Naples, N.Y. 1978. (Pt.3)

Tommy's step mom said she would give us a ride back to his grandmother's house. She knew where it was. It's a small, rural community, so everyone knew everyone. On the way back, we stopped by the home of some other relative - Tommy's uncle, maybe. It was dusk and there were people sitting in the yard, talking. They were happy to see Tommy, all grown up. A man offered us a beverage from his cooler. They were drinking Genesee Cream Ales - which seemed to be a favorite in that area. They're brewed right up the road in Rochester, N.Y. I recognized the label from Tommy's grandmother's house. In the upstairs room where I slept, there was a hat, sitting on a dresser top, that someone had made by cutting out labels of Genesee cans and lacing them together with yarn. Most unusual.
The next day, back at the grandmother's, we did a little exploring around the house and barn. In the basement of the house, we found an old MG that his step-father's son (from his first marriage) was planning to restore. I think Tommy's older step-brother lived in Texas, at that time. Tommy told me that his step-brother's wife was an agent and that she represented the actor who played Chewbacca in "Star Wars." I was somewhat dubious, but he swore it was true. (Years later, after Tommy was long gone, I was having drinks with his sister, his step-sister and his mom. At one point, the conversation turned really serious and his sister told her mom that the step-brother had tried to rape her, once - and that she had never said anything about it, while her step-dad was alive. Her mom said no, no, I don't believe it. His sister was a tad high strung, so who knows?)
Upstairs, we plundered through the closets of our rooms (we were across the hall from each other). In Tommy's room, we found some old neckties. We each picked one out, to keep. I still have mine.
I remember that there was a picture on the wall, in the hall between our rooms, of Tommy's step-dad, as a boy, sitting on a mule. I told him I was going to tease him when I next saw him.

Naples, N.Y. 1978. (Pt.2)

Tommy and I decided to go to the house he had grown up in. As he hadn't been there since he was a kid, he only had a vague idea about the distance. We set out walking.
I remember seeing a dead raccoon on the road, which prompted a discussion about the particulars of his death. Tommy noted the grimace on his face, which left him with the impression that the raccoon had been struggling with a great task and had died giving it his all. I imagined him to be the leader of a raccoon tribe who risked his life to recon the highway in advance of the Great Raccoon Migration of '79. We both agreed he had expired heroically.
We walked and walked and walked.
We talked about someone from his childhood - a friend of his parents - named Chief Doughnut. There are lots of Native Americans in the Finger Lakes area. In fact, they're called the Finger Lakes because some believe that the Great Spirit rested his hand on the earth and left an imprint.
And we walked.
At one point, a large menacing dog ran out onto the road, and if his owner had not rushed to retrieve him, I'm quite sure he would have attacked us. I still remember that man. He was large and dark (vaguely Mediterranean), he wore a wife beater, and he was covered in black fur. I remember thinking that he had the hairiest back that I had ever seen. At any rate, we were very grateful that that big bear was able to subdue his Hell-hound.
It was cooler in New York than in North Carolina, but still it was August. And we had no water with us.
We walked.
At about mid day, we felt we could go no further without something with which to quench our epic thirsts. When we came upon a large ditch, we both stopped and ogled the water flowing through it. We had to convince each other that it wasn't a good idea to drink ditch water (there was talk about pollution and harmful micro-organisms). We were so thirsty that we had seriously considered it.
We walked.
After about 2 more miles, we saw a country store. God, were we happy to see that oasis! As I was paying for my beverage, I noticed a jar on the counter asking for donations to help the family of a local man who had recently died. That man was Tommy's dad.
Eventually we made it to Tommy's old house. He made the usual comments about how it looked so much smaller to him now.
There was a large bolder half buried in one corner of the front yard. Tommy said that it was a meteorite and that he remembered scientists coming out to study it.
His dad's wife was home. She invited us in. When we told her we had walked from his grandmother's house, she was surprised. She told us that we had trudged about 17 miles!

Naples, N.Y. 1978. (Pt.1)

In the summer of 1978, when I was 17 years old, my best friend, Tommy, told me that he had gotten word that his dad had died. Tommy had been living with his mom and step dad in North Carolina for years. He hadn't had much, if any, contact with his dad in upstate New york. We decided, in August, to try to go up there to see his family.
Tommy's mom, dad and step dad had all grown up in the same area near Naples, NY. He got in contact with his step grandmother and she said we could stay with her. We bought Greyhound tickets and we were on our way.
The bus ride up took 25 hours! We stopped at bus stops in the middle of nowhere all along the way. We had to wait 4 hours, in D.C., for a connecting bus. I remember walking around D.C. in the middle of the night. I don't know what it looks like now, but in the 70s it was a slum. You could see the dome of the Capital building just blocks away from the run down area we were in. Looking back, it probably wasn't a great idea for 2 teenage white boys to be wandering around that area in the middle of the night.
When we arrived in New York, the bus station was in some nearby town and we had to walk to his grandmother's house. She lived in this really cool, run down , old, wooden two-story house. There was a barn next to it. Beyond her back yard, the land began to slope down toward Lake Canandaigua - one of the Finger Lakes. Between the house and the lake was her vineyard. On the other side of the lake were rolling green hills. It was beautiful. I would move there now, if I could. His grandmother's grapes were made into Taylor wines, among many others. The old Taylor label looked like her back yard.
His grandmother, who was 85 years old, lived in this ancient house by herself - if you didn't count her dog Traveler. There were some grand-kids and great-grand-kids living nearby who would drop in occasionally, but with most of the men in the family gone, she wasn't able to assertively manage the vineyard. I think she was making just enough to pay taxes on her property.
I remember her huge, old fashioned stove and her unsweetened iced tea. I remember her sitting at night, next to a lamp, reading through Coke bottle glasses. I recall her telling tales about the people in the area (there's a lot of insanity in the Finger Lakes region).

"...and I feel fine."

Skeeter Davis asked, "Don't they know it's the end of the world?"
Both of my sisters are religimous (both are married to preachers) and they don't seem to be worried. They're making mundane plans for the weekend. Although, my younger sister (whose birthday is today) is selling her cemetery plots tomorrow. Does that mean anything?
It's so strange, she used to think I was crazy when I said I wanted to be cremated. Almost like it was blasphemous. Now, she's planning on getting cremated - so it's ok. She was like that when I buzzed my hair in the 80s. She came over and had a talk with me. What was I doing? Did I want people to think I was weird? Someone asked her if I was sick. Or maybe I had just got out of prison. This from the woman who thought my long hair was a disgrace. The funny thing was that, within a couple of years, all of her sons - and their sons - had buzzed hair. Hey, I'm a trend setter.
My next door neighbors are getting married in their yard tomorrow. I guess they're not concerned about the end of the world. Talk to them in a few years and see how they feel.
I asked my dog, Scooter, how he was doing. He had a pretty good day today, as far as I'm concerned. He got to go outside for several hours while I mowed, he got fresh water and leftover spaghetti for dinner (he LOVES spaghetti), he had a bath (which makes him feel frisky) and got to sniff the cat's butt on the doorstep. What a life!
I mentioned, in an earlier post, that I received a letter from a ghost the other day. I wrote the ghost back. I gave the ghost my email address. I'm waiting on a reply.
I fertilized my tomatoes, watermelons and squash today. I hope it will be beneficial and not, you know, burn them up. I don't know what kind of fertilizer it was. It looked like a mixture with ammonium nitrate in it. Someone told me that tomato plants will grow well with nitrogen, but the fruit won't amount to anything. We'll see.
I'm getting a new mattress tomorrow. Well, it's not exactly new. My sister told me the history of it and it was such a saga that I drifted off somewhere in the middle. When I came back around, she was still saying things like, "And then it went to so-and-so, she used it for a while, until she moved, then the whatch-a-ma-call-ems got it, and they used it until they got a new one, and - finally - it came back to me." Still, it's got to be better than the one I'm currently sleeping on.
The story of my life.

The last day. (Should I mow my yard or just let it go?)

I don't have a lot to say - but since the world is going to end tomorrow, I thought I should probably chime in with something.
Actually, I have a lot on my mind, but as far as saying it - I don't think so. Not now.
If not now(to quote Tommy Chong's dad in "Up in Smoke"), "When, boy, when?!" The end is not only nigh, it's tomorrow!
Will it happen as soon as the clock strikes 12? If it does happen like that, instantaneously, I'm assuming the kick-off will be 12 AM American time. (Oh, Jeez, we have all those time zones. Central?) We ARE the center of the universe, right?
Will it just go BOOM?! Or, will it happen gradually over the day?
Will there be Fire and brimstone? A nuclear happening? Or will it be rain and floods? I guess a plague or disease would take too long. Me? I'm for getting it over with. Let's not drag it out.
What will happen to all of those people who have given their things away? You know, if the world doesn't end? I almost hope it doesn't happen, just to hear their excuses. Do you think they'll ask for their things back?
Maybe God will change his mind. Can he do that? Or is everything locked in? And if it IS locked in, what chance have we ever had, anyway? I think we did pretty well, considering the possibility that the game was fixed all along.
I'm just pissed off that I never got a flying car. They promised us flying cars in the future and here we are at the end of time. No flying cars. Also, I wanted a monkey - but that's another story.

