Filed under: Uncategorized
I don’t speak Spanish, but I know magic. When the meaning is meaningless, therein lies a challenge. Driving around town, thinking about the thousands and thousands of parched souls parading across the territory, trying to follow any number of traditions that have been separated from original intent by time and place. It is, to be generous, a bold gesture in and of itself, speaking to a need never articulated in thought or speech, but spelled out by action, movement, decisions, etc. Truly, the evidence is there for all to see, assuming someone was trying hard enough, with the proper amount of focus and determination. As events move and shimmy around the psychic landscape, it is entirely natural to grasp for the comfortable and known, or at least what we think we know of the comfortable and known. It’s like the return of some horrible epistemological monster, haunting certain darkened areas of the map. Not a pretty way to interpret an honest attempt at the imitation of the elders, but you take what you can get while you wait for what you want.
Past the recent issues with translucent futures blocked by reflective screens, time cranks onward with a certainty that can only inspire respect. Soon the circumstances will change, the barrel rolling onward and remixing the specialized situations in a tumbling manner. If we were to stop chaining movement to time and using a standard compare/contrast between then and now, it might be possible to find a more useful perspective from which to view through. Even as the rain ceases and clouds are dispelled by a brighter wind, there is a momentary cooling, a calm before the calm, agreements to abide certain standards, at a minimum. This kind of convivial negotiation between bright color and fresh air sparked a longing for beach scenery and the next place to rest.
Being caught high on the rigging for a few moments of pleasant drifting, I caught sight of old Alphonso, returning from wherever to man his post. He flew lazy circles while reconnoitering the position, checking out the old places and probably making sure nobody flew into the nest without proper clearance. Again, in my state of partial spacial inebriation, I admired the little fucker. His purpose seemed so assured, so self evident. That must be a tremendously peaceful feeling. I envy him, even if what I envy is a personified bumblebee. Another clear example of taking what is to be taken, and the limits of greed. Fatuous and not really germane to the discussion hence…and we flow on.
The toll of the last few trips lead me to believe in temporary salvation. Like purchasing a lamp to better see the next bend in the road, assuming the proper equipment can be obtained; a fellow traveler made mention of a special place where the sky grows light for the farmer in the field. The actual geographic location will be determined later, but I am sure it will reveal itself in the proper time. Good to remember that familiar oracles will be open to take questions, reveal truths, and encourage proper observational techniques, as well as just chat. I’m laughing because it is really not a shortcut to actualization but more a scenic route to ideation. The words I stole from a business asshole, but the intent is all mine.
So, today is all about following familiar lines, ceding expectations of the coming months, and whatnot. Going back to the beginning, there are titles to be modified and exemptions to be issued. I’m sure the insurance man will have something to say in the near future, and if the plans of attack are to be finalized any time soon, there is that work to do as well. There are sentries on the beaches, and we’ll need to slip right past before we can set up shop. That reminds me…of a cigarette store in a hot Southern town, concrete steps, and that weird feeling that someone else was there but has vanished into the unknown…or maybe moved away and lost touch. The exception that proves the rule…sometimes formality has limits. Personally, I always saw those limits as mirroring the limits of maturity. Meh…six on one.
It will be strange to have to go back to pretensions of normality soon. If it could be avoided, it surely would be, but the sentence is not over yet. Little bit more to go, then off to the motherfucking races that end at some unknown sandy point. For all of this, there had fucking better be some fucking sand. Then this whole line of thinking becomes another clue to this mysterious locale. I’ll stay on the lookout for sand, and schedule a refresher course next Tuesday. I got a guy who is a great teacher, provided I go to him. He won’t come here. Said something about the need for the asker to seek rather than the oracle to find. It’s a mishmash crazy illogical way of speaking, but deep down, I think I know what he means. Either way, he has been located. Movement abounds, plans collide, then are reformulated to a synergy of another idea.
Focus on slow motion and early evening winds. Check the weather for tomorrow, it’s supposed to be beautiful.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Masses of images roll by, turned by some invisible hand to reveal only partial pictures before fading into another illustration barely illuminated by a single hanging bulb. What might be a leopard climbing a hill diminishes into a silhouette of flowers on a hill against a backdrop of a midday sun. Without the definition to differentiate borders and subtle shades of color, there can be no real meaning devised from the incomplete data. Field techniques and photographic memory skills are no match for the speed of change and liberal associations that arise from it.
