I came into town this morning with a pile of old books and CDs to trade at Bookman's. Love this place...
As I walked in, I heard the sound of hand drums. Sure enough, there 's some guy looking intently off in one direction while he tapped his hand on the skin of the drum. Like he's joining a drum ensemble or planning to confer with the gods with this $10 trinket. Then he puts that down and begins tapping a pair of claves together.
Fucking asshole. I looked at one of the guys behind the counter and said, "He's lucky I'm not hung over. Have to hammer those someplace painful."
We really are a species of self-centered asses.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
The Basement Tapes
I have a new blog up where I will be putting some old stuff.
How old?
There was a definite beginning to my writing poetry. I took a creative writing class when I was a Junior in High School ad that was where it all started. Some of those will be there. They're rough. Whew!
I am putting these up mainly because they lack a home in either of my books. And, there is historic value. Not to you, no. To me, yes. Very much so. These pages, some brown with time (not the material), are one of a kind and once lost are gone forever. I might actually have a family someday (unlikely sure, but fuck you for thinking I can't) and want to have these where they can be seen.
There are a couple of old pieces I'd frankly forgot about that I think deserve to see the light of day. One is called The Bottle. The other, one of those originals, is called Memories. No need to waste ink on them though, that's what the web is for!
The basement tapes are here. Let me know what you think.
How old?
There was a definite beginning to my writing poetry. I took a creative writing class when I was a Junior in High School ad that was where it all started. Some of those will be there. They're rough. Whew!
I am putting these up mainly because they lack a home in either of my books. And, there is historic value. Not to you, no. To me, yes. Very much so. These pages, some brown with time (not the material), are one of a kind and once lost are gone forever. I might actually have a family someday (unlikely sure, but fuck you for thinking I can't) and want to have these where they can be seen.
There are a couple of old pieces I'd frankly forgot about that I think deserve to see the light of day. One is called The Bottle. The other, one of those originals, is called Memories. No need to waste ink on them though, that's what the web is for!
The basement tapes are here. Let me know what you think.
Premia Dardos
So before, I mentioned the quandary I was in. Well, here 'tis...
A lovely lady and wonderful artist named Patrice has selected me for the Premia Dardos. Here is the lowdown on this award...
The Dardos Award is given for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing. These stamps were created with the intention of promoting fraternization between bloggers, a way of showing affection and gratitude for work that adds value to the Web.
The rules:
1) Accept the award by posting it on your blog along with the name of the person that has granted the award and a link to his/her blog. [Note: Don't forget to copy and paste the award jpeg itself to include on your own blog!]
2) Pass the award to another five blogs that are worthy of this acknowledgment, remembering to contact each of them to let them know they have been selected for this award.
Hmph.
Now as is typical of me, I am teeth-grittingly self-deprecating about any compliment. This is because secretly I am also such a slut for recognition and external validation that no possible amount of sincere acknowledgement could satisfy me. Paradoxically, this is because I hate myself that much, and yet possess such a ridiculous ego nothing I do is good enough for me.
Hah! How's that for truth?
Actually, when I found out that Patrice was actually reading this fool blog of mine, I was taken aback. Seriously, when I started this it was partly because Pete Townshend maintained a blog here (he doesn't anymore). I dropped a few entries in here, then started working it in earnest when I finally published Turboblues. This was also when I had a lighter, more powerful computer I didn't have to tear apart to maintain.
But I didn't think anyone would actually read it. Really, I didn't. But she did. And does. So too do a few others.
I love you all. Seriously, simply.
Anyway, she sent me the e-mail about Premia Dardos on Wednesday and was actually stunned by it, and by her words about my writing. Of course, I was also saying, "YES!! Put that in your pipe naysayers!"
Like I actually have sayers, yay or nay. As I said in the last blog entry (scroll down for it), This is just something I do. I am trying to be honest about what's going on in my life and what goes on in my head and heart.
I never considered myself an artist--really I still don't. I've met people for whom the title is probably more appropriate, and whose works feel much more deliberate than my own. Patrice is one of those people. I can tell this by the work she posts and the words she writes. My oldest friend Marcy is also one of these people. Hers is a formidable talent that took time to find its voice, and it's a voice well-matched to the depth she possesses. See her Embrasures blog and you will understand quickly what I've known for almost 25 years.
If Patrice hadn't already nominated her, Marcy would have been my first choice right out of the box. I think she knows that too. Sorry to be obvious Marcy, but this is sincere.
Which leads me to my quandary (finally, right? Up yours, this is my blog). Rule one is a simple one to follow. I gratefully accept this compliment that Patrice has graced upon me. Humbly. She did not have to at all, and yet she did. Thank you Patrice. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
Rule two, however, is gonna be a bitch. Other than this here blog, I haven't read much of the blogosphere. A few here and there, but not much. And out of respect to Patrice, and you the reader, and the rest of the blogs and journals out there I need to be straight on that.