My past.

I got a letter from a ghost yesterday.

My strange interest in religimous art.

Remembrance of first holy communion and St. Expedite.
St. Expedite may not even be an actual saint - or an actual person. There's a lot of myth around him. He is usually depicted holding a cross with the word "hodie" written on it - Latin for "today." He stands on a crow (a symbol of the devil) with a banner in its mouth which reads, "cras." "Cras" means "tomorrow."
St. Expedite is the patron saint of rapidity and urgent causes. Some say he's the unofficial patron saint of nerds and slackers. In Haitian Voodoo (or Voodou), he is associated with sex, death, cemeteries and children.
I found these laminated cards in a book about St. Francis of Assisi. I wish the gold embossing of the originals translated better to the computer screen.

 

 

In a dream, last night...

To tell TBOGL about the dream I had last night, I'm going to have to leave out some of the disgusting details, I think - specifically pertaining to a diseased prostitute. I feel as if I've said too much already.
There's not much you can do about the contents of your dreams.
I often have dreams where I'm with a woman who's a composite of several of the women I've been with in my life. I was with her last night. We rode, in a yellow Mustang convertible, to a garage. She was driving. We were not a couple anymore, but more like friends. When we got to the garage, she went into the office and spoke to the owner about why her husband (Charley?) wasn't at work. Apparently, he worked at the garage. It seemed as if maybe they were on the verge of breaking up and he was generally throwing his life away, as men are wont to do under such circumstances.
I was lying on the garage floor, propped up on my elbows, waiting for the composite woman, when I noticed the big roll-up doors were going down. They were closing early because of some sort of storm. I looked out. The sky was dark and lightning flashed.
We left and went to a motel. Oprah was on the TV. Her guest was some black guy trying to set a sexual record. He came out on stage, naked, having sex with a naked woman, who had her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. They pooched thusly as he ran across the stage, pushing a grand piano in the process. (I know, it almost sounds like a set-up for "The Aristocrats.")
The composite woman somehow procured a prostitute for a friend of mine who had magically appeared in the motel room. I don't know who my friend was. He was a vague entity. The prostitute was sick and disgusting. The women went into the bathroom, and without getting into too many vile details, the prostitute left a bathtub full of bloody water, which seemed to set off a catastrophic chain of events, once the plug was pulled and it flowed down the drain. Step by step, domino-like, the earth, life, existence itself began to erode and extinguish - until it reached its lowest level, its basest form - no, not atomic, but rock. At the core of our world's actuality are rock people. I was there. I saw them. Their leader was a rock priest. They were worried - and rightly so - for they realized that they were the last defense against annihilation. Then, in what was an ominous indication of the degeneration of the situation, the rock god appeared. He was humongous and spoke in a deep, weary voice. He asked for "The Pencil." Was he going to write something? An antidote to the ghastly ills plaguing Existence? The priest reverently removed "The Pencil" from a rocky shelf. When he did, a pebble fell, then another, and another, until a gigantic mountain crumbled - destroying the rock people and their god.
I stood, in the distance, against the yellow Mustang. There was nothing now but a rocky, desert landscape. Dry, dusty and barren. I slid under the wheel and drove off.

This and that. Nothing, really.

I spent this entire weekend without talking to anyone. Well, anyone I know. I spoke to some checkout people in stores. Hello. How are you? Thank you. I feel like I have to find something to do with myself. Something positive that I'm physically able to do. But, everything seems to be on hold, for now. I'm waiting on the roll of the bones.
It's annoying to me to have to hear other people's cell phone conversations. You're a physical presence, but someone from somewhere else takes center stage - via a little plastic device - and everyone present is expected to sit quietly and patiently while the chat happens. Riding in a car with my 66 year old, religious sister, recently, I heard her have a phone conversation about Lady Gaga. Most disconcerting. What a strange culture we live in. Everyone knows a little about everything.
Chaz Bono is everywhere these days. He had to borrow money from friends to have his sex change - a child of Cher's! I'm happy he's happy, but I feel a bit inundated by the media blitz. They always say the same thing: "If I can help just one person by telling my story..."
I watched "Get on the Bus" again, today. I think it's one of Spike's best. Who doesn't love Ossie Davis?
I have to go to my doctor's office, tomorrow, and have some blood-work done. It's this whole Warfarin thing. God, I hate drugs.
I know I said I feel like I need to find something to do with myself (see opening paragraph), but at the same time, I wonder how I ever accomplished all the things I used to when I was working. Maybe it's because I now have only a tenth of the energy I once had. If I vacuum my bedroom and my living-room, I have to lie down and rest.
I just finished reading a small novel (I would say novella, but it plainly says, "A NOVEL" below the title. I once knew a large lesbian named Novella. But, I digress...) by Joyce Carol Oates. It was a story about an influential, liberal, somewhat playboy-ish, democratic senator from New England who drunkenly drives his car off the road into a body of water, killing the young girl with him (not his wife). "Thinly veiled" doesn't even begin to describe it. Very odd.
I'm going to bed now. I'm tired.

Personal ad.

"Equine sports, tennis, B-ball, soccer, jogging, swimming, water-skiing, camping, baseball, hiking."

I'm exhausted just reading it...

"A single event can awaken within us a stranger totally unknown to us."

(Antoine de Saint-Exupery.)

Will a series of events awaken a mob?

In a dream, last night...

Gunter Grass said, "I know to tell a dream is to tell it badly."
Here goes:
I was in a huge department store with my ex-wife. Apparently we were still married. The store was very dark. There were no lights on. We became separated and I wandered around, not really looking for anything in particular. People kept coming up to me and asking if I were me. They said my name. Yes I am. They would then imply that I had ordered a large amount of propane, in oddly small, slim tanks and that I owed the store money. No, I didn't. It's a mistake of some sort. As I went through the store, more and more people would come up to me and suggest the same thing. I would say, no, no, and try to get away from them.
As I was walking away from a couple of these strangely annoying - and quite mistaken - sales people, someone sidled up to me, grabbed my arm and led me down a dark and quiet aisle. It was my ex-mother-in-law. She said she and her husband were going to help me get out of this situation. The section of the store she led me into was where they sold beds. We sat down on a bed and I noticed that my (ex) wife and her sisters were on an adjacent bed. We started talking about my alleged propane bill problem.
There was an odd 3D picture of my (ex) wife on the bed on which I sat. In it, she was a good bit younger. She had on a necklace and I could just barely make out that it had some writing on it. I tried to tilt the picture, as one might do with a 3D image, to better read the writing on her necklace. I couldn't make it out.
The next thing I know, I'm in a grocery store and I run into an old Sunday school teacher. She had her cart parked against another woman's cart and they are talking. As I walked by, she acknowledged me and asked if I wanted some Cool Whip. I told her sure, but that I was going to buy HER a tub of Cool Whip. (I really was, but I don't know why.) She looked at me as if there was something wrong with me and handed me the Cool Whip. I noticed that she also had a much larger tub of store brand dairy topping in her cart - which she kept.
Then I was on laying on a couch in a restaurant parking lot, somewhere. I was talking to someone who sat on the end of the couch. I saw a little red car, an older Acura coupe, still in good shape, pull into the parking lot. Then I got a call on my cell phone from the driver. It was my old friend Mike ("Big Mac Mikey B.") who died 20 years ago. We had worked in a restaurant together. It was as if he were still alive and just a little older than he had been when I knew him. Now, he was the manager of this establishment. He was talking about one of his employees, Kevin, that he sometimes had to pick up and give a ride to work. He said, you remember Kevin that we used to work with. I did. I couldn't believe that Kevin was still washing dishes. Mike said he sometimes wished he had an old hooptie to go around and pick up these employees with.
Then, a cat came up to me as I lay on the couch (in the parking lot...). I knew it as my old cat Butterbean, but it looked nothing like her. Butterbean was a tailless gray tabby. This cat was yellow and white and had a tail. As I was petting "Butterbean," she began to bite me - playfully at first, but soon, it was almost unbearable. She would bite down hard and not let go. I tried to get her off of my hand by attempting to pry her jaws open. She would hiss and snarl and bite down again. I would free myself and push her away, but she kept coming back.
Then I woke up.

People used to love me.

Hey there,

I hope you are feeling better today. I just woke up about an hour ago and I am thinking about you. You are so good to me that I could never thank you enough. This has (sic) been some very hard times for me lately, emotionally and financially. You have been right there for me and I am so proud to be with such a handsome guy! If you ever need me, I will be right here for you. I see things getting much better really soon.

Love,
J.

A mish-mash, hodge-podge, a melange, if you will...

I seem to encounter incompetence everywhere I go, these days. Whether it's a new, evolving (de-volving?) condition plaguing mankind or I've just become more sensitive to an existing malady, whether I'm less patient or I'm imagining it - I can't say.