What little effort is usefully expended in the quest for what comes next comes to me the old fashioned way, through questions that exist only to summon more questions rather than search for some smoky answer. This has become accepted practice, though the mental manipulations required to conform to this odd method take quite a bit of getting used to. In moments like these, it makes perfect sense that question marks are curved scythes while exclamation points are simple swords. That is the price of certainty.
Whereby the local territory has lost some of its magic, it seems the time to travel is getting closer. While time cannot be measured without something to compare the inexorable movement against, the effects are hard to ignore. Wonder is time consuming, and while certainty is impossible (see above!) uncertainty is more of a marginal line of movement never quite knowing if one path is really euphemistically better than another. Convulsions are the norm amongst so many variables, unknowns, and possibilities. Sometimes the sign is no sign at all.
Footsteps get soggy in rain like this, and it is of greater value to watch and wait, hoping for something to clarify what can be called psychic confusion along the great highway. The rain cleans the colors, instilling in them a brief period of reflection that bounces shades across visual lines, painting against the green flora a picture composed of everything that might be. The farther my eyes drift from focus, the sharper the layout given breath by the falling water and shapeless winds. These are the kind of days that bring water from the sky. Momentary curiosity is a lovely way to spend a minute or two, but for now is a distraction. There are big questions to ask, and a scythe to interpret. The reality is in constant flux, pulsating against the fear of change. Far better to rescue the maps from the closet and plot a course to the next point of debarkation. Waiting on raindrops, but only as long as need be. I need a new idea.
Filed under: thoughtful trips
The most ridiculous thoughts cascading from a waterfall that can be seen from Interstate 90W. It’s the rare situation where ice water and mustard seeds become something on the order of inexorable peanuts, nothing that could be stopped by any rational force on the planet. The muted fascination and growing horror ran my mind ragged, dragging it from one blueberry to another, stopping only to taste the flavor of natures only naturally occurring blue comestible. The prospect of leaving this town, if only for a while, gave reprieve to the thoughts about what might have to be done to inject some pure enjoyment in the blooming world, beautiful to look at but momentarily staid to ponder. In a town where worshipers wander from mini chapel to mosque to synagogue waiting on their own confirmed acceptance into something greater, there is no shortage of invented misery.
Trying to maintain some sense of purpose this afternoon, asking those DEEP QUESTIONS that come courtesy the other revolving faces that appear as if by magic, then dissipate into the end of the evening. Encouragement, advice, practical things to do when there’s nothing practical to do; that sort of thing. Seems hysterically funny to compare notes on the subject, only to have one voice counsel patience while another urges aggression. What is a boy to do? Obviously, the answer’s were not in the cards today, but we can certainly revisit the whole group later… when we are senile, and the answers are easier to find.
Let’s talk transmission, since that is the real order of the day. There is no finger that catches the exact moment, but the ratio of open space to open minds seemed to be on a precipitous decline, and I for one believe it sparked some sort of mental revolution. There is no proof, but then again, is there ever? Funny enough on it’s own; deadly hysterical when combined with a total lack of movement. Not a complaint, per se, but more of a going concern. The rain didn’t help. Nor did the extremely painful process of removing all the pharmies absorbed over the last 6 months. That each event decided to strike in unison really says more about piss poor planning than anything else. Maybe this is one situation that doesn’t need the scrutiny usually reserved for questions and curiosities of the greatest import. Eh, six on one, right?
After consulting with a night owl and considering the signs in a way that could be appreciated by Schultes himself, the only identifiable trend seems to be transformation. It is these times of changing circumstance where my own abilities are most weakened by sudden movements and shifts, a turn of the rubix cube fate kind of stuff. Sooner or later, realization always wins out over superstition, and right now that is exactly the friendly but unhelpful advice that blooms in spades, available everywhere. Honestly, if I am disingenuous on purpose, that is usually the reason why. Sounding boards are in short supply, and notoriously hard to replace. A minor frustration in a world of lazy indulgence. Malaise on a bun.
