Saturday, April 22, 2017

Swan, swan, hummingbird, hurrah.

We're all free now...




I keep telling myself that the project with the lake is done, but I'm drawn back, me and my old dog to the shore to watch the ripples in the water and the birds feeding.  The swans were in close, dredging the mud kicked up by the rain.  Back to the man-made nature diorama we plunked down right here in the middle of one of the world's busiest cities so we'd have a place to find... to find... words?  I found no words there at the lakeside but I found the swans and a couple scrappy ducks.  There was border music drifting over from across the lake, a QuinceaƱera maybe. A cookout celebrating something or another that sounded festive and happy.
Happy.

Am I happy?

I suppose I've been more unhappy, but I'm not exactly unhappy either. I'm just not happy. The opposite of happy isn't necessarily unhappy. It's just "not happy."

It was a sort of melancholic day, gray and rainy. Not a walkabout day and not a stay at home day. Not a get shit done day but not a do fuck-all day. I beat it out early and went up to the March for Science on the Upper West Side. There were brief bursts of excitement. There were drums, but folks weren't beating them so hard. There were the perfunctory chants and shouts here and there and a couple minutes of yelling outside the Trump Hotel at Columbus Circle.

But people seemed... tired. It could have been me, but everyone seemed to have been just going through the motions. Now, that's something I can certainly relate to. The outrage that was consuming my life after the election last November just wasn't sustainable. I've had to withdraw from the fray. It all seemed so... like... this shit is so much bigger than me and I felt like I was pissing into a stiff wind. It was eating me up.

And somehow the whole affair today rang false. There was no energy. There was no... hope.

Hope.

We were ducks and swans swimming about in a filthy man-made lake that we were never, ever, fucking ever meant to spend our lives in, sticking our long necks down into grimy water to pull up whatever it is that we need to keep us going.

Well, shit. That got dark pretty quickly.

But that's just it. The darkness is always there just beneath the surface.

The Crocodiles would say just fake it 'til ya make it and sooner or later the light will shine in.

I'm faking it.

And I'm tired.

March for Science NYC

Friday, April 21, 2017

The Music of Nobody, aka Willis Earl Beal


"People are interested in pathos. People are interested in failure. People enjoy seeing a personality, it’s voyeuristic, and that’s what I play into. I want to make it seem like I could almost be in a room by myself and you’re looking in."

It's rare that I connect with an artist or more specifically an interview the way I do THIS PARTICULAR ARTIST/INTERVIEW, withh... what do I call him?  Nobody? Willis Earl Beal... 

"And the industry, or whatever it is, does not cater to people who are constantly evolving. Especially if you’re evolving in a non-linear, or perceivably non-linear way."

Man, the world just doesn't cater to people or anybody or anything that isn't laid out, boxed and labeled in a non-linear way.  It makes me think about my writing and my memory too really and how as vivid as it can be it has never been linear.  It's like someone took the original plans and tossed them up in the air and now I'm forced to hopscotch from page to page where they've all scattered on the carpet.  

But you can't really define WEB/NOBODY as this kind of artist or that kind of artist either, so I get it.  I've been listening to his recent recordings (Check them out here.) for about ten straight days now, mostly early in the morning and late at night when things are quiet.  They weren't what I expected, but then why should I expect anything at all from him or anybody?  What bigger fucking insult or imposition is it to expect something from somebody?  How can you say to someone, "Make me feel the way I felt the last time, or that very first time I heard you?"  

Make me...

Help me... 

Do this for me... 

Which leads to "I'm disappointed in you."

I'm not disappointed, perhaps because the connection is more about my only expectation of people which is to cut the bullshit and be honest.  Let it down, man and stop with the small talk.  I fucking hate small talk.  Tell me what you're afraid of and I'll tell you what I'm afraid of and maybe we can come to some moment of peace together and just for one fucking minute... just one fucking minute.  That's all.  We can do that for each other.  

