Let the sound of the rain on my tin roof wash all of the hues - and cries - from my mind.
(Gotta get my psychic shit together...)
While pondering the magic of impressionism, I spun out and lost the race.
Buckles to laces. Toe to toe.
Call down the Valkyrie.
Send in the next contestant.
Do I really need my na na's validated?
Do I have any power left in this life?
We fortify ourselves with our little boxes - more holy than any cathedral.
Me? I'm wilting slowly in the winter sun - unable, it seems, to fight anymore.
Too intuitive for this world. Too much like a Monet.
The colors have run together on the big pallet.
Trying to sleep.
Let the sound of the rain on my tin roof wash all of the hues - and cries - from my mind.
(Gotta get my psychic shit together...)
Create Yourself
Stop now!
Stop now and create yourself.
Show some compassion and worth.
Leave the past and take a bold new step.
See God.
See the God that you are inside.
Let go of convention and feel for a change.
The primal urge, the lust for life.
React.
Be a force of interaction.
Assume your throne in the swirling chaos.
Know that death is a glorious part of living.
(Death. Sex. Art.)
Stop now and create yourself.
Show some compassion and worth.
Leave the past and take a bold new step.
See God.
See the God that you are inside.
Let go of convention and feel for a change.
The primal urge, the lust for life.
React.
Be a force of interaction.
Assume your throne in the swirling chaos.
Know that death is a glorious part of living.
(Death. Sex. Art.)
Drone
I'm sick of life.
I'm sick of death.
And all of the greasy, sticky peanut butter in-between.
Over-loaded senses and warped perceptions.
And stories.
Stories.
Mutated, meandering things.
This TV's on the blink and I'm not fixin' it.
I'm sick of death.
And all of the greasy, sticky peanut butter in-between.
Over-loaded senses and warped perceptions.
And stories.
Stories.
Mutated, meandering things.
This TV's on the blink and I'm not fixin' it.
H20
I lie on this bed of dancing cleavers
grabbing "dogs" - "waxing" beavers
head full of shrills and trills
angel wings tacked on in silence
wafting by on summer breezes
dimly glowing above the treeses.
I hope your candle burns much brighter.
(See you on the other side.)
grabbing "dogs" - "waxing" beavers
head full of shrills and trills
angel wings tacked on in silence
wafting by on summer breezes
dimly glowing above the treeses.
I hope your candle burns much brighter.
(See you on the other side.)
Choices (waves)
Flimsy excuse, if you ask me.
Always delving, delving. How deep can you go? It can't go on forever - or can it?
See, I'm never sure of anything. I can't see how anyone can be.
And I always see both sides of an issue.
Choices are difficult.
A peculiar limbo. I've been here before.
I wrote the book that no one will read.
Matthew
Mark
Luke
John
Paul
George
Ringo.
Confetti like snow.
Days like gold.
Sing to me - somebody.
The tombstones are cold and meaningless. The ground is hard and dry.
A stuffed hippo sits on my shelf. My life sits with him.
Threadbare, shabby, crooked and cracked.
Hand-me-down and thrown away. And that's my best.
I'll retire to my room now and try to shake this thing.
But, I have dreamed the dream of the black stallion (with embarrassingly incongruent moose antlers), rising from the surf - an arcane demon - running you down with his hard, awful beauty.
Rock me, baby.
All night.
Alright.
AM and FM.
Always delving, delving. How deep can you go? It can't go on forever - or can it?
See, I'm never sure of anything. I can't see how anyone can be.
And I always see both sides of an issue.
Choices are difficult.
A peculiar limbo. I've been here before.
I wrote the book that no one will read.
Matthew
Mark
Luke
John
Paul
George
Ringo.
Confetti like snow.
Days like gold.
Sing to me - somebody.
The tombstones are cold and meaningless. The ground is hard and dry.
A stuffed hippo sits on my shelf. My life sits with him.
Threadbare, shabby, crooked and cracked.
Hand-me-down and thrown away. And that's my best.
I'll retire to my room now and try to shake this thing.
But, I have dreamed the dream of the black stallion (with embarrassingly incongruent moose antlers), rising from the surf - an arcane demon - running you down with his hard, awful beauty.
Rock me, baby.
All night.
Alright.
AM and FM.
From "Peoms (sic)."
"Peripheral vision" the doctor said, by way of explanation
and I thought of all of the midnight crows in all of the dismal, barren branches
and sharp edges that are painful
and every friend who dances on the edge (you always know which way they'll fall).
Oh, stare me down with your dead fish eye.
Give me the basics: red, black and white.
