The purpose of writing remains a compelling topic that one mentally explores but doesn’t lend itself to an easy definition. It implies that there is potentially an audience motivated in some fashion by voyeurism and a need for community with like same exhibitionists as well as those who need to expose their inner selves. The type of persons who find it necessary on a daily basis to defeat the sense of crushing indifference that they suffer as individuals at the hands of a massive society whose rules are at best arcane and seemingly changing from day to day. Crowd management having never been a healthy wellspring for the human spirit. No one can claim total mastery of what is hoped to become art not simple science. No compacts cam be made to assure that if you look at mine then I will definitely look at yours. It is more likely the ancient analogy of carrying a flickering oil lamp alone in the dead of night within total darkness. too easy to stumble at any moment or encounter a restless wind that will snuff out the worthiness of the content like a flame. The brave and fool hearty simply enshrine their daily rant without regard of the accumulated meaning overtaking the pinpointed topics rendering it possibly trivial specious gossip. The careful check and recheck there assertions against the prevailing currents of opinion that take from the best versions of reliable authority available in the now. Is the cycle of motivation not ever in danger of exhibiting the Pavlovian intention to continue to ring the same bell? For what security for one’s reputation is there in assuming the guise of expert knowing that the public sphere of same is such that a rival will one day find you in that Golden Bough with the intention to slay you to steal your crown? Better in that sense to be a hermit and keep your verses closer to your chest to recite to the safer audience of your imagination. And perhaps there rests the truth that ones assembled thoughts are in part wishful fantasy that assures one’s worth as a buffer to other conflicting views of what the world is or should be? For those who have spilled words out of their brains for so long that one has to wonders where the location of the source of this font may lie? The greater mystery of endless multiple existence versus the court of solitary self remaining insoluble in terms of whose universe is it anyway? The egoist’s? Or a simultaneous incarnation of of the same multifaceted beast? Such be one’s heaven to bask in the glory of a well turned phrase!
If you can pull the wool off your eyes . . . depending of course on the state of your generation . . . and its officially accepted year zero . . . then it seems a ‘no brainer‘ that society is not what it appears to suggest to those less engaged. The officially sanctioned promises of a brighter future have a hollow empty ring to it. The unabashed program of Globalization is but a cover for what in a seminal form was Soviet Communism at its best and cynical Bolshevism at its worst. To those who are not brushed up on these things in terms of history of former eras, it equates to two basic points. Number One. “To each according to their need from each according to their ability.” Translated to the state will make sure that all your wealth is under their control and is at their discretion in terms of who gets what. The number two being a bit more visually under the dash in a less official paraphrase ““This means that a series of consecutive instructions posted behind the company firewall is your only option as any live [human] operators will only be able to help you read the very same list. Don’t even bother trying to reach beyond the rules because if you do manage reach a supervisor that you are probably some sort of trouble making terrorist! Restaurants for the underclass, in other words one where is served by humans and the individual quality of food is ever at issue, is reserved only for people whose pay has six zero’s behind it.
OK, enough moralizing! How the Hell can one fit into the future when they are burdened by the pleasant fleeting memories of better times past. This is particularly annoying when you are older. When your expectations of what was typical of past existence are what you believe are the default. But in time, or rather with the passing of decades, become completely out of date. Certainly notions that are foreign to those in formative points of early adulthood. One might be a fossil or a simply a villain to the general sense of what is considered as so. Of course, one is never aware of the true tenor of the times until one’s overly lengthy existence has floated away too far afoul of them. The the rule book suddenly seems to change. And then one is on the outs. A proclivity of money from a secure income might help one’s chances of appearing to stay contemporary despite the appearance of crow’s feet and a paunch. Love, certainly lust becomes more problematic as one is definitely not conceded a viable commodity. Stay away from those former watering holes that if they managed to stay current have nothing there for you at your age. That is except for scorn and a sense of uneasy invisibility. Age is something to be shared only with those of your own vintage and own clan. If your clan dies out, it is very hard to replace it. Most likely, impossible.
Guess what? Any change at that point seems substantially jarring. Maybe impossible? Because the some total of one’s experience is as a result accumulation. This does not mean that the accumulation of same by itself makes one become so weary that they feel old. The actuality of which suggests that only the continued infirmity of one’s physical form degenerating is most likely the cause of? It seems that even in one’s nineties it is impossible to feel that they have merely had a challenging case of a persistent mindset of being in one’s twenties. The unexpected benefit in many cases of all this being one begins to appreciate much of what they formerly were immune to. Sentimentality now seems to rear its ugly head. You appreciate sensitivities in others that were formerly once a matter of triviality. You may even shed an unexpected tear or two even if you don’t want to. The implicit parts of being human will always have their way. Hopefully that ‘running roughshod‘ styled social engine created by our current set of Utopians will catch up to the fact that their many overlapping control mechanisms and subsidiary ministrations are really not all that necessary after all!