Staring at the ceiling, waiting for that moment when sleep overtakes exhaustion, and restless minds question convenient moments and statistically insignificant chances. There is a motion that is disquieting even when safely hidden in the background, that feeling like battery acid dripping down the throat. Where is everyone going, and why are they moving so fast? The last one to the party? The shocking or distasteful words that hide like rats or insects, the pace of change, the hideously articulate silence that speaks with a voice more powerful and profound. All of this comes together as strands of varying color and meaning, combining to form a signpost with detailed directions to the next stomping grounds. I can only hope that the locale is sunny and warm, the people friendly, and the pace slow. I do not understand the draw of the serial city.
Another hour or so of stillness, more time for the momentary illusion. I’m grounded by the same things that make me float. My dream seat has a view of every shade of blue and green, a palette that is ostentatious to the absolute limit. The lie of the broken coconut, the astonishingly simple glory of beautiful regard. When I’m pulled from my seat and rushed back into the daylight of sober thoughts, it occurs to me that this is one way amongst many to find out where on the map you are. It bears silence and prudent thought…like maybe space exists for the same reason as time. My drunk mind mutters on, incoherent and ranting. More from South of this beach community later. So forth and so on, friend of the road.
Filed under: Poetry
“late night”
lasting silly far from first
as much a child’s imagined worst
as much a phrase that’s spoken terse
as much a drunkards slaking thirst
lasting from the noted time
as much a stranger in a line
as much a moment waiting sign
as much a graceful trailing kind
lasting far from all that’s known
as much a tear too often sewn
as much a lichen creeping stone
as much a wall inside of home
————————————————
(apologies. I promised to rein in the poetry. It probably won’t happen again, but if it does, go fuck yourself. Who has been doing what to whom?)
Filed under: Uncategorized
Some of the strangest moments come courtesy a general inability to determine where in the current narrative recent events lie. Beginnings look like endings, and the middle is the same as the dead time between reels. There are no landmarks or notations that could give any hint as to when we are, which makes navigation impossible. Despite going through a good many of these hummingbird moments, their purpose eludes my best paper cut reasoning. Transitions are relational, but fluid, so imagine something like two pieces of flying jello connecting in midair and recorded in slow motion. If you tried to imagine what it would look like after the collision, you could guess a general and shapeless lump on the floor, surrounded by smaller lumps and specks of color. The specifics of the post-collision would be impossible to guess. Is that the most convoluted answer to the “how are you feeling” question? Take that apart with a pair of words.
Filed under: Uncategorized
There is something magic about the perfect dose. It comes at you slowly, creeping up from some point of origination towards the heart, the lungs, the mind. When the proper dosage meets up with the aching desire for something new, well, you can imagine the carnage. Today’s trip began with a letter of retirement from Alphonso. I guess he was as tired of doing the same thing everyday as I am. All the same, he will be missed, and since his letter contained no forwarding address, I can only guess he is sunning himself on the roof, or, more likely, is dead. Oh well, those things have a short life span anyway. The main point was his company will be missed.
I’m just waiting now, enjoying the ride. I talked for a long time today with those “personages of historic significance” that I’m always railing against. It’s not all about the answer as much as that fucking stupid quest to know what the question was. Perpetually chasing then next famous quote is no way to go through existence. Thats what the philosopher spends his time doing post cancer diagnosis. Just a barrel of laughs and glad tidings. Insert pun here, but only consider sarcasm before moving on.
These pleasant diversions aside, much of the recent time has been used breaking down the an interview about the creation of something exquisite and my own adoption as a neighborhood celebrity vis a vis my wonderful purple monster. Thats right. My car. Now, I long ago gave up any pretense of explaining WHY things are as they are with the good old purple monster. A reflexive change in belief brought about through the questions posed to me. The real reasons are not germane to this discussion.
The current amalgamation isn’t finished, though it does have a certain theme that makes me smile. IT makes as much sense as this quote, cribbed from Joe Henry, because I don’t understand it but can’t stop listening to him sing it:
“Now I’m reeling on the ceiling,
but what yarbird law is this?
When a heart in chains is what remains
the prelude to a kiss”
(joe henry – “parker’s mood”)
There are a million interpretations, and I have exhausted at least 300K of those. Every time I settle on a new meaning, something upsets the applecart. Not a bad thing…there really are some ideas that can escape the cages of a word. Yet another small piece of evidence that happiness reigns in the strangest of places.