"Now where's he off to?" he asked with an accent I couldn't quite place.
This house is in ruins.
Life is too short.
Life is too scrambled.
I'm changing my order. Make mine "over easy."
A Chinese cat - a cat with white whiskers.
Basic again: black and white.
They all wore black ties and I was left alone.
and I thought of all of the midnight crows in all of the dismal, barren branches
and sharp edges that are painful
and every friend who dances on the edge (you always know which way they'll fall).
Oh, stare me down with your dead fish eye.
Give me the basics: red, black and white.
"Now where's he off to?" he asked with an accent I couldn't quite place.
This house is in ruins.
Life is too short.
Life is too scrambled.
I'm changing my order. Make mine "over easy."
A Chinese cat - a cat with white whiskers.
Basic again: black and white.
They all wore black ties and I was left alone.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
2001, 2002?
I live such a solitary life - I guess I'm just trying to leave something behind so that someone might know a little about me. There is just so much inside of me that no one knows about. And some things I'm never going to tell. Ever.
With no wife, kids or parents - after having lost my brother and three of my best friends - who am I going to say these things to? I just want someone to know that I existed. That I had dreams and fears and opinions and beliefs. That I was (am) a person shaped by life and death.
Living alone is not as hard for me as it would be for other people. It's peaceful, although sometimes boring. But peaceful, non-the-less. And I have no phone, so no one disturbs me.
I'm not likely to have a phone, either. I owe the phone company a fortune. You see, my doctor was experimenting with different combinations of drugs for me. I felt like I was losing my mind. I was out of control crazy and I made a bunch of long distance calls. I couldn't stop.
I had insurance then. When you're covered, your doctor will give you all kinds of tests and load you up on all kinds of pills. I really think something bad is going on there. I found out later that I was on some really strong stuff.
Don't get me started with the doctors and the drug companies. Social medicine now! Poor people suffer and die because they can't afford medical treatment. And this is the richest nation in the world! A GOVERNMENT'S FIRST CONCERN SHOULD BE THE HEALTH CARE OF ITS CITIZENS!
I started off talking about living alone. I kinda got off track there. There are ups and downs to solitary living. Things are calm and peaceful. That's good. But, sometimes I get a little lonely. There seems to be someone for everyone these days, but me.
I know that my life style is off-putting to a lot of people. They don't understand it - me. I think I give off a vibe of not wanting or needing anyone. Part of that is intentional. I don't feel very good about myself physically now. I've gained about 75 lbs. over the last 10 years. That's really embarrassing. I'm having a difficult time trying to lose it. The older you get, the harder it is.
Which leads me to a point I've been trying to get to all along. When you live alone for a long period of time, you start to turn into some kind of animal. I know human interaction is important, but Jesus! it's difficult.
Sometimes being in an intimate relationship can make you miserable. I may not have anyone, except (my dog) Pooky - the best relationship I've ever maintained - but I'm not miserable.
Speaking of Pooky, our relationship is pretty smooth. Nobody knows how close we are. I tell her all of the time that she's the best dog in the world and that I love her more than anything. And it's true. She's been a great comfort to me.
I found a page in a note book where I had written down some of Pooky's nick-names for some reason. At the top of the page, it says: "A noble and wonderful creature. The best dog in the world. I love her like a child."
Then: Pooky, Pook, Snoodle Boodle, Sweety Snookum Doodle, Princess Pookinza, H.R. Pookinstuff, Stuffina, 'Stuff, Stuffin', Pookily Dookily, Pookster, Pook-a-tollah, Pookinator, The Perfect and Precious Princess H.R. Pookinstuffedcrustpizzalicious and Snood (short for Snoodle Boodle, of course).
I'm sure there are more names (or will be).
Then, at the bottom of the page , it says: "Aug. 10, 2000. 10:15 pm. The power came back on."
OK, so I've gotten a little silly and sentimental in my old age. I don't much care. It's one of the nice things about getting older.
Dec. 9, 2001. Sunday. 5 pm.
Pooky is gone.
She's been gone for about a month now. I let her out one morning and I never saw her again. I'm having a very hard time living without her. I miss her so much. It's pretty lonely in this old house without that little dog.
Not knowing what happened to her is awful. The mind conjures up horrible images. I really can't say anything else now.
With no wife, kids or parents - after having lost my brother and three of my best friends - who am I going to say these things to? I just want someone to know that I existed. That I had dreams and fears and opinions and beliefs. That I was (am) a person shaped by life and death.
Living alone is not as hard for me as it would be for other people. It's peaceful, although sometimes boring. But peaceful, non-the-less. And I have no phone, so no one disturbs me.