The following, while somewhat interesting, is from a chain letter/spam email I received (from a friend, no less):
July 2011 will have 5 Fridays, 5 Saturdays and 5 Sundays. This only happens every 823 years.
Some interesting dates this year will include: 1/1/11, 1/11/11, 11/1/11 and 11/11/11.
If you take the last 2 digits of the year you were born and add the age you will be this year, the answer - for everyone - will be 111.

As George Clinton would say, "Everything is on the one!"

My health? It's up and down. It changes from minute to minute.

It's raining - a nice cool, steady shower. Great for gardens. (My watermelons and squash have sprouted. My Roma tomato plants are looking good.)

I just finished "An Odor of Sanctity." I've probably read it 5 or 6 times, over the years. On page 357, Alaric Teudisson remarks, "...I sometimes think that theology is the tribute that nonsense pays to sense."

I found a nickle from the Bahamas the other day. On the flip side is a coat of arms. Last night, as I was doing a crossword puzzle, one of the clues was "Island nation with a marlin and flamingo on its coat of arms." I thought, "Hey!"

I just had a small thing. Like I said, up and down. Minute to minute.

I'm living outside of society, these days. I'm in a sort of limbo. (Those 2 sentences have conjured up 2 songs. Guess what they are, for 10 points.)

I'm having another thing. Gotta go.

I'm back, several hours later. I'm ok. I'm ok...

I'm not sure what this means, if anything.

I just finished watching the Judds on OWN. This was the final show of the series. I don't know what it is, but I find them compelling. Of course their final song of the tour was "Love Can Build a Bridge." That song always makes me cry.
I flipped to PBS just as "Eastenders" was coming on. I used to watch that every week. I started playing the piano bit from the theme song on Scooter, as he lay across my lap. Then it hit me: I used to do that every Sunday night with my beloved dog Pooky. She would lay straight across my lap and I would play the "Eastenders" theme song on her, as if she were a piano. What's really weird is Scooter usually curls up on my lap. Tonight, he was a perfect piano. When I realized what I was doing, I felt surprised - and sad.
Ok, I know - I'm weird. I'm a weird, sad, confused, lonely man. Thank goodness for Scooter. (He's as weird as I am, in his doggy way.)

Sliding with Jarod.

Ok. Yeah. So, this Jarod Reactor - our Jarod - has liquefied. Like quicksilver, fragile and cool, he pours down the skins of things and drips into the dirt. Maybe that's where he belongs. Maybe there has to be a gritty component.
Dirt.
Everything comes from dirt.
Everything comes to dirt.
Dirt.
But he's moving, he is. There's a point there, isn't there?
I think so.
From the moon drenched rooftops to the earth below - it's the slow slide.
Do it! Do the Slow Slide!
Elegant and primitive, crude and divine, let the emotional motion move you forward.
You can't fight it anyway, Jarod. Be a good boy. Slide.
Mingling with the base and the basic, Jarod trudges on.
Hero? Anti-hero? Zero?
Keep your hands in your pockets, keep your eyes looking forward, keep your thoughts to yourself. Move through this rigid production. Beware of the applicable superstitions. Know your lines. You've got to keep moving. You have to make it through that door.
An odor, a color, a texture, and everything comes flooding back.
Sing out! Sing out!
Everything is everything. And nothing means anything.
A desperate stranglehold on the life force and away we go!
Ride it, Mercurial Cowboy!
Oh, to look at things, to touch things, to taste things.
Things.
Silver things.
Dirty things.
Oh, the things you say.
Oh, the things you do.
Pick up a brush, a pen. Anything to ward off the cataclysm of a sexual explosion.
(Yes, our boy is a sexual being.)
The base. The basic.
I wish I could say "celebrate" and mean it. I remember when I could.
Not anymore.
Quicksilver in the dirt.
Slide with our boy Jarod Reactor. Hold his hand.
He could use some gleaming empathy.
You've got some.
Release it.
Release yourself.

Books - and the things you find in them.

I've read almost everything in my house (other than rather dry classics by Jane Austen and George Eliot and "The Brothers Karamozov," in which I can't seem to get a foothold) and have begun re-reading books. I am currently re-reading Frank Yerby's "An Odor of Sanctity." I love that book. Frank was an interesting guy.
I went to the Goodwill store, today, for the sole purpose of picking up some new reading material. The pickings were rather slim, but I did find a couple of Toni Morrisons (have I already read "Sula?") and Salman Rushdie's "The Satanic Verses." I can't believe that book was published in 1988. Tempus is fugiting.
As I've written about in previous posts, I love finding notes and other "clues" in used books, and I lucked up with Morrison's "A Mercy." On the opening page, there was an inscription that read, "Good reading, Leah. Critique it for me, will you? Love, Grandma Janet and Grandpa Alden." Then, I noticed a scrap of paper in the middle of the book. It said:

Jan.26, 2009
Dear Leah,
Trust you're basking in warm sun while of course either creating a poem or piece of art. Yes?
We're freezing. It's like Vermont.
Talked with Rachel last Friday and she seems good, is touching base with a therapist, a woman who knew Kristen and was a member of U.U. Church they went to. Maddie is skiing once a week with school and loving it.
Amanda and Megan are in Brewster being solitary and writing and I hope not freezing. Allie's at Bridgewater State with an apartment in Middleboro.
Sorry this is late. I didn't finish it. Been housebound for a week with a heavy respiratory problem, but on the mend.
Hope you saw some of the inauguration. The benediction by Rev. Lowery was outstanding.
Peace and love,
Grandma J.

P.S.
I'm recycling Joanna's fine taste in wrap, knowing you'd appreciate it.

The heroes of my youth - in their original regalia.

 

 

The Mighty Marvel Universe.

The Thor movie is out - oddly enough entitled, "Thor." Now, when I was a kid, you were either a D.C. guy or a Marvel guy. Make mine Marvel! I was a true believer. 'Nuff said! So, I was rather excited, in my limited range, to hear about the Marvel films about to be unleashed: Thor, Captain America and The Avengers.
After sneak peaks at these films, however, I'm somewhat let down. Why do they have to change the characters' appearances so drastically? I want the superheroes of my youth. I want the pretty, clean shaven Thor, with the spandex and long blond tresses (as untrue to the Norse myths as that may be). I want the original red, white and blue Cap costume. Is it that Hollywood can't find actors muscled enough to fill out these outfits? Is that why they use this molded, plastic looking gear? And why does it have to be so drab? I want the vibrant hues of the classic Marvel characters.
Ahh, nostalgia. Lou Reed said, "I don't like nostalgia - unless it's mine."

"Spill the wine / da da da..."

I've been somewhat obsessed with the lyrics to Eric Burdon and War's "Spill the Wine" for some years now. Great song, love to sing along, but what the heck is he saying?
"Spill the wine / dig that girl?"
"Spill the wine / take that girl?"
"Spill the wine / take that pearl?"
Someone online suggested, "Cool ride / tic tac toe."
There have been suggestions that there are references to Ibsen's "Peer Gynt" and "Hamlet."
After much listening, researching and consideration - taking into account the culture of the times in which it was written - I have settled on:
"Spill the wine / take that pearl." ("Pearl" being a vague sexual reference. In a live version, he says something like, "Take it in your mouth and roll it around...")
Now, there's the question of the part in the background with a girl speaking Spanish. I haven't a clue. (Rumor has it that she was Jimi Hendrix's girlfriend.)
Of course, Eric Burdon's not talking. Like Carly Simon, he knows the value of mystery.

This is where I am.

I haven't been blogging. (If you're a blogger, you know the thing about not being one of those people who blog about not blogging. Sorry.) I've had a lot going on, lately - physically and mentally.
I keep playing phone tag with UNC medicaid eligibility councilors. They call me and I miss it. I call them back and leave a message.
Laying in bed last night, unable to sleep, I did 3 crossword puzzles, a Jumble and a Find a Word. I then began picking up books - some I've read, some I haven't - and skimming through them. "Juliette" by the Marquis de Sade. "Mansfield Park" by Jane Austen. "The Sound and the Fury" By Will.i.am Faulkner. And some others. I couldn't make heads or tails of the opening chapter of "The Sound and the Fury." Who are these interchanging people? What the heck are they talking about? Maybe it was just me, but that book - at least the beginning - is a mess. And those "southern" accents!
My sister loaned me the book "The Flags of Our Fathers." It's about the men who raised the flag on Iwo Jima in WWII (yes, that famous photo), after what was probably the most bloody battle in history. I'm not much of a war or history buff, but it was a good read. It makes you feel ashamed to complain about anything, after what those guys went through.
I slept a little last night, without a sleep aid - although it was after 3 o'clock before I dozed.
I got a message from a friend of mine who suggested, "Let's do something fun this weekend." That's part of my problem. No one understands that fun is out of the question for me at this point. I'm just trying to get to the point where I can go to the grocery store without fear of something happening.
I'm on coumadin now, so I have to be tested weekly. My blood level has to be within a very tight range. I went to a small clinic in a nearby town to be tested. It's a first come/first serve clinic. I described it in an earlier post, but I'm going to reiterate my experience. I was there before they opened the door. No one really acknowledged me. The place is awful. It looks dirty and it smells funny. The nurses and office girls were crowded into the little reception booth eating breakfast. Someone came to the front door, stuck his head in and called out someone's name. "Tell her I got a new dog." The whole office rushed out to see the dog - even the PA (there is no doctor there).
I finally got my blood test done. This was Friday. "Call back Tuesday," they said (it was the Easter weekend). Ok. I called back Tuesday. They were closed. I guess they decided to take an extra day off. I called back Wednesday. "Call back this afternoon," they said. I called later that day. "Call back tomorrow." It was Friday before I got my results. One week.
I changed to a doctor's office up the road. Good idea.
This place is new and clean and everyone is very professional. The doctor was confident and knowledgeable. He called me the next day (a real doctor actually called me - himself) after my coumadin check (the results of which I got back in one day) and said I may have a thyroid problem. That would mean more medication. And it's the amiodarone that I'm currently taking that's probably causing the problem.
That sucks, but at least he caught it. That other place should be shut down.
I'm no longer receiving unemployment compensation. I can't be on that and apply for disability. I'm in a scary place, right now. Nothing is for sure and there's no money coming in. And, here's a funny thing that's happening: I have no money, but my bills keep getting bigger. More drugs. My car insurance has doubled. More doctor visits. And, of course, the price of gas.
How am I feeling? Other than being really concerned and feeling as if my future has been wiped out, I'm doing a little better. Maybe I'm adjusting to the meds. Of course, I'll soon have MORE meds to adjust to. It just never ends.
My sister keeps saying, "Take one day at a time." It's so hard to live that way. Robert Duvall tells his nephew, in "A Family Thing," that the secret to life is to have something to look forward to. That no longer feels like an option to me.