But I get it, or I think I get it.  It's like he is talking about in the interview about the inhibitions of masculinity and how the ownership of the cock gets in the way of things.  There is the expectations of masculinity... the expectations of other people and your expectations of yourself.  There has to be a place, perhaps through art, or maybe fucking therapy or something where you can put down the barbells and connect with the parts you have to keep in a drawer and only pull out in your private moments.

Let's share some private moments.

You can't really do that, can you?  It puts people on their guard, doesn't it?  It's like... if you are keeping all that inside, maybe I have stuff like that secreted away too and I really don't want that and nah, I can't walk out of the house with that shit showing from beneath my clothes.  

But maybe this is more about me than it is about Nobody... That's how I listen to music though.  I want honest moments.  I've watched The Song Remains The Same a hundred times and never learned shit about Led Zeppelin or found any way to connect to them.  The songs still all remain just songs no matter how much I enjoy them.  How am I supposed to connect to Stairway to Heaven anyway with all its folky English mysticism wrapped up in cock-heavy guitar riffs?  But I digress... 

Anyway... 

I am interested in pathos.  Maybe I'm a voyeur, or part voyeur and part exhibitionist.  Let me see and be seen.  Show me yours and I'll show you mine.  

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Gravity

At 15, nothing left
of the soft dimpled flesh
of toddler knees
All scars
And still you couldn't
convince me of this thing
called Gravity...
..
.

and four decades on
pressing up
remembering skipping lightly
across the top of the dam
at 25 it didn't exist
and now it comes for me
Death by Gravity

Sunday, April 16, 2017

Light

Created my own reading nook.  #selfcare

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Walkabout April 15, 2017

Easter, Year 0

The brain works how it will, and mine wakes before me and stirs the breakfast pot of fear and dread porridge.  It works how it will, and there seems to be no breaking from its routine.

Today, for some reason, there were echoes and vibrations from the world.  Easter weekend and people off to find just the right things to wear off to churches and family dinners, thinking of the conversations they want to have and probably those they don't want to have but know will be coming despite their intentions to go and leave the bodies untouched and the ghosts unmolested.  They will be awakened anyway and their demons will rise up just as surely as they believe or hope to believe that the Son of God rose up on Easter Sunday.

It probably predates the very first Easter weekend, before it was called Easter weekend, but I imagine that on this date in the Year 0 (ironically named and measured by the very people that killed their god) that the world was filled with dread and fear of what this day 2017 years ago would bring.  The disciples and assorted followers had just seen the Son of God abased and tortured and nailed to long planks, and a spear jabbed cruelly into his body.  They were scattered into the surrounding area to hide in caves and down narrow alleys and behind closed doors.

Who would be next, because surely there would be a next and a next after that?  What good could this day bring in a world where the most powerful had defiled and murdered the man who might bring peace?  How long could it be before doors would be kicked down and they would be dragged out to the hill to be held accountable for following this... this man?  What could he possibly be if his all powerful Father had allowed him to be abused in such a way?  Could their even be a Son of God, let alone a god at all?  I can't imagine that their faith in anything good in the world could withstand such an insult.  Could they believe that he would be reborn the very next day and rise up again?  They were all only human, after all, and when have humans not had fear?

Easter 2017.

My own fears seem so petty and small, but it still feels like at any moment, the door will be kicked open and I will be dragged undressed into the street to be tried and held accountable for... something.  The rational part of my brain, still stirring and muttering, knows that there is nothing in this day that can't be addressed with some practical movement or action so why is my dread so out of alignment with this knowledge?

Why am I afraid?

Why do I keep looking at the door?

There is work to be done.

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Skating Away On The Thin Ice of a New Day

I always thought this song was lyrically... no really philosophically... ahead of its time.

Looking for a sign
that the Universal Mind
Has written you into her passion play...

Did you ever get the feeling
That the story's too damn real
And in the present tense.

Well, that was the entire problem, as a matter of fact.  Every day was too damn much.  Things have slowed down now but there are still days, and this song remains relevant to my world.