I'm not likely to have a phone, either. I owe the phone company a fortune. You see, my doctor was experimenting with different combinations of drugs for me. I felt like I was losing my mind. I was out of control crazy and I made a bunch of long distance calls. I couldn't stop.
I had insurance then. When you're covered, your doctor will give you all kinds of tests and load you up on all kinds of pills. I really think something bad is going on there. I found out later that I was on some really strong stuff.
Don't get me started with the doctors and the drug companies. Social medicine now! Poor people suffer and die because they can't afford medical treatment. And this is the richest nation in the world! A GOVERNMENT'S FIRST CONCERN SHOULD BE THE HEALTH CARE OF ITS CITIZENS!
I started off talking about living alone. I kinda got off track there. There are ups and downs to solitary living. Things are calm and peaceful. That's good. But, sometimes I get a little lonely. There seems to be someone for everyone these days, but me.
I know that my life style is off-putting to a lot of people. They don't understand it - me. I think I give off a vibe of not wanting or needing anyone. Part of that is intentional. I don't feel very good about myself physically now. I've gained about 75 lbs. over the last 10 years. That's really embarrassing. I'm having a difficult time trying to lose it. The older you get, the harder it is.
Which leads me to a point I've been trying to get to all along. When you live alone for a long period of time, you start to turn into some kind of animal. I know human interaction is important, but Jesus! it's difficult.
Sometimes being in an intimate relationship can make you miserable. I may not have anyone, except (my dog) Pooky - the best relationship I've ever maintained - but I'm not miserable.
Speaking of Pooky, our relationship is pretty smooth. Nobody knows how close we are. I tell her all of the time that she's the best dog in the world and that I love her more than anything. And it's true. She's been a great comfort to me.
I found a page in a note book where I had written down some of Pooky's nick-names for some reason. At the top of the page, it says: "A noble and wonderful creature. The best dog in the world. I love her like a child."
Then: Pooky, Pook, Snoodle Boodle, Sweety Snookum Doodle, Princess Pookinza, H.R. Pookinstuff, Stuffina, 'Stuff, Stuffin', Pookily Dookily, Pookster, Pook-a-tollah, Pookinator, The Perfect and Precious Princess H.R. Pookinstuffedcrustpizzalicious and Snood (short for Snoodle Boodle, of course).
I'm sure there are more names (or will be).
Then, at the bottom of the page , it says: "Aug. 10, 2000. 10:15 pm. The power came back on."
OK, so I've gotten a little silly and sentimental in my old age. I don't much care. It's one of the nice things about getting older.
Dec. 9, 2001. Sunday. 5 pm.
Pooky is gone.
She's been gone for about a month now. I let her out one morning and I never saw her again. I'm having a very hard time living without her. I miss her so much. It's pretty lonely in this old house without that little dog.
Not knowing what happened to her is awful. The mind conjures up horrible images. I really can't say anything else now.
Christianity (unknown author)
Christianity:
The belief that some cosmic Jewish zombie can make you live forever if you symbolically eat his flesh and telepathically tell him that you accept him as your master, so he can remove an evil force from your soul, that is present in humanity because a rib-woman was convinced by a talking snake to eat from a magical tree.
Makes perfect sense.
The belief that some cosmic Jewish zombie can make you live forever if you symbolically eat his flesh and telepathically tell him that you accept him as your master, so he can remove an evil force from your soul, that is present in humanity because a rib-woman was convinced by a talking snake to eat from a magical tree.
Makes perfect sense.
Friday, February 5, 2010
In a dream last night I realized...
In a dream last night I realized that my dad didn't really spend much time with me when I was a kid. Well, I only knew him as a kid - he died when I was 14. Don't get me wrong, I loved my dad. He was a good guy. But, he was always busy.
He never taught me to swim. Or took me to the movies. He never played catch with me or taught me any games involving balls. And, even though he liked baseball, he never took me to any games.
I never went skating until I was old enough to go myself. I never learned any card games until I was married. My dad never took me bowling or taught me to shoot pool. Of course, he didn't shoot pool or bowl or play cards or skate himself.
He never taught me to drive a car.
I've always thought that not knowing these things shaped me in a big way. I'm shy and afraid of new experiences. I'm awkward in social situations, which is why I've, historically, always depended on some kind of mind altering substance in order to function in a group.
Oh no - I don't want to sound like my problems are the result of my dad never teaching me to throw a ball. I don't blame my dad for anything. Even whipping me with a belt (his belt, brown leather, rectangular buckle with his initials on it). He did the best he could. He worked really hard. And he did take me fishing some. He showed me how to tie tackle and bait a hook. He taught me a little walk-up from an open E to a G chord on the guitar. And I can't wrap an extension cord up without thinking of him. I told him it was like going around your elbow to get to your thumb - which was one of his expressions - and he laughed. One of the few times I remember connecting with him.