In a dream, last night...

My sleeping problem continues. I slept a little last night, woke up early this morning, then, eventually, fell back asleep. When I did, I had a crazy dream.
I was an adult (I'm not sure what age, exactly) and I was with my mom. One of my sisters was there. I can't remember which one. I was holding the old Silvertone guitar my dad used to have. They were cheap guitars, but now they're collectors items (think Jack White or Beck). I strummed a few chords and they sounded awesome - real jazzy. My mom gave me a disapproving look. She made some negative remarks. I knew, in the dream, that she had never loved me. I said as much to her. Me, her and my sister got into an argument, but my mom remained cool, detached and disdainful throughout. Did I say cool? Cold.
I tried to play the guitar again. Nothing came out right. I couldn't play.
I attempted to get others to see my position (my cousin showed up, at one point). Everyone made me feel as if I were nuts. "Your mom raised you and took care of you! How disrespectful..!" But, I knew, in my heart, that my mom had never loved me. I felt so alone.
In another part of the dream, I was a child, riding a bicycle in my sister's house. My niece, who is only 11 months younger than me, was riding also, with her dad on the back. I rode out into the yard and then into the woods. I found a puppy. She was a mixed breed, and even though she was a baby, she was quite large. I picked her up and kept riding. Further in the woods, I found the rest of the litter. While the first puppy was mostly black and seemed to be part Spaniel, the rest looked like St. Bernards - mixed with some other large dog. There were about 6 of them. The rest of the puppies were wilder than mine (yes, I had decided to keep her) and I couldn't catch them.
Upon inspecting my puppy, I noticed her belly was covered in red bumps, like the measles. My cat (my long gone Bo?) casually reached out and dug his claws into the puppy's belly, as if doing his own inspection. I had to remove his paw from the poor diseased puppy. I took her to the vet. I told him I was concerned about the rest of the puppies in the woods, as the high at the end of the week was going to be 19 degrees - even though it was late spring. I couldn't see any way those puppies would survive.

Not a bad day...

I had to take a sleep aid last night. This is beginning to concern me. Before, I might take a pill once a year. Now, I can't sleep without one.
Since I did get some rest last night, I decided to take advantage of it. I washed a sink full of dishes and 2 loads of clothes. I vacuumed the house and did some general cleaning and straightening. I put away a big basket of clean clothes. I checked the oil and water in my car. I changed my sheets, washed my dog, took a shower and went to the grocery store.
My cleaning music for today:
"M.U." The Best of Jethro Tull.
Reckoning. REM.
Conductor. The Comas.

Oh, I wrote a new song. This idea just popped in my head, so I picked up my guitar and it just came together. Pretty wacky.

A very tired update.

I'm up and down. Up and down. Mostly down. And "up" isn't very high. When you're in the basement, the first floor is "up."
I have no energy. I feel weak. My insides don't feel as if they can support my outside. I can't sleep. When I do get a little sleep, I slip into delirium.
I planted some squash and watermelon seeds today. And 4 Roma tomato plants. I made myself do it. It was all I could do.
I'm taking a sleep aid tonight. I have to have some rest.

The Only World.

I open the doors and windows in my house. The breeze exorcises some spirits, while ushering in others. I feel spirit-like these days. But not in a cool, groovy kind of way. Just thin and used up. I have more than a foot in the spirit world. Somewhere along the line I'll have to choose. Or more likely, it will be chosen for me. There's only one choice. I guess it's not really a choice at all.
Nothing means anything anymore. What's the point in that? Isn't there supposed to be a point?
Those dogs barking in the night don't seem so poetic and romantic, now. You know, all of that call of the wild crap. They're drier and colder, more like death hounds.
I have to say these things. John Lee's daddy said, "It's in him and it's got to come out." I can't contain it. I have to boogie-woogie, vomiting forth in the midst of vacating the material world. Which, as far as I know, is the only world.
My house is a cave. A tomb. Breeze or no breeze. I want to crawl in my cocoon and fall asleep. Not an uneasy sleep, where I have apocalyptic dreams, but a deep, deep sleep. The big sleep.
I'm so, so tired.

My body's numb and tingly, my mind is hazy and the top of my head is hot.

Other than that...

First, I have to say I'm not as sharp as I once was. Medication? Loss of brain cells? No sleep? I dunno.
Because I haven't slept much over the last few weeks, I took a sleep aid last night. When I woke up this morning, I was quite groggy. At 8:30, my phone rang. It was some woman from some state agency asking me questions concerning my recent attempts at obtaining Medicaid or Medicare or Social Security disability benefits. How do I feel? What procedures have I had? Alcohol or drugs? Depression? Suicidal or homicidal thoughts? Do I watch TV? What kinds of programs? Surf the Internet? Do I take care of my bills? Ever had psycho-therapy? Can I drive? Very odd things to consider first thing in the morning. I answered as best as I could. "Who are you with, again?" I asked. I'm still not sure who she represented.
I made myself get up and take care of some business. I put on some laundry. I payed my sewer and cable bills (I'm old fashioned - I do this in person). I mailed a payment to a collection agency. I stopped by the ATM. It doesn't sound like much, but to me it was a very successful day.
I called the clinic to get my blood-work results. The PA told me, last Friday, to call Tuesday. A woman answered and asked if it was an emergency. No. She said they were closed. What a clinic this is. It's a small, depressing, dirty place with an unprofessional staff. The rooms are painted colors that look like diarrhea and puke. The place often smells like BO combined with some kind of chemicals. The carpet is filthy. When I went in last Friday, the whole staff went outside to see someone's new dog. Including the PA. Meanwhile, I'm sitting all alone in the waiting room. They only worked half a day Friday, had Saturday, Sunday, Monday and (even though they were supposed to be open today) Tuesday off. I wish I could walk in there and straighten that place out. I would be good at that.
My friend Chuck told me the Smithereens have a new one (Album? CD? Recording?) out. He says it's great. That's something to look forward to.

I'm growing very tired of all this.

I've been awake all night. I read an entire book. I developed a dry cough after my last procedure and I still have it. Sometimes I cough so badly that it hurts my chest, makes me lose my breath and causes dizziness.
I don't want to be on the Coumadin. I don't want to bleed to death. I don't want to walk around like an anemic, brain-addled zombie. I don't want necrotic skin and amputations. I don't want to be on Coumadin. I don't want to live the rest of my life (the little that there is) like this. I'd just as soon take my chances. I don't want to be on Coumadin! I DON'T WANT TO BE ON COUMADIN!!

Happy holiday.

Oh yeah, I guess it's Easter or Eostre or whatever. To anyone celebrating, I hope you had a good day. Me? I sat at home, alone, and watched "Annie Hall," for the 1000th time. I don't feel like doing anything.

Books I've recently read.

One thing about being out of work and sick is that you have time to read.

 

My heart (update).

I had the cardiac ablation procedure and had my ICD changed out (I've got the top of the line model, with all of the latest technology). While they were replacing that, they discovered I have (along with the enlarged heart and Ventricular Tachycardia) Atrial Fibrillation. Now, I'm at risk for stroke.
Hooray for me!
A few days after I came home, my new device gave me an "inappropriate shock." Very traumatic. Now I know what it feels like. Somehow, it mistook the A-Fib as V-Tach. I've been back up to UNC and had them adjust my ICD. They also put me on Coumadin and increased my Metoprolol. Now I'm taking a drug that could turn me blue (Amiodarone) and one that could cause me to bleed to death (Coumadin).
I can't sleep. I feel horrible. I'm afraid to eat anything (and yet I have only lost about 10 lbs). I'm supposed to watch my liquid intake. No leafy green vegetables or Broccoli(!). I may have to have an atrial ablation and/or a DIFFERENT ICD installed.
Up until the last few visits, the doctors have tried to tell me some small, positive thing about my condition - something to hold onto. At my last check-up, someone said, "No matter what we try, your heart just seems to resist."
There comes a point in a person's life when he has to weigh the quantity vs quality. I think I may be there.