So what I will do is this: I will pick the five blogs that I believe would deserve this recognition, and I will tell you about them as I find them. Each one will get an entry here. It's going to take some time, but this will be something of a discovery for me, and I want to share that with you.
So, more later.
Relentless Honesty
So I am in a quandary. As with all quandaries, it is ultimately one of my own making--or non-making.
There is a concept in 12-step recovery known as relentless honesty. It means telling on yourself--opening the doors you bar even to yourself not just to shed light on the icky stuff therein but exactly because doing so is uncomfortable.
My writing evolved as an adjunct to my existence. This is not so much the method I chose for expression as it is the method that chose me. I've grown to understand things about myself and about human nature that I want to get out there. Something about this shared delusion we're in. This was the way I could best express these thoughts I have.
I don't pretend they are important, not for a second. But they are important to me. And faithful reproduction of those concepts has been for many years a compulsion. Finding the most economical words has been something else which evolved as an adjunct to my existence. It's too easy to be verbose.
Poetry--or specifically unstructured prose--is what has evolved for this purpose. Now those thoughts for so long were the protestations and affirmations of love, affection and lust all spun together as Romance. I can spin that emotional yarn all day long, and I think I do it quite well--without it being schmaltzy. Because the feeling is there and true and intense and powerful. Superficial is easy, you see, and the aforementioned Romance is a drug, complete with the rituals and highs and crashes that you'll find with any addictive using.
So I got pretty good at it. I keep those poems around because the feelings were mine to feel and the poetry, like a hologram, is a pretty accurate representation of those feelings and the women who engendered them.
I didn't realize what these feelings really were until later, after I ran into addiction head-on. Then I got an inkling of the nature of my sins--in the Gnostic sense. Hamartia is the word for it. Look it up.
None of this is important, but it's important to me.
I write. That makes me a writer, I suppose. I never attach an appellation to what I do. A writer to me is someone like Hemingway or Fitzgerald or Harlan Ellison. Of course these men are products of another time, when writing as a skill was appreciated, or at least it paid by the word. I am not a writing fool, probably because there is no profit in it. Probably also because attaching monetary value to what I do tends to cheapen the pursuit, in my view. Probably why I am not a success in this culture.
Other than the fact that what I do do for money is almost completely joyless, I guess I am OK with this for now. Money is a means to an end, not the end itself. You might say it makes me a pretentious ass because I don't consider what I do a commodity.
I have learned a thing or two about a thing or two and I need to tell you all about it. It's not important, but it is important to me. The bitch of it is, were we telepathic you'd already know these things from me, or you'd have already told me these very same things. Fuck!
There is a reason for these ramblings, and I will elaborate on them soon. Suffice to say for now that someone has read these things of mine and has bestowed an honor on me. The honor has an interesting price, which I will elaborate upon later. For now, I wanted to clear my head of these things that bugged me all the way up a hill yesterday. Wanna see?
There is a concept in 12-step recovery known as relentless honesty. It means telling on yourself--opening the doors you bar even to yourself not just to shed light on the icky stuff therein but exactly because doing so is uncomfortable.
My writing evolved as an adjunct to my existence. This is not so much the method I chose for expression as it is the method that chose me. I've grown to understand things about myself and about human nature that I want to get out there. Something about this shared delusion we're in. This was the way I could best express these thoughts I have.
I don't pretend they are important, not for a second. But they are important to me. And faithful reproduction of those concepts has been for many years a compulsion. Finding the most economical words has been something else which evolved as an adjunct to my existence. It's too easy to be verbose.
Poetry--or specifically unstructured prose--is what has evolved for this purpose. Now those thoughts for so long were the protestations and affirmations of love, affection and lust all spun together as Romance. I can spin that emotional yarn all day long, and I think I do it quite well--without it being schmaltzy. Because the feeling is there and true and intense and powerful. Superficial is easy, you see, and the aforementioned Romance is a drug, complete with the rituals and highs and crashes that you'll find with any addictive using.
So I got pretty good at it. I keep those poems around because the feelings were mine to feel and the poetry, like a hologram, is a pretty accurate representation of those feelings and the women who engendered them.
I didn't realize what these feelings really were until later, after I ran into addiction head-on. Then I got an inkling of the nature of my sins--in the Gnostic sense. Hamartia is the word for it. Look it up.
None of this is important, but it's important to me.
I write. That makes me a writer, I suppose. I never attach an appellation to what I do. A writer to me is someone like Hemingway or Fitzgerald or Harlan Ellison. Of course these men are products of another time, when writing as a skill was appreciated, or at least it paid by the word. I am not a writing fool, probably because there is no profit in it. Probably also because attaching monetary value to what I do tends to cheapen the pursuit, in my view. Probably why I am not a success in this culture.