It wasn't his fault. I'm not like anyone in my family.
Even though I had a brother and two sisters, I'm basically an only child. They were (are) so much older than me that I barely remember any of them living at home. My sisters seem more like aunts.
And with my parents being older, well, all of my grand parents were dead before I was born. I remember when I heard kids at school say they were going to their grandparents house for the weekend, I would be secretly envious. I had no idea what that would be like.
So, I grew up alone. I think that's why I loved to read and why I had such a full fantasy life.
He never taught me to swim. Or took me to the movies. He never played catch with me or taught me any games involving balls. And, even though he liked baseball, he never took me to any games.
I never went skating until I was old enough to go myself. I never learned any card games until I was married. My dad never took me bowling or taught me to shoot pool. Of course, he didn't shoot pool or bowl or play cards or skate himself.
He never taught me to drive a car.
I've always thought that not knowing these things shaped me in a big way. I'm shy and afraid of new experiences. I'm awkward in social situations, which is why I've, historically, always depended on some kind of mind altering substance in order to function in a group.
Oh no - I don't want to sound like my problems are the result of my dad never teaching me to throw a ball. I don't blame my dad for anything. Even whipping me with a belt (his belt, brown leather, rectangular buckle with his initials on it). He did the best he could. He worked really hard. And he did take me fishing some. He showed me how to tie tackle and bait a hook. He taught me a little walk-up from an open E to a G chord on the guitar. And I can't wrap an extension cord up without thinking of him. I told him it was like going around your elbow to get to your thumb - which was one of his expressions - and he laughed. One of the few times I remember connecting with him.
It wasn't his fault. I'm not like anyone in my family.
Even though I had a brother and two sisters, I'm basically an only child. They were (are) so much older than me that I barely remember any of them living at home. My sisters seem more like aunts.
And with my parents being older, well, all of my grand parents were dead before I was born. I remember when I heard kids at school say they were going to their grandparents house for the weekend, I would be secretly envious. I had no idea what that would be like.
So, I grew up alone. I think that's why I loved to read and why I had such a full fantasy life.
Pet Peeves
I saw a note posted at a register in a restaurant the other day. I see these a lot - and it's one of my pet peeves. (I'm sure you have some, too.)
"We do not except checks!"
"Except," instead of "accept."
They are actually saying the opposite of what they mean to say.
It's kind of like when people say (I hear this often), "I could care less," when they mean, "I couldn't care less."
"We do not except checks!"
"Except," instead of "accept."
They are actually saying the opposite of what they mean to say.
It's kind of like when people say (I hear this often), "I could care less," when they mean, "I couldn't care less."
On the subject of God
On the subject of God. Whatever the life force is - whatever energy that caused this existence - well, you might as well call it God. Anything that mind-boggling deserves to be set apart.
I'm OK with that part of it. I think it's probably in man's best interest to have this fascination. The wonder. To experience awe.
Dogma is another story.
Man's attempts to describe and explain God are idiotic. And those who would have us believe that they know the will of God - who contend that they look into the "mind" of God - should be laughed off the planet - if it weren't for the fact that some of them are so dangerous.
I recently saw some graffiti, spray painted on a rusty old door, on the back of an abandoned building, that said "AMBIENT TITS R GOD!" So, there...
I'm OK with that part of it. I think it's probably in man's best interest to have this fascination. The wonder. To experience awe.
Dogma is another story.
Man's attempts to describe and explain God are idiotic. And those who would have us believe that they know the will of God - who contend that they look into the "mind" of God - should be laughed off the planet - if it weren't for the fact that some of them are so dangerous.
I recently saw some graffiti, spray painted on a rusty old door, on the back of an abandoned building, that said "AMBIENT TITS R GOD!" So, there...
Dreams
I had this dream where I went back in time, but I didn't realize it at first. Little things began popping up, like no TV and just a general lack of all the plastic garbage we accumulate. Finally, I saw a news paper dated in the 50s. Then all of the little things became really obvious.
"Oh."
I had a dream in which the Incredible Hulk was out to get me. Only he wasn't like the comic book or television version, where he basically has the mind of a child coupled with a powerful body. He was intelligent and evil. And he was the size of King Kong.
There was no escape.
He caught my dog Pooky and I thought she was a goner. But, somehow, I got her back unharmed. David Spade (?!) tried to help me evade him with his car - which looked like a gazebo on wheels.