"Ch, ch, ch, ch, changes."

Change is gonna come.
"There is nothing permanent except change." Heraclitus.
Some anonymous person texted me a pic of a road sign that said, "CHANGES next exit."
My horoscope said to expect change.
Woody Allen's character in "Husbands and Wives" said, "Change is death." (This has become a little joke between me and my best friend.) His wife in the movie (Mia Farrow), basically told him that that was B.S. She said that change was what life was all about.
Plus ca change plus c'est le meme chose. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Change your mind.
Change underwear.
Change oil.
Change horses in the middle of a stream.
Cheryl Crow said that change will do you good.
I wrote a song that said people couldn't change ("I can't change, you can't change...").
"Be the change you wish to see in the world." Gandhi.
Hey buddy, can you spare some change?
Change is a process, not an event.
You've changed, man...

Ravi Shankar called him, "Jayaraj Hari Son."

I just finished watching the "Concert for George" DVD. If you like the Beatles, if you like George, this is a beautiful thing to experience. He tends to get over shadowed by John and Paul, so sometimes you forget how many great songs he wrote.
I don't know what's wrong with me, these days. I teared up during several portions of the video, and broke down crying when Billy Preston sang, "Isn't It a Pity."

 

Update.

I'm feeling a little better, today. I actually - finally - got a good night's sleep, last night. Rest makes a world of difference.
I have to go back to UNC hospital to have a follow up, next Friday. After that, I have to see the cardiologist in 6 weeks.
I'm glad to be here. I'm thankful to be alive.

In a dream, last night...

...I was riding my bike down to one of the local beaches. I had my dog, Scooter, running along side me on a leash. (This doesn't seem like a very good idea to me, now. He's a tea cup Chihuahua and only weighs about 2 1/2 lbs.) I came to a stop atop this little foot bridge that ran over a fresh water creek(?). I was going to unleash Scooter and hold him the rest of the way. As soon as the leash came off, he jumped into the creek. All of a sudden, I was in a small, dusty, dilapidated structure. I ripped my shirt off. An earring got snagged in the fabric and fell to the floor. I ran out of the building and dove into the water to save Scooter.
I immediately saw my sister's dog in the water, also (in real life, she has a teacup, too). That's why Scooter jumped in. He dove under the surface like an otter. I went after him. He did this thing that he does in real life where he'll jump back when you try to pick him up (it's maddening) - only now he was doing this under water! I was running out of breath. Finally, I was able to grab him.
When I got back to the abandoned building, I actually found my earring, in the cob webs and dust. I remember thinking how lucky that was.
The next thing I know, I'm on the beach and my mom is there. My dad died when I was 15 and my mom got remarried. She died when I was 25. But, in this dream, I felt like I was in my 30s and my mom was alive and unmarried. I told her that the guy she was dating (?) was a worthless drunk and probably a criminal (I had seen him up to some nefarious activities earlier, in a beach bar). My mom looked sad when I said this.
Without a decent segue-way, I'm at some rich guy's house, on the beach. He's throwing an enormous cookout. I remember people, including me, kept walking through his huge kitchen, trying to snag food off of the counters and tables. He would come in and chastise them, shoo them out of the kitchen. "You'll lose your appetite!" he said.
I looked through his kitchen windows toward the beach. A fleet of boats were descending on us. Middle Eastern terrorists! Within a couple of minutes, they were all over the house. They weren't doing anything violent yet, but I knew it was just a matter of time. Everyone was frightened. I was sort of trying to walk casually away before the shooting began. As I walked past the laundry room, I noticed a lot of paper money spread out on top of the washer and dryer. I considered taking it, thinking, if I don't, the terrorists surely will.
I'm not sure what happened after this, but for the moment, Scooter and I were still alive.

Obsessions. Kraftwerk.

Kraftwerk are the fathers of electronica. They were so far ahead of their time that most most people still haven't caught up. Although electronic music is often thought of as cold and sterile, Kraftwerk managed to infuse it with melody, warmth and, often, a sense of humor. Artists from many genres have been influenced by them - from rappers to Devo to Coldplay. To this day, I still hear Kraftwerk samples in songs.
I've been obsessed with them since I first heard "Autobahn" in 1974. I was, at that time, a member of the Columbia Record Club. When their next album, "Radio-activity," came out, I ordered it. That may be my all-time favorite.
Long live those Teutonic Man-Machines!

 

My heart (update).

I'm still alive, I'm progressing in little ways, but I don't much feel like sitting in front of the computer, yet. I'll get back to blogging shortly.

I'm alive.

I'm back home. I haven't felt like blogging (I still don't). I just wanted to check in and say it's been rough, but I'm improving. More details as I convalesce.

Mundanities.

I hit the ATM, this morning. God, that thing drives me nuts. It keeps telling me that I don't have enough money, when I know that I do. And it charges me $2 for that "transaction!" Then, if I enter a lesser amount, it charges me an additional $2! Being unemployed, every $2 counts.
I did job searches today, because I'll be in the hospital at the end of the week.
I gassed up the car ($46!). Gas is $3.70 per gallon, now.
I'm doing laundry as I write this - which, at my house, is a whole thing unto itself. Not only do I have very poor water pressure, but because my washer is in the garage, some plastic piece froze and burst, over the winter, and now it leaks everywhere. Weak water pressure + leak = waiting hours for clothes to wash. Also, I have to turn the water off after it fills up for the wash cycle, turn it back on for rinse and then off again for spin. If I ever came into some money, I wouldn't waste it on a mansion and a bunch of sports cars - I'd make sure I had really good water pressure. And a toilet that flushes like a cyclone. Whoooosh! (Also, I'd like a nice mattress.)
I did a sink full of dishes last night, so that's out of the way. I bought a Ralph Lauren tote bag today, at a second hand store, for my trips ($5). I think I'm happy with it. I picked up kitty (doggy) litter and some paper products. I stopped at the post office for a news paper. Now I just have to buzz my hair and I'll be ready for tomorrow.

Tired.

I'm tired. I haven't been sleeping lately. I guess I'm worrying about this weekend. God, I'll be glad when it's over.
I'm sorry about the last post. I know it must seem so negative - but even when I'm down, my black humor often slips out. I'm afraid most people don't recognize it, though. Maybe you just have to know me.
Gallows humor, I believe they used to call it... (See?)

The Rhetoric of a Beaten Man. No response necessary.

Here's something to reckon with: Time marches on. It's unrelenting - a monstrous steam roller whose fuel tank never runs dry, whose cogs and gears never need greasing. There are no pit stops or bathroom breaks. Time doesn't stop for lunch. It certainly doesn't stop for you (me).
Whether pushed or pulled (compliments of Time's steely agency), from the moment of birth, you're on a slow (but gradually accelerating) march toward death. Isn't that a lovely notion?
Is it possible to view this thing called life in a different light? All we can hope for, it seems (in lieu of religiosity), are a few distractions along the way. Silly things.
Laughing.
Loving.
Travel.
Music and art.
Sports.
Sex.
Food.
Remove those from the equation and what are you left with? The initial grim realization - the idea of being pulverized, and subsequently dragged, by an unstoppable force.
Egads! Zounds! God's eyes! Am I a guy you'd want to hang out with, or what?

Richard Russo. "Empire Falls."

...in which Father Mark entertained notions of "resolution" thusly:

"The problem with the contemplative life was there was no end to contemplation, no fixed time limit after which thought had to be transferred into action. Contemplation was like sitting on a committee that seldom made recommendations and was ignored when it did, a committee that lacked even the authority to disband."

I can't sleep.

It's after 3 in the morning. I can't sleep. I'm so worried about things. What's going to happen to me in the hospital? What will happen when my unemployment benefits run out? How will I find a job with my health? If I find one, how can I possibly keep it.
Little things are driving me crazy. What will I do with my dog when I'm in the hospital. No one but me seems to be worried about that. He's so little and the world is so big and cruel. I look at him and my heart breaks, thinking about leaving him here alone while I'm in Chapel Hill. He doesn't understand. What if something happens to him? What if something happens to me?
I've got to go to sleep. I'm exhausted. And horribly depressed.

Hallelujah.

In the last few days I've heard Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" sung by 3 different people: Willie Nelson, Rufus Wainwright and, of course, Leonard.
Leonard is the man. (Kurt Cobain sang, "Give me a Leonard Cohen afterworld / so I can sigh eternally...") If he had never recorded anything other than his first album - the haunting "Songs of Leonard Cohen" - he would still be revered as a songwriter.
Thank you Leonard. You've made the world a better place.