Other than the fact that what I do do for money is almost completely joyless, I guess I am OK with this for now. Money is a means to an end, not the end itself. You might say it makes me a pretentious ass because I don't consider what I do a commodity.
I have learned a thing or two about a thing or two and I need to tell you all about it. It's not important, but it is important to me. The bitch of it is, were we telepathic you'd already know these things from me, or you'd have already told me these very same things. Fuck!
There is a reason for these ramblings, and I will elaborate on them soon. Suffice to say for now that someone has read these things of mine and has bestowed an honor on me. The honor has an interesting price, which I will elaborate upon later. For now, I wanted to clear my head of these things that bugged me all the way up a hill yesterday. Wanna see?
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Such is Love
Such an attitude
To love.
Pretty things
In showy containers.
Lover as advertisement,
Well marketed.
Targeted toy,
Curious confluence
Of want, need, lust, desire.
Lover as commodity--
So much chattel.
Romance is a blurred chemical overlay.
Sex makes you sore.
Love is horse-trading--
And about as sentimental.
To love.
Pretty things
In showy containers.
Lover as advertisement,
Well marketed.
Targeted toy,
Curious confluence
Of want, need, lust, desire.
Lover as commodity--
So much chattel.
Romance is a blurred chemical overlay.
Sex makes you sore.
Love is horse-trading--
And about as sentimental.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
One More Before...
What I wish I would have known so long ago...
Lost.
Love loss,
A hole in nothing--
Insubstantial
but enough
For me to fall
Through
to...
Nothing.
Dwelling on infinite insubstantials,
That's what this is.
Smoke pondering other smoke.
But why
Does it feel
So very fucking real?
Like a slap,
Like a rough pull.
Same sensoryslam,
I suppose.
But why
Does it feel
So very fucking real?
The feel
Plays like it's real.
The space between
Is really so vast
You have no idea,
No conception.
Dwelling on infinite insubstantials,
That's what this is.
Smoke pondering other smoke.
Lost.
Love loss,
A hole in nothing--
Insubstantial
but enough
For me to fall
Through
to...
Nothing.
Dwelling on infinite insubstantials,
That's what this is.
Smoke pondering other smoke.
But why
Does it feel
So very fucking real?
Like a slap,
Like a rough pull.
Same sensoryslam,
I suppose.
But why
Does it feel
So very fucking real?
The feel
Plays like it's real.
The space between
Is really so vast
You have no idea,
No conception.
Dwelling on infinite insubstantials,
That's what this is.
Smoke pondering other smoke.
Jonesing for Enlightenment
A tribute to the Golden Days of Yesterzen...
Jonesing for enlightenment,
I sit zazen.
Tongue tucked tight
To palate,
Eyes on nothing
And everything
Like mind
Monkey mind
Scramble slitherscramble
From tree to tree
Attach to anything
Frantically grabbing
As I watch me
Scramble sittingscramble--
Breathe boy,
Count the breath
And nothing else.
What will it be,
This enlightening?
Will I know?
Will I glow?
Will it show?
I can't wait
For the peace.
I can't wait
For the release.
The sitting's hell
On the knees
The squirrel is skittering
Among the trees
Attach to anything
Frantically grabbing--
BREATHE BOY.
Count the breath
And nothing else.
Jonesing for enlightenment,
I sit zazen.
Tongue tucked tight
To palate,
Eyes on nothing
And everything
Like mind
Monkey mind
Scramble slitherscramble
From tree to tree
Attach to anything
Frantically grabbing
As I watch me
Scramble sittingscramble--
Breathe boy,
Count the breath
And nothing else.
What will it be,
This enlightening?
Will I know?
Will I glow?
Will it show?
I can't wait
For the peace.
I can't wait
For the release.
The sitting's hell
On the knees
The squirrel is skittering
Among the trees
Attach to anything
Frantically grabbing--
BREATHE BOY.
Count the breath
And nothing else.
A love note
She may know, she may never know. I don't know. I just write here.
Your particular writing voice,
Your perspective knowing,
Your weary, worldly smile,
Your rose-petal kisses,
Your embrace comforting above all others.
I am the boy
Who cried love
Once too often.
I understand thus
Why you may not
Believe
When I say
I love you
Now and always,
Before and again.
I who loved foolishly
Love true simple basic
Your soul self
Infinitely
Sincerely.
Your particular writing voice,
Your perspective knowing,
Your weary, worldly smile,
Your rose-petal kisses,
Your embrace comforting above all others.
I am the boy
Who cried love
Once too often.
I understand thus
Why you may not
Believe
When I say
I love you
Now and always,
Before and again.
I who loved foolishly
Love true simple basic
Your soul self
Infinitely
Sincerely.
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