"Oh."
I had a dream in which the Incredible Hulk was out to get me. Only he wasn't like the comic book or television version, where he basically has the mind of a child coupled with a powerful body. He was intelligent and evil. And he was the size of King Kong.
There was no escape.
He caught my dog Pooky and I thought she was a goner. But, somehow, I got her back unharmed. David Spade (?!) tried to help me evade him with his car - which looked like a gazebo on wheels.
Addiction
There is nothing more important to a junky than rationalization.
Now, I'm not trying to come off as William Burroughs or Johnny Thunders or anything - I've never spiked Horse - but, I do have what they call an "addictive personality."
I'm all or nothing. That is no way to live. Great art has often come from that mindset (alas, none from me) but, great misery has also. Often mine.
I'd like to follow the middle path, but something forces me to run off into the woods - or over the cliff (What's over there? I need to know.) Or, just stay at home and watch The Simpsons.
Addiction is a compulsion to push it.
Now, I'm not trying to come off as William Burroughs or Johnny Thunders or anything - I've never spiked Horse - but, I do have what they call an "addictive personality."
I'm all or nothing. That is no way to live. Great art has often come from that mindset (alas, none from me) but, great misery has also. Often mine.
I'd like to follow the middle path, but something forces me to run off into the woods - or over the cliff (What's over there? I need to know.) Or, just stay at home and watch The Simpsons.
Addiction is a compulsion to push it.
Man Out of Time (Maybe written in 2003? Pre-computer...)
I know one thing: I'm a man out of time.
I don't belong here. The technology (or Chuck Gnarly, as my friend Bert calls it) is overwhelming. I want no part of it. It's so dehumanizing.
I was in Circuit City today and I almost began to panic. I was surrounded by all of these affluent young people, with SUVs and car alarms and cell phones - with just the right hair cuts, shoes, coats and hats - buying computer supplies and flat screen TVs. It was packed. Where do these people get all that extra money to waste on useless toys? It's kind of surreal.
Visit one of these stores on a Saturday afternoon and observe. I bought my two CDs (both 70's music) and got out of there.
Man out of time.
I don't belong here. The technology (or Chuck Gnarly, as my friend Bert calls it) is overwhelming. I want no part of it. It's so dehumanizing.
I was in Circuit City today and I almost began to panic. I was surrounded by all of these affluent young people, with SUVs and car alarms and cell phones - with just the right hair cuts, shoes, coats and hats - buying computer supplies and flat screen TVs. It was packed. Where do these people get all that extra money to waste on useless toys? It's kind of surreal.
Visit one of these stores on a Saturday afternoon and observe. I bought my two CDs (both 70's music) and got out of there.
Man out of time.
Regrets
Regrets. There's a topic.
I've done many things wrong in my life that I don't truly regret. I mean, it's a part of growing up - messing up - and it builds character. These things shape you into who you are. And by the time you're 40, you are "someone."
But, real regrets - the things that haunt you, maybe the other shoe that hasn't dropped - I have a couple. And hardly a day goes by that I don't wish I could go back and change...well, these are my very, very secret burdens.
We all have a cross (or two).
I've done many things wrong in my life that I don't truly regret. I mean, it's a part of growing up - messing up - and it builds character. These things shape you into who you are. And by the time you're 40, you are "someone."
But, real regrets - the things that haunt you, maybe the other shoe that hasn't dropped - I have a couple. And hardly a day goes by that I don't wish I could go back and change...well, these are my very, very secret burdens.
We all have a cross (or two).
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Frog Lips
Wounded patterns.
Straight line moving.
Bottled up feathers.
Plumage.
Chuck and laughter.
Violet towers.
Sleeping pills and cultural icons.
Blue and orange to skim - they perish.
Feathers again. Naked thigh tarnished.
Pages and windows: death, dark and silent.
A stare.
A facade.
A primal scream wakes me.
I wish that I was leaning on that same railing.
I wish that I could see that vivid pink skyline.
But, my eyes are serpents
and sometimes they're mirrors.
A straight line from the neck.
Gods in heaven, forgive us.
Straight line moving.
Bottled up feathers.
Plumage.
Chuck and laughter.
Violet towers.
Sleeping pills and cultural icons.
Blue and orange to skim - they perish.
Feathers again. Naked thigh tarnished.
Pages and windows: death, dark and silent.
A stare.
A facade.
A primal scream wakes me.
I wish that I was leaning on that same railing.
I wish that I could see that vivid pink skyline.
But, my eyes are serpents
and sometimes they're mirrors.
A straight line from the neck.