My heart (update).

I had a rough night, last night. My heart was doing something weird. I couldn't sleep. I felt as if something major was about to occur.
I'm feeling a little better today, but I'm weak and wobbly.
That's no way to go through life: Weak and wobbly.
I hope I can make it 'til next weekend, when I'm having the 2 procedures done in Chapel Hill. I need to be extra careful this week.
God, I hope those procedures help.

It's Tricky.

It's tricky. I can do it, but it requires finesse. Ha. Like I have finesse!
The guy next door, singing in the shower, seems to be on track. Or is he? How would I know? He comes in, he goes out. He sings in the shower. Sometimes, he calls his dog. His life keeps chugging along.
I picked up a pile of used books today - from the Goodwill store. I looked for the hundred dollar bill bookmarks that weren't there. Why can't people use hundred dollar bill bookmarks?
I came up with a great idea, then scrapped it the next morning. Who am I to think I have great ideas? What's wrong with me? Hasn't life taught me anything?
The wind won't stop - as if it doesn't know that March is over. Somebody, please relay the message. Does the wind have ears or will it have to be written? (Does the wind have eyes?) Is there something wrong with me? (Don't answer that.)
There are plenty of fish in the ocean, to be sure, but potential soul mates are few and far between. I tend to believe that actual soul mates don't exist. Potentiality is so open-ended.
There's a guy I keep seeing around. I went to school with him, many lifetimes ago. He frequents flea markets. So do I. I want to walk up and call out his name, but he always seems to remove himself, just before I reach him. I think he's doing it on purpose. Maybe he doesn't want to remember the past. I can sympathize. I think that, one day, I'm going to force him to. You know, in a nice way.
My dog's outside, my house is quiet, my errands have been run, I'm contemplating the future. A week is as far as I can allow myself to venture. After that, I'll start again. Is Alvin Toffler still alive? His observations engulfed him as quickly as he wrote them down.

The Epic Minutiae.

I'm here. I don't know where that is, anymore. I don't know what that means, anymore: I'm here.
There's a thread snaking through all of this. A sneaky, snaky thread. Curving and weaving and making a mockery of congruence and pattern. A thread.
My head - did it ever feel different? Alive? Awake? Refreshed? Did I really use to wake up and jump out of bed with a clear, living head?
My thoughts. My thoughts have evolved, de-volved, mutated and transmogrified. My thoughts do the thinking for me now. I often wonder how all of that is going to turn out.
The problem with my heart is two-fold: Physicality and symbolism. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but the physical always trumps the symbolic.
The life force owes me one. Not really, but it would be nice. I'd collect with a smile and a nod. I'd extol its virtues, if it came through for me. Just this once.
Tried and true, feigned and solid, in theory and in the hand, pervasive and non-existent, extemporaneous and in the pocket... Stop me when I've gone too far. Stop me, if you can.
I agonize, I obsess, I procrastinate and let it slide. Tomorrow is a good time to perform certain tasks. If life weren't so demanding, maybe I'd accomplish something. Maybe I already have.
I'm there. If I don't know where "here" is, I'm surely fuzzy on the concept of "there." It doesn't matter, anyway. It's all a dream.

Picasa Picture Posting Problems!

I can't get my pics on Picasa to show up on the blog. Most annoying! There's a thread of complaints and Google says they're working on it.
It's strange to me how we have come to rely on all of this magic.

My mom's birthday.

Today is my mom's birthday. She would have been 88.
My mom and dad's birthdays were a week apart. We always gave them a party together. It was a nice way to welcome Spring.

Our teen male version of The Dozens. (Mid 70s)

Ok, this is awful. I'm warning the reader. This is a couple of teen boys - who were good friends, mind you - sending notes back and forth, in class, trying to out-insult each other. One was my friend W. The other, I'm sorry to admit, was me (J).

W: May Marlon Perkins drive his jeep across your testes, secretion breath.

J: May Jane Goodall have a sexually deprived male baboon apply head to the phallic instrument you had attached to your body, through surgery. Also, may she teach you the baboon mating scream ("Cum to me, chickadee").

W: May Barbara Walters get you sexually excited and then "turn you over" to Harry Reasoner.

J: May Harry Reasoner get you sexually excited then tell you "Barbara is on vacation this week."

W: May Ed McMahon get you sexually excited and then introduce Johnny's guest host. Please don't reply, flush bowl breath.

Another day.

W: Your mama dates the Dallas Cowboys, every one of them. She owns Dawson St. every Friday and Saturday night. She hires you out every Tuesday for her "happy" customers. What do you have to say to that, ball breath?

J: Not much. I'm too busy brushing my teeth and dusting off my calling card, 'cause I've got a date with your mother, moose fucker.

W: You've got a date with your barber to get your teeth shaved.
You cut me down
I must confess
But in your mouth
My dick lies best.

J: Drill a hole in yourself and watch the sap run out.

W: May a strange holy man bite your ass and fuck your mother.

J: May he NOT, nocturnal emission breath.

W: Hustle my balls, circumcision breath.

J: You can't get no cunt
You're just a runt
You can't get no head
You jack off in bed
Your mom thinks you're sick
You play with your dick (in church)
Your walls are so sticky, nasty M----.


(I warned you, didn't I?)

A snatch of a story (from the 70s).

The flames threatened to singe the very sky as they swept across the flat grasslands - like a horrendous horde of warriors. Apart from the main onslaught, small fires - deserters, if you will - drifted off, to loot and pillage of their own accord. The blame for the destruction was placed upon the Knowlings.
The Knowlings lived in the utmost northern regions - well above Kyoliomontrom. The Ky feared them. They could not understand a people who could endure the Phrozin Wastelandz.
In all of her 14 years, Ollimeigh had never witnessed such a sight. From her tower window, she saw hundreds of Ky fleeing the grasslands, carrying their most essential belongings, along with their children, and pouring into the valley of Smitheroft. The only thing...

Opening scene for a musical. (90s?)

Opening.
Lone man, center stage, in shadows, sits on a wooden chair, back to the audience. He speaks:

"All things have origin. All things begin somewhere. A certain locality. With birth into the realm of being at a specific time. With the possession of some amount of meaning. A reason for existing - although, often, it is clouded and uncertain.
All things have origin. And that which begins, ends."

A singer, with acoustic guitar, walks on stage, above the seated man and sings "Brothers in Search," then exits.

Big orange moon.

Always beginning anew, as if nothing ever really occurs in the first place - even though "anew" means "again."
(I don't know about you, but my life is filled with such contradictions.)
As if yesterday never existed.
Maybe it didn't.
(I'm not too sure about the actuality of the present, either - if you must know.)
It's a strange time-line, indeed, when it's shaped by a chimerical sequence of stones, teeth and shells - a necklace for a shaman, who has one foot in this world and another in the mist.
(If he were to wear shoes, what would they be like?)
"Animal, vegetable or mineral?" doesn't even begin to ask the correct question.
Nor does "This or that?"
"Here or there?" Nope.
The real query can't be formulated. Don't even try.
That shaman, he understands - he's dancing under the moon.
His head is filled with things that can't be touched.
What can be touched, ascertained? You must decide for yourself.
Me? I'm doing the watusi with a dreamer of dreams, under a big orange moon.
That moon is smiling, baby.

Trying to explain.

I'm really trying to be positive - I am - but I feel like I need to express what's going on with me.
I keep having these horrible dreams about losing my job. In them, I have angry confrontations with the people involved (the guilty parties). I had one last night. It was awful.
I never feel "good" anymore: My heart feels weak, as if it's flopping around in my chest, instead of beating strong and snug. If it were a car engine, I'd say the motor mounts were bad. There's a kind of tightness and aching in my head, like it's clogged up, that makes me slow and hazy. My arms often feel tight and they tingle. I get chills, then hot flashes. I have no energy and no enthusiasm for anything. I can't lift anything heavy. I have mini panic attacks and I'm scared to go anywhere. And then, of course (scariest of all), there's the V-Tach.
There are so many things I can no longer eat. You can't imagine how bland food is without salt. I can't drink even one beer or a glass of wine. Or a cup of coffee. Or a glass of tea. Although I'm often thirsty, I never want to drink anything, for some odd reason - even water. It's the strangest thing. I have to make myself drink.
I look at people in the grocery store and notice that they all seem ok. They're talking and smiling and buying beer and chips and cigarettes. I often feel as if I can barely function. It's hard to even deal with the cashiers. "How are you?" they ask. "I'm good. How are you?" I say, even though I feel like I'm going to pass out and I'm worried about making it home. The only time I feel half-way ok is when I'm in bed. It's as if I have aged, physically, 25 years, in the past couple of years - having the health issues of a 75 year old. A 75 year old with bad health.
Is it any wonder no one wants to become involved with me? I don't blame them.
For most of my life I took my health for granted. I now realize it's the most precious thing anyone has.

Spring 2011.

The azaleas against the house haven't started blooming yet, but the dogwoods are in full Spring mode. I love this time of the year.

 

 

People used to love me. (From the late 80s.)