This has quickly gone off target. Not much of the laser accuracy here, more a stylized carpet bombing of the general area. This kind of mental ramble should be deleted, but is such a pain in the ass to get right there is no choice but to keep it. Besides, I got it correct in timing, and amount. Notoriety, even locally, is always flattering. Throw in another goal, a few more runs, and maybe another glass of water and the night can continue, unabated. A good night to believe in whomever watches out for drunks and fools. No, not HIM. I mean in the more metaphysical sense. Fucking A, gotta get another hit somehow…
Filed under: Uncategorized
Humor me, because you are already here, and I am quickly losing my feel for communicating via anything less than sarcasm. I sort of worry about that, but then the same stern reminder pokes through the nearest cloud in the form of being rediscovered by a former fan. What can I say? Now, whether or not this is anything even close to reality, and I have seen no evidence to suggest it is, the disturbance is still great, and my daily circumnavigation is not really any weaker for the frailty. Maybe if we implore that honest way of speaking in that we are plaintively clear about the fungible terms that we are exchanging, the whole stupid conundrum could be avoided. In this corner, gunShots and recollections. Opposing this is the unchanged shore bird, clearly still encumbered by an inability to remember what was going on when we last spoke. For fucks sake this could start to get confusing. The metaphor dies a while after this sentence, and has been deleted by the writer.
At any rate, it’s just funny in that HOLY SHIT THAT WAS A LONG TIME AGO way. You can imagine where it goes from there, to paraphrase a favorite starlet of the screen. Now, where were we? The same bumblebee has been flying a halo above the backyard for at least a week. To personify him, let’s call him Archibald. This implies his majestic circling abilities, and his tireless efforts (dude literally never stops) toward some unknown cause. For this, we salute him. However, our conversations are very one sided.
Fool: “Archibald, goood morning. How hangs the hammer?”
Archibald: Flies in circle above head.
Fool: “Right on, right on. Will you be entertaining me all day by flying halo’s above my yard?”
Archibald: Flies in circle above head. Wavers, then repeats.
So, you get the idea. I don’t really learn much from him, and he doesn’t really learn much from me, at least as far as I understand it. We are far from friends, but much more than acquaintances. He is very serious about his job, and I respect that. If he didn’t fly the halo’s, who would?
More importantly, there is great comfort in imagining this sort of nonsensical imagery, if only to use it as further evidence to support my assumption that given enough time, even Archibald will one day move on to something else, but for the time being, he is doing what I perceive to be the absolute minimum he has to do to survive. I can dig that. Of course, whether or not it is the right way to live is up to you. I’ve got a passel of conclusion minded folks trying to advise me right now, and while I wish them well individually, as a group, it is maddening. Please leave it there.
Time to walk and daydream. There are a lot of people out there ready to take care of everything important. Never forget that. For the foolish amongst us, that is the real comfort. I wonder what it pays?
Filed under: Uncategorized
Brief notes from the field… This is a stunningly beautiful area to wander through before the sun comes up and illuminates things better left in the dark. Silhouettes are everywhere in the morning darkness, stately, almost ready to growl along with the beat of the feet that travel past. I’d forgotten the joy of real exhaustion, having gotten by for so long on unnatural pain and remedies administered by the good man Trowell. (Side note – he’s still on about one kind of pill or another. I listen less and less, but I suppose he will only quit talking if I fill his mouth with Quaalude’s and kick him in the throat.)
Anyhow, parsing the moment with the Flying Squirrel’s and a silent and empty house, trying to remember the meaning of nobility and washing it down with a swig from those damn NRS packets, or whatever the fuck they’re called with the bullshit serving of vitamins and flavanoids, meaningless chatter glossing over the sated moment of grinning obfuscation. In other words, the recovery stage post screwing the pooch. Time to run errands, do laundry and prepare for more baseball.
Oh…NYC? Fuck you. We got the last laugh in 04 and 07. See ya tonight, and then not until August. I need a cigarette.