Gods in heaven, forgive us.
Straight Road to Seven
We travel light for speed.
We have no truck with you.
We're a class of tigers -
all spit-fire and tension.
It looks good.
It feels good.
We have a mission.
Stand on your hind legs.
Thirst 'til your tongue swells.
Roll in the hot sand.
Scream when the bone breaks.
Sweat and smoke your cigarette.
Sit on the hill and wait for a sign.
Blue-throated reed-man spinning wildly toward your center -
grabbing you where it counts -
where it's real -
and slapping life into your
numb
dumb
cr
u
mbli
ng
existence.
Licking the salt from the cheeks of her ass.
Dreaming dreams of infinite questions.
I rattle my sabre in a demonic sub-plot.
I plan, design and execute a tattoo -
glorious, cruel and proud.
Whip me with the leather strap of "wanting."
I work the juju for your desire.
I work the juju for you.
We have no truck with you.
We're a class of tigers -
all spit-fire and tension.
It looks good.
It feels good.
We have a mission.
Stand on your hind legs.
Thirst 'til your tongue swells.
Roll in the hot sand.
Scream when the bone breaks.
Sweat and smoke your cigarette.
Sit on the hill and wait for a sign.
Blue-throated reed-man spinning wildly toward your center -
grabbing you where it counts -
where it's real -
and slapping life into your
numb
dumb
cr
u
mbli
ng
existence.
Licking the salt from the cheeks of her ass.
Dreaming dreams of infinite questions.
I rattle my sabre in a demonic sub-plot.
I plan, design and execute a tattoo -
glorious, cruel and proud.
Whip me with the leather strap of "wanting."
I work the juju for your desire.
I work the juju for you.
From "Peoms (sic)."
There's a cat on my roof
and he knows the truth
but it's hot up there
so I sit in my chair.
The smoke from the incense dances and twirls.
Silent faces stare from my walls.
And it's dark - but it's light
and the books take to flight.
Solitude bludgeons me -
too graceless to knife.
FRENZY! String up the elves.
FRENZY! Hold up the shells
to your ears
and hear
the sea
liquid heaven
take me now.
and he knows the truth
but it's hot up there
so I sit in my chair.
The smoke from the incense dances and twirls.
Silent faces stare from my walls.
And it's dark - but it's light
and the books take to flight.
Solitude bludgeons me -
too graceless to knife.
FRENZY! String up the elves.
FRENZY! Hold up the shells
to your ears
and hear
the sea
liquid heaven
take me now.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Do You Remember the Time?
Do you remember the time
when the spiders aligned?
It made perfect sense to him,
but it could have been the cheap wine he drank.
The wall looked like Swiss cheese,
but the world was already too much.
The chick sat on the broken glass
and your fake suicide drove us into the night.
Do you recall?
He got down on his knees and pleaded his case
to the newly permed friend of a friend.
She sat in the rocker - not really a goddess.
Not really understanding at all, probably.
Now, everything is gone.
No, it never happened.
Or, it happened in someone else's life -
in another time, another place.
But, we all crawled into your bed. Three drunken friends -
young, but dying.
I could be a hollow man.
So the place is still the same,
but death - it surrounds me.
Faintly calls me.
In dreams.
In broad daylight.
It quietly emerges from the mouths of people who speak of entirely different subjects.
But, I know it's really all the same.
Even sex is death -
whispering softly, yet insistently, in its afterglow.
Tugging what's left of hope away from me.
The will to live is a joke - cruelest of all...
We drove many miles in your beat up old car.
How we made it home on just gas fumes, I'll never know.
Pimento cheese sandwich and a Fresca.
I probably cursed you for spending our last bit of money on food I despised.
It never bothered you.
This isn't the way it was supposed to be.
This isn't right at all.
when the spiders aligned?
It made perfect sense to him,
but it could have been the cheap wine he drank.
The wall looked like Swiss cheese,
but the world was already too much.
The chick sat on the broken glass
and your fake suicide drove us into the night.
Do you recall?
He got down on his knees and pleaded his case
to the newly permed friend of a friend.
She sat in the rocker - not really a goddess.
Not really understanding at all, probably.
Now, everything is gone.
No, it never happened.
Or, it happened in someone else's life -
in another time, another place.
But, we all crawled into your bed. Three drunken friends -
young, but dying.
I could be a hollow man.
So the place is still the same,
but death - it surrounds me.
Faintly calls me.
In dreams.
In broad daylight.
It quietly emerges from the mouths of people who speak of entirely different subjects.
But, I know it's really all the same.
Even sex is death -
whispering softly, yet insistently, in its afterglow.