Jimmi,
It's about one o'clock Monday morning. Ever since you let me out, I've been thinking about you. I bought this paper and envelopes so I could write you when I'm lonely and depressed. Or if I'm just thinking about you.
I still love you more than anything in the world. What are we gonna do? I'm sorry for everything. Can't you see how jealous I am? I want all of you and it seems like you don't have time for me anymore. Your weekends are full and Tuesday Greg comes over and now Martha. Please don't give her my phone number.
I don't know how to make things right between us but I swear I'm gonna try.
Daddy didn't give me a hard time when I got home. He's on vacation this week. If you went out tonight I hope you had a good time and if you didn't I hope you slept good.
Jim, the van is torn up and that means that the only vehicle running is the truck and I won't have any way to come see you. I've got to get a car but until then I'll have to ride my bike. Maybe I'll ride it to see you, if I leave early enough that it won't get dark on me. I can't stand it if I don't see you one day. You know I can't last 2 days.
I've always wanted to have your baby and I want it more than ever now that you want it too. I want to try every time we see each other. Is that okay with you? I love you. That's not just words, it's deep down inside me.
I gotta try to get some sleep.
Love ya.
Your wittle B.

Note from my mom (Sept. 15, 1985).

My mom wrote this inside my birthday card, just 3 months before she died and 1 month after my brother died:

Dear Jimmi,
I want to tell you again how much I love you and care about you. I never cease to thank God for giving me a wonderful son like you. I want this special day and all the days of your life to be full of happiness and blessings from God. May God bless you and watch over you always.
Love and prayers,
Mom

Nothing much (but nothing bad).

I've had a pretty good day today. It's the best I've felt since I had the episode last Saturday.
Today was the first yard mowing of the year. The first couple of mowings are always rough. I used the riding mower and didn't do any of my usual fanatical push mower trimming. I didn't want to over exert myself. My procedure is about 2 weeks away and I don't want anything to happen before then (as if I can help it).
That's about it. I just wanted to report in.

My heart (update).

"Life is nothing if not a random motion of coincidences and quirks of chance; it never goes as planned or foretold; frequently one gains happiness from being obliged to follow an unchosen path, or misery from following a chosen one. How often can one refrain from wondering what portentous events may not have arisen from some trivial circumstance which thereby has acquired a significance far beyond itself?"

Louis de Bernieres. I'm reading "The War of Don Emmanuel's Nether Parts." I love his writing. He exposes the glorious insanities of the human spirit, in a beautiful, playful, and darkly comical way. What more could you ask for?

I got a call today from the hospital in Chapel Hill. I have an appointment to have the ablation procedure, and have my ICD replaced, on April 8. I have to go in and meet with the doctor on the 7th.
I'm going to try to take it easy until then. I'm hopeful this procedure will help me.
Please, anyone reading this, send me some good vibes. I need everything I can get.

My dad's birthday.

Today is my dad's birthday. He would have been 90 years old. A lot of people live to be that old. He could still be alive - but he's been gone for 36 years. It's a strange thing to think about.

(My) Unrecorded songs.

Mere Mortal at Large
Mythologize Your Life
Go5katsu
Charley Cat! (Theme song)
C'mon Mr. Sun
Plastic Soul
Stand Tall
Flail
Maybe One Day
Blow Kisses
You
If'n I Can
There Are Times
Mortal
The Slow Slide
Remember When We Banged a Gong?
Zone of Fire

I'm sure there are some more. I'll add them when I think of them.

Happy Spring!

Thank goodness that horrible Winter is over. Here's to better days.

Me.

This is me - 49 years ago - at the age of one.
It seems as if people have their children photographed professionally once a week, these days - but this is the only professional photo of me as a child (until school age).

 

"Mortal" update.

Here are the lyrics to the theme song for "Mortal." There's a rough - really rough - version of it on video tape, just in case. I'm not feeling well, so the taped version sucks - but I wanted to document it.

"Mortal"

(Verse/chorus)
I am but flesh and blood
I'm just a human
Not much more than the air, than the air I breathe

Despite all my grand schemes
I amount to nothing
Just cut me anywhere, anywhere - I bleed

(Bridge)
Another year drifts by
Another time, another life
Another dream slip-slides into the sea

(Verse/chorus)

Each heartbeat
Each breath
The gift of life
The threat of death
Every dream
Every fear
All the friends
I hold dear
All the darkness
All the pain
All the anger
And the rain
The morning sun
In my eyes
The fits of laughter
The times I cried
For the always
And the never
And all the days I thought
I'd live forever...

(Lead)
(Bridge)
(Verse/chorus x 1 1/2)

 

An overview.

I don't know what other people do with their blogs. The Bulbs of Glacier Lilies has been a big mess: Part confessional, part documentation, part creative outlet and part catharsis. Even though there are HUGE chunks left out (there are some things I will never write about and some that just don't seem to matter anymore), it is a pretty good overview of my life. Such as it is (was).
I hope I can continue blogging for a while, but I feel as if I should consider the possibility that I may need to be wrapping things up. Some people may see me as morbid, but I see myself as being realistic - and I hate unfinished business.
I want to thank Chuck for being the kind of friend I never thought I would be able to have in my adult life. I never take for granted the joy of having someone I rarely have to explain myself to. And, I want to thank my ex-wife, B., for the long talks we've had in recent months. You don't live with someone for 7 years and not get to know them. I feel like we grew up together.
Hopefully (see, I'm positive), there's plenty more to come.

My heart (update).

I had an attack of V-Tach yesterday. It really had me worried. (I'm still worried.)
I was outside, burning yard debris, when it struck. I came close to passing out. I called my sister, who lives 2 houses down, to ask her to keep an eye on my fire (it wasn't very big, at that point) while I went inside to lie down. As bad as I felt, I first took a shower, brushed my teeth and closed my windows, in case I had to be taken to the ER. I think like that, now. I then tried to contact my cardiologist, in Chapel Hill, so that maybe he would bump up my procedure date. Of course, you can't reach a cardiologist on a weekend, but I was assured, by someone, that he would get the message.
I didn't even feel well enough to sit up last night. I stayed in bed and read (I finished "Vintage Stuff" by Tom Sharpe). I asked the universe (?) to please let me make it through the night.
So, here I am. I made it.
I feel very shaky and wobbly. I'm hungry, but afraid to eat anything.
What's to become of me? (Don't answer that...)

Chapel Hill road trip jam.

I always grab a stack of CDs when I make that long boring drive. Here's what I brought today:

Anderson/Bruford/Wakeman/Howe (Um, A/B/W/H...)
Big Shot in the Dark (Timbuk 3)
Altered Beast (Matthew Sweet)
Don't Worry About Me (Joey Ramone)
Autobahn (Kraftwerk)
Automatic for the People (REM - I didn't get around to hearing this one)

"Mortal" update.

Songs (of mine) I'm considering for use in "Mortal" - not necessarily in this order:

Dreams Die Hard
Bad Day
Spent
The Slow Slide (not yet recorded)
Mortal (acoustic version - not yet recorded)
Mortal (electric version - not yet recorded)
Sunrise
Mythologize your life (not yet recorded)

And poems:

The Book Was Treasure Island (from Dog Water)
Anticipation/Surprize (from Rock This Life)

My heart (update).

I just got back from Chapel Hill. I walked in the door about 10 minutes ago. 3 hours up, one hour at the clinic, 3 hours back.
The news wasn't especially encouraging. Even though I'm on a very strong medication, I've had a lot of "activity" since my last visit. VT activity. Not good. And the battery in my device is down to about 10 percent. The ICD technician called in the cardiologist for a consultation. He said that it's time to have a procedure called Cardiac Ablation. They send a kind of wire, through an artery in your thigh, up into your heart. This device burns away any scarring in your heart that can cause misfiring. And, while he's doing that, he may as well go ahead and replace my ICD.
Now, the possibility of the ablation procedure is the only bright spot on the horizon. However, after mentioning it, my doctor began to talk about money. How are you going to pay for this? I don't want to bankrupt you (unconvincing smile). This is an extremely costly procedure. Are you working? Are you getting Medicaid? Medicare? Any assistance? We need to confer with the financial assistance department. We'll get back to you.
So on and so forth.
So, that's where I am. Am I worried? You bet. When the doctor is concerned, you become concerned.
Maybe they'll decide it's not worth it to waste any more money on me and they'll just send me home, as is, to deal with my situation.
Tough break, kid...
Life keeps getting better and better!

Springtime psychic stuff.

Ok, I don't know what it is, but every year, at this time, for as long as I can remember, I experience strange happenings. Here's a recent example (today):
I picked up an old magazine this morning, from 2002, and thumbed through it. I stopped, for some reason, when I came to a small interview with Nate Dogg. Now, I hardly even know who he is, but for some reason I read this bit. That interview was stuck in my head all day. Hours after reading about him, I find, when I go online, that Nate Dogg has died, at the age of 41.
And, by the way, even though I wasn't a fan of his, I'm sorry to hear about his passing.

Celebrate the day.