Filed under: Philosophy
“Identification leads to so many unexpected chance encounters with ideas and people that expectation could never have prepared me for. It’s almost a crying shame, not quite the same as some avoidable tragedy, but more the overwhelming sense of “what now?” that begs to speak some unpleasant fact or realization, the vague unease of a stranger codifying new terrain. Having arisen from garden variety fear of the unknown to reveal itself fully in the comfortable light of early morning. After a year spent chasing phantom pain and wondering about the purpose, I came upon an explanation that had never occurred to me. In the seconds and minutes proceeding, a 29 degree night became a 70 degree day. I have a theory.”
The above paragraph represents the low end (dude here…we are the downside of a very long song destined to end slightly better than it began, and that is cause for hope. Whoever is responsible for issuing evidence unreconciled to the prior sentence should be strung up by the balls and left with a vinegar drip IV. For fucking hell, even Robin Hood required us before becoming HIM. What does that tell you?) of watership daydreaming. Why write some arcane reflection touching on any number of various reference points? That question used to kill me, until I realized that is was the only way to communicate everything that strikes my fancy. Also, the day the “creation myth” became the creation story, things got so fucked up that we have mythically created words as the only tool. Not a word from the graphic artists out there. My theory is noise over sight. Eyes are creatures that can’t be trusted. Ears are pretty honorable folks. Meaningless, but secretly the key to something so much bigger.
This rambling is meant as cover, layered as it is amongst two key ideas and a smattering of side thoughts. Funny for such an anti-dualist, but that hieros-gamos shit has come back to haunt me. Or maybe help me. It contains, in brief, the answer to a certain question, or maybe a lot of questions. More than that, it reminds me there are a million ways to skin a cat, and none of them require a judgment reaction to skin the cat. That, in brief, is how I would describe myself to a complete stranger.
Now it’s a few hours later, and autopilot musings stand until the planet shakes. Like every other situation or mise en scene, it is enough to watch and learn, trying like hell to remember that I am free to interpret, free to analyze, free to adjust. Is it faith that someone else will take care of the rest? Does one pinball worry about the course of another? Something is screaming to be written here, but it’s conspicuous absence should say it pretty clearly, maybe better than expressing it for you. Exhale, it will make sense some day, and if it doesn’t, will the paintings and songs be any less beautiful?
Filed under: thoughtful trips
I snorted several lines of relative history, thinking about a certain experience in a small room on 18th Avenue, all of those people that used to comprise my esoteria. How many eyes can catch a reflection angled precisely at the mix of guilt, shame, and rage that sustain the few moments of importance I chose to keep? Such a bland compromise, giving up X, Y, and Z variables in exchange for something I can’t pin down with words, maybe a trade of reputations and the stark temptation to wallow in the past. Since those same eyes that remember mirrors and bedding close to the ground also remember the scent of time lazily passing on a sunny day and the precocious methods for dealing with chicken breasts and lemon sauce, it requires a disconnect to stave off the worlds crashing together; the immediate cessation of certain lines of questioning on the anticipation of what new questions might spring from the answers. In this respect, my behavior regarding any number of variables can be understood as the simplest possible reaction to complexity expressed through my own machinations and whatever I am learning at any given moment.
I use song as a drug because it is more effective than any of the standard recipes available for consumption. Because of this, certain famous moments become permanently attached to a melody that can be easily administered through a wide variety of devices and settings. The chemicalist dream! Real progress and solutions, a method to control the reaction to sensory data by manipulating the reaction based on many, many factors. Consider me the epoxy or the applicator, the various elements of the analogy mean only that one must find two sides of a ravine before doing any real impression of the bridge. It is this kind of constructive thinking that got me going on the subject to begin with.
It would be much easier to claim I was unaware of what triggered the time travel and sudden change in place than to be honest and attribute something beautifully concentric to someone else’s words impressed over a sheet of music, but I’m already sure enough to claim credit for the internal lesson imparted by endless repetition. My revisionism muscle has officially begun to challenge my hubris as the strongest muscle in my body, and that can’t possibly be healthy for anyone. Still, it isn’t anything more than altering the high focus and softening the landscape with that fuzzy stuff. For some reason, my most lasting response is hearty laughter reserved for the most serious of occasions. Lately I have been listening for the laugh, having come to the conclusion (several months ago) that only the verified laughter of an inanimate object will signal me to look for the next phase to begin.
The crazy theories related to momentum, what might be coming later…just give me the box score…better remember to pretend that this doesn’t matter, but honestly; it does. Sometimes.