Tugging what's left of hope away from me.
The will to live is a joke - cruelest of all...
We drove many miles in your beat up old car.
How we made it home on just gas fumes, I'll never know.
Pimento cheese sandwich and a Fresca.
I probably cursed you for spending our last bit of money on food I despised.
It never bothered you.
This isn't the way it was supposed to be.
This isn't right at all.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Tommy
Tommy, if you were here now I'd put my arms around you and squeeze you tighter than tight. I'd try to tell you about all of the crazy things that have happened to me - to the world - since that bizarre day you were taken. Killed by a cop who made a horrible mess of her job. "Just one of those things," the police chief said.
We were more than friends - we were brothers. Misfits who, at least, had each other.
We talked and talked and talked and talked. Sometimes we fought. We had a bond, that now - nearly 30 years after your death - seems uncannily mature.
I often wonder what you would have become. I didn't amount to much, but I'm still here (for some reason) and still trying. Or not.
I think of you nearly every day. I remember everything about you. The way you looked. The way you spoke. The way you moved. Those long thin fingers. The look in your eye...
I'm an old man now, sitting in front of a computer - the world at my finger tips (oh, how you would have loved this), but I'm writing this on a 3x5 note card, with a pen. The way it has to be.
There's just too much to tell you. Russel's gone, Tommy. I guess he was about 40. He was a good guy.
We used to talk about the possibility of life after death. Well, as long as I live, you will live - in a fashion - as part of me. And I'll carry your spirit proudly. You would have done the same for me. I'm sure of it.
We were more than friends - we were brothers. Misfits who, at least, had each other.
We talked and talked and talked and talked. Sometimes we fought. We had a bond, that now - nearly 30 years after your death - seems uncannily mature.
I often wonder what you would have become. I didn't amount to much, but I'm still here (for some reason) and still trying. Or not.
I think of you nearly every day. I remember everything about you. The way you looked. The way you spoke. The way you moved. Those long thin fingers. The look in your eye...
I'm an old man now, sitting in front of a computer - the world at my finger tips (oh, how you would have loved this), but I'm writing this on a 3x5 note card, with a pen. The way it has to be.
There's just too much to tell you. Russel's gone, Tommy. I guess he was about 40. He was a good guy.
We used to talk about the possibility of life after death. Well, as long as I live, you will live - in a fashion - as part of me. And I'll carry your spirit proudly. You would have done the same for me. I'm sure of it.
Probably written in 2002 or so.
OK, I don't know. Sometimes I get the feeling that my life has passed me by. That it's way too short. Then other times it seems that life drags on much longer than it should naturally. I mean, I have this theory that man wasn't meant to live past 35 or 40. At that point his body begins failing him in all manner of ways.
One is pecked to death by ducks.
Your eye sight goes. You have all sorts of little pains of undetermined causes. The extra weight you used to be able to lose "just like that," when needed, clings to you with a death grip. And it IS a death grip - causing your weakened heart to over work itself trying to send blood to your progressively enfeebled brain. You find yourself short of breath and easily confused where you used to be unlimited in your energy and as sharp as a tack. And there's nothing you can do about it.
And, oh, your sex life! Oh god, perhaps the most unkind joke of all - well, to a person like me whose life, for the most part, has been consumed by sexual obsession (some would say) - is, if you could have sex - well - you couldn't have sex...
Remember reel to reel tapes? Well, it's like the tape has played, all the good has been gotten, but the machine has been left on and the loose end on the reel goes 'round and 'round, slapping meaninglessly.
But most times, I just want to live forever.
I not really afraid of dying - I'll probably go in my sleep like nearly everyone does in my family - but who knows what's out there? I know what's here and it's not so bad sometimes. The world is a wondrous place. I'd just like to hang around.
(Feb. 4, 2002. I know I don't have much more in me. I'm off of all of my medications. My heart is weak and I'm short of breath. My blood pressure is up. I haven't checked it - what's the point? I just know.
I'll just go until I drop. What else can a poor boy do ['cept play in a rock-n-roll band]?)
One is pecked to death by ducks.
Your eye sight goes. You have all sorts of little pains of undetermined causes. The extra weight you used to be able to lose "just like that," when needed, clings to you with a death grip. And it IS a death grip - causing your weakened heart to over work itself trying to send blood to your progressively enfeebled brain. You find yourself short of breath and easily confused where you used to be unlimited in your energy and as sharp as a tack. And there's nothing you can do about it.
And, oh, your sex life! Oh god, perhaps the most unkind joke of all - well, to a person like me whose life, for the most part, has been consumed by sexual obsession (some would say) - is, if you could have sex - well - you couldn't have sex...