It has occurred to me that my posts haven't been especially witty (as if), poetic, prolific, or even regular, lately. I seem to be in the midst of a lot of minor concerns, these days. I'm trying to take care of some of the details around the house that have been on the proverbial back burner for far too long. Just little things that have been annoying me all winter. Also, the warm weather has given me the atmospherically temperate encouragement I've been lacking - along with the resultant emotional motivation - to do more outside.
I sometimes wonder if this blog hasn't served its purpose - run its course. It has gotten me through a very rough period in my life. Maybe I'm being too optimistic (can that be true?). This may only be a slight lull between catastrophic events.
I can't think that way. I have to be positive. And I have to fulfill one of the main tenets of TBOGL: Recognize and celebrate the good, when it comes.

My yard is Scamp-less!

After months of emails, phone calls and viewings, the Scamp has been sold. I didn't get what I wanted out of it, but it's ok. It's out of the yard (I don't have to mow around it anymore) and I really needed the money. Plus, it was awfully depressing looking at it every time I walked out my door: One more failed dream.
The way I look at it, the Scamp is about to start a whole new life. That rusted old hoopty is like a cat.

 

"Whatever happened to the teenage dream?"

I saw kids walking home from the local high school, today. It was almost heartbreaking - they looked like babies. Did we look like that when we were their age?
In the few kids that I saw, I think I got a pretty good cross section: There was a "punk" couple walking together (she had pink hair and he had a green mohawk - that's how I knew they were "punk"), an R.O.T.C. guy, in uniform, and a kind of emo/hippie looking kid. I hope they're enjoying themselves. I hope they're having the time of their lives. They're at the age when you think you'll live forever. And, they should feel like that! Fuck yeah! I'm glad they can't foresee their futures.
If I could go back, by snapping my fingers...SNAP!!

Time.

I forgot to set my clock forward last night. I feel a bit disoriented. Oh well, what else is new?
Thank you Jeebus! Winter is almost over!

Just some guy.

I've been waking up, lately, with strange ideas formed in my head. This morning I thought about all of the photos in people's family photo collections of relatives long gone. "I think that's your great, great uncle on your dad's side." Or, "That's your great grandmother." The people in the pictures never thought they were going to be viewed in that (dim) light. One day, we're all going to be there. "I know he's related, but I can't remember how..." Of course, I personalized the notion: I thought about myself, how I was going to be a picture of some guy in someone's family photos. Just some old guy whose life didn't really matter.
Does everyone think about this kind of stuff or am I just morbid? I guess it's why people try to stay busy - to keep their minds off of their own mortality.

I'll just file these...

People tell me to pay a little to the hospital and that will keep them off my back. No one seems to understand that it's not a single bill - you get bills from every department, every doctor. And, in my case, this happens with 4 different hospitals. If I payed a little to each one, it would amount to a lot. And I'm unemployed.
These are the bills that were in my mailbox today. They total almost $8000. And these aren't even the big ones. I probably owe a quarter of a million dollars, between the different hospitals. Seriously.
I'm starting to feel like this is way too much money to keep me alive. It's unnatural. I should just accept my fate.

 

"Mortal" update. (This is my 700th post, in a little over a year.)

I woke up this morning with a song in my head. I remember singing it in a dream last night. It's going to be the theme song for the film. It's called - wait for it - "Mortal."
I don't know how these things happen. In the dream, I was in a room with 3 drummer friends of mine: Rick, Fraggle and Eddie. They each had a kit. Eddie started playing a beat and I broke into song.
I jumped up as soon as I awoke and recorded what I had, so I wouldn't forget it. It's funny how quickly your dreams vanish, sometimes. (That almost sounded all philosophical and what not...)

People used to love me.

The letter in this post is much less serious than the last. I actually lived with "K." from the last letter. I was several years younger - about 15 or 16 - when I received this note. It was from a girl I met at a party and only saw a couple of times.
Imagine BIG LOOPY TEENAGE GIRL HANDWRITING!


Saturday night.

"Hello Jimmi!"
What cha been thinging about?
Sure hope it was me!
Cause all I can think about is you and how much I really love you!
And bunches at that!
Sure am glad we got together at the party because I love ya!
Did you really mean you liked me?
I sure hope so!
Maybe everything will turn out great with you and me.
So sorry we were disturbed on the phone but you probly don't know how it is to have a BRAT for a brother!
I know!
I'm about ready to run away because I love you and want to be with you always and a couple of other reasons!
Mark said he'd invite you to come stay with him so we could be together!
Why don't you want to meet my parents?
They can't really keep me away from you (which I doubt they will) because I really love you a lot!
Will you please call me about 3 o'clock (phone number)?
Whenever I love a boy so cute, sweet, fun to be with, good personality and very good looking! I really don't stop.
Well I hate to say it but I've gotta close so I can clean up the kitchen.
Please call or write: Nancy P. (address, phone number).
Well will you remember "I Love You!"
Lots of Love.
PS "I Love you!!" always!

Nancy P.

Nancy -n- Jimmi 4ever
Jimmi -n- Nancy (I hope)
Sorry
So
Sloppy

People used to love me.

May 10, 1981

Dear Jimmi,

I don't really know what to say. I'm not even sure if you'll get this letter. I hope if you get this you will at least read it, read it to the end. Well, here goes nothing.
Jimmi, I know I have no right to say this, but I love you, I really do. I realize that you have someone else now. It's tearing me apart to know I gave you up. You, darling Jimmi, the only good thing I ever had. Oh God, I love you so much! I wish somehow someway I could change all the things I did to you. I know you must think I'm a nothing, I think even less of myself. I know you said I'll get over it, yet I don't want to. I just want to punish myself. I did that when I let you go and I will continue until I die. I want to kill myself but I don't have the guts to do it. All I ever wanted was to be your wife, but I gave that up like the fool I am. I guess you know I don't make little mistakes, I make mistakes that affect my whole life. Just like coming into the service. When I let you go I made a mistake that would not only last 4 to 6 years, I made one that I would regret for the rest of my life.
The most important thing in my life is still your happiness and if I am in some way interfering in that happiness tell me and I will try my hardest to stop bothering you. I have tried so many times but yet I have called your house anyway. I guess it's good that you weren't there. The only thing I can think about is how good you were to me. How you were always there when no one else was there. Now there's no one. I always thought I could be a loner, now I'm seeing how wrong I was.
I love you J____ ______ ______. If you've read this far you're probably laughing saying "she's such a fool!" You always said I'd never find anyone like you. You were right!
I think about how wrong I did you! The suffering I put you through making you move here and getting your mom mad at you. You've got a great mom, she really cares about you. I hope you see that, I think you do. I know it took me a while to appreciate how great my parents were, now I never forget it.
I'm wearing your ring, I hope you don't mind. If you want it back I'll understand and get it back to you as soon as possible.
Is there anything you need? If so please let me know. I wondered if you would mind if I gave you one last thing for your 21st birthday. I got something very special I want to give you for that birthday, something I owe you.
I'll stop here. I love you Jimmi. I'll never stop loving you. Take care, I hope you are happy. I miss you very much.
(Smiley face) "Be happy!"

All my love,
K.

Obsessions. Grand Funk Railroad.

When I was a little kid, I didn't have a favorite band (there was The Beatles, of course, but they were a much bigger thing - a cultural phenomenon unlike anything before them) - I liked songs. This song by this person, that song by that group. All of that changed, around the age of 11, when I discovered Grand Funk Railroad.
I'm not sure if someone who is unfamiliar with them could listen to them today and become interested. It's almost as if you had to have been there. Me, I grew up with Mark, Don and Mel (and later, Craig).
These guys were almost punk rock, in a lot of ways: They were raw, crude and noisy, the critics hated them and they got NO airplay. But their fans loved them - buying records and concert tickets like crazy. In 1971, the band sold out Shea Stadium in 72 hours, beating the attendance record set by The Beatles, despite the lack of airplay.
A lot of the credit for their early success can be attributed to their manager: Terry Knight, who was right up there with Tony DeFries and Peter Grant (as far as outrageous management goes), hyped the piss out of them. Eventually, they did make it onto radio, with a string of hit songs, in the early to mid 70s.
I think it's interesting that theirs is one of the few band names that, when shortened by their fans, left out the noun. Unlike "The Stones," "Zeppelin" or "The Dead," they were known as "Grand Funk" (as opposed to "Railroad"). I once heard my cousin refer to them as "Funk," but as far as I know, he was the only person who utilized that ill advised abbreviation of nomenclature.
They're coming to your town, they'll help you party it down - they're an American Band!

 

 

Childhood art.

I'm thinking back on all of the cheesy projects we did in Vacation Bible School. They generally involved Elmer's glue, macaroni and crayons. This was a crayon project with wax paper. We were to choose some pictures, put them between 2 sheets of wax paper and iron them, which would melt the wax and seal them up.
Ta da! Religimous place-mats!
I decided to do my own illustrations, with varying degrees of success.
I took the pictures out of the yellowed wax paper to photograph them.
In order:
Mary and the Baby Jesus.
The Sermon on the Mount.
The Last Supper.
The Garden of Gethsemane.
The Crucifixion.
J.C. Superstar.