Remember reel to reel tapes? Well, it's like the tape has played, all the good has been gotten, but the machine has been left on and the loose end on the reel goes 'round and 'round, slapping meaninglessly.
But most times, I just want to live forever.
I not really afraid of dying - I'll probably go in my sleep like nearly everyone does in my family - but who knows what's out there? I know what's here and it's not so bad sometimes. The world is a wondrous place. I'd just like to hang around.
(Feb. 4, 2002. I know I don't have much more in me. I'm off of all of my medications. My heart is weak and I'm short of breath. My blood pressure is up. I haven't checked it - what's the point? I just know.
I'll just go until I drop. What else can a poor boy do ['cept play in a rock-n-roll band]?)
The Spirit Struts
Let it be known that the Spirit struts. It is a strut unlike any other strut. The Spirit owns the strut. It is the strut. And the strut is everything. And nothing. At the same time.
The strut manifests itself in innumerable ways - from the dizzyingly grand to the seemingly insignificant. Consider its flesh and blood incarnation: humans, if you will. Regard one Mr. Jimmi Blue, as he weighs his consequence and tries to come to terms with the lusty, proud cosmic stepping...
The strut manifests itself in innumerable ways - from the dizzyingly grand to the seemingly insignificant. Consider its flesh and blood incarnation: humans, if you will. Regard one Mr. Jimmi Blue, as he weighs his consequence and tries to come to terms with the lusty, proud cosmic stepping...
Ephesians 4 ch. 5 verse 11 / T.Rex
I saw a woman on TV one morning quoting verses from Ephesians. I looked them up, for some reason. I read past the section she was on until I got to verse 11. I kinda liked it:
"And have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness, but rather reprove them."
Or, as Marc Bolan said, "Oh, won't you shine on me, Light of Love?"
I always say, "A day without T.Rex is like a day without sunshine."
"And have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness, but rather reprove them."
Or, as Marc Bolan said, "Oh, won't you shine on me, Light of Love?"
I always say, "A day without T.Rex is like a day without sunshine."
Monday, February 1, 2010
Words
Words. Language, communication, education, expression (artistic and otherwise). Words. Knowledge, understanding, illumination, so on and so forth, as it were. Words. Yadda yadda yadda. Blah blah blah. So mote it be. Amen. AM and FM, and what not. Etc. Etc. Etc. Words.
This is what my life has come to
The low hum of well oiled machines. Is that like "The Low Spark of High-heeled Boys?"
The old man told another one of his long, rambling stories - this time about how he was trying to get some woman to return his greeting. Turns out it wasn't Aunt "Wee-Wee" at all, but his double first cousin's boy's girlfriend's mother - someone he'd never met.
I'm exasperated at this point. It gets harder and harder not to show this exasperation.
Once, he was talking about how poorly he had done in school, having never even learned to read or write, and how we must all be dummies or we would have gotten better jobs. This was almost more than I could take - being lumped in with him, as it were. I told him (I caught him taking a breath) that I used to be the smartest kid in my school. "You used to be smart?! What happened?" he replied, with earnest astonishment.
This is what my life has come to.
I couldn't sleep at all last night (tossin' and turnin').
I've been having a hard time with this "getting older" thing. A couple of years ago, it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. A mind blowing return for all of those years I invested in danger and hard living.
We used to proudly chant, "SEX, DRUGS AND ROCK-N-ROLL!" Now I can't even have a cup of coffee. No caffeine, you see.
I know it happens to everyone, but it feels so personal.
The old man told another one of his long, rambling stories - this time about how he was trying to get some woman to return his greeting. Turns out it wasn't Aunt "Wee-Wee" at all, but his double first cousin's boy's girlfriend's mother - someone he'd never met.
I'm exasperated at this point. It gets harder and harder not to show this exasperation.
Once, he was talking about how poorly he had done in school, having never even learned to read or write, and how we must all be dummies or we would have gotten better jobs. This was almost more than I could take - being lumped in with him, as it were. I told him (I caught him taking a breath) that I used to be the smartest kid in my school. "You used to be smart?! What happened?" he replied, with earnest astonishment.
This is what my life has come to.
I couldn't sleep at all last night (tossin' and turnin').
I've been having a hard time with this "getting older" thing. A couple of years ago, it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. A mind blowing return for all of those years I invested in danger and hard living.
We used to proudly chant, "SEX, DRUGS AND ROCK-N-ROLL!" Now I can't even have a cup of coffee. No caffeine, you see.
I know it happens to everyone, but it feels so personal.
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