This sleep having been disturbed and the dream that had been cuddled torn from the moorings of my arms the middle of the early morning presented nothing beyond an exhausted shaky feeling in the limbs. Three AM was a terrible time to have to be conscious in the faux plan of what erroneously was called ‘reality‘. What was so goddamned different about it that was not contained within a bad dream? The old man had breathed his last within the framework of the same hour plus forty-five. That was the time that the taxi had been arranged for in the current here and now by a mental flip of the coin. A couple of aspirin might help? And then again, maybe a pair of crutches? It was a terrible sight to look at the empty street outside running for mile after mile of complete emptiness. There was something about it that tried to remind one about the most disturbing facets of a graveyard. The cold and the abject loneliness. Was this what the souls of the departed now experienced if they foolishly lingered to see the ashes of a former existence slowly rot? What was so bad about a faded memory anyhow? Wasn’t it better to et rid of all those old needs and expectations and if need be find some new ones that were completely different even if less substantial? The face of the clock no longer seemed friendly. Waiting for the taxi seemed more like a pending sentence of death. Each minutes seems to dematerialize and spill from the mechanism as if the restless works within were deteriorating incrementally into sand. There was something unearthly about it. Almost as if he was now trespassing within a land forbidden to the living. His time upon this lesser traveled portion of the earth had been dismantled by another twenty minutes. It had seemed only a tenth of the same. The destination that had occasioned this disruption seemed a figment of his imagination. Did it really exist? Was that view outside the window simply another concoction of a small bit of undigested piece of beef as the old saying went. Why were the first two ghosts of Christmas eight months too early skipped in favor of the approach of that much less desirable last one? The minutes were waning to the inevitability of the moment of departure. Was it some kind of unconscious irony that had compelled him to pick this same old all too familiar hour on the clock. What mortal dread from past tense was trudging free of its bonds perhaps to play the same trick upon him? He could feel his own heart echoing in a hollow and unexpected way like a bird fluttering within a hand that was threatening to close up hard all around it. Irony was after all the fatal twin of destiny.
It was the stress that killed ya. Fuck the fat! Disregard the starch. Put away the this vegetable or that. Stress was a familiar friend that hung his hat next to yours and you would never give it a second glance. It was the product of so many disappointments that piled up like Trojan War trophies. The fact that so many unresolved circumstances initially created by an ever surging hopefulness were so quickly dashed that it seemed fun by this point to watch them self-destruct. It was pathetic. The politics were bad. You wished for something hard enough and it turned out you were thinking about the wrong day when you made the arrangements. But by then it was too late. You could either call yourself nuts. Which in point of fact, you were! No old man to guide you with a few snide comments. No woman to scold for a few sentences but then shift course to take your side. You were alone. And the world was having at you. Making you a fool. Much to your own sense of dissatisfaction. All the while the animal that you inhabited was going just as crazy running this way and that. Running itself out of gas. That was the way that things worked. A suffragette on the twenty. The pee on the seat now unisex. Be careful where you licked the sauce off your fingers for there might be hell to pay in a couple of weeks.
What was the difference anyway? You walked in a dark world of your own choosing where the lights in your place were not turned on not so much out of habit but out of lifelong stubbornness. You could swivel around like an unhaltered deck gun and fall over into blackness if your let you. Two persons or should it be said a pack mule and a tenderfoot or better put a fool. Open the cellophane on a new deck of cards and peel away the first of the deck and see your own face. You were the one who wanted something so bad that you made the wrong reservations if to do nothing more that to spite yourself. Your dreams were to persistent to allow them to die hard. So you have to live with that pernicious little beast that expects everything but that won’t give a damn. That’s your job after you have fucked up the furniture that your own mother entrusted you from the grave. Who cares? After the expected period of morning the world had left without you and all you could truthfully say was that you are alone. But then, that was always your choice.
The complexity of it all was what would kill the beast by inches. And you would never have the respect to recognize that until of course it was far past too late. That was your fate. Delivered on a plate. So you toil away not taking the chances that you should and you are left exactly back to right back there. The eagles not there to tear your flesh. They had better things to do. So it is your job now. The rest of the world goes on and you are but a speck. The poor dumb beast within which you inhabit having to bear the brunt. The Minotaur had more self respect and would have kicked your sorry ass of its back eons ago. But then, those stores are long gone. You can cry about it or you can see it as an opportunity. And opportunity into the unknown which if you are smart, you will never return from. Go ahead and show them. You’re the gift from the Gods, not them!
Angel Eyes, the song kept playing in the background of my head. Echoing through my cranium like a ghostly memory might resist fully fading away when the hall is empty and the hour late. It was something about the author’s voice that in itself was haunting. The man and his era now considered finally dead and buried for the last decade. The strained tension of the chimes of the clock rang out challenging the recollection. Maybe it was all part of a dream? One of those nocturnally restless affairs where you get the impression that everything was familiar somehow but you know that night had fallen their as well and you were inexplicably naked. A companion unnamed and you had run down a sidewalk defeating the impression that you had given up. Given up, indeed? Just because your knees were now longer good in waking life and you had put on too many pounds to get a proper stiffy? And don’t forget that hernia that while it normally didn’t cause too much distress, was after all slowly swelling the apron and making it impossible to be considered capable of regaining that youthful tone. Given up indeed! Was that just bravado? What was the line of the dream? Or had that faded too? “Onward and upwards?”, or some sort of foolishness.
“So drink up all you people” “ Order anything you see”
That call that I’d been following more and more now. Just one more drink or two here and one more drink or so there. The sum total of both the bill and the bad ‘morning after’s‘ after the night sweats equating to that all too final last call coming sooner. What was there left that was so all together important to live in expectation of, or fear of, certainly like the money, the hope was running out as well.
“And have fun you happy people ” “The drink and the laugh’s on me”
They had been dead and disappeared now for a couple years. He was angel eyes to her or so she said when she had still been alive. That time after when his loss was still fresh in her mind. Before the inevitability of his daily absence in fact and in slowly fading memory had become implacable.
“Try to think that love’s not around ” “Still it’s uncomfortably near”
Yeah, the era was dead and the world of the young wanted nothing more to do with it. Old and broken was for the tip like a television with a picture tube. Working or not by the standards of the present era it was tossed off. On its way waiting alone in a back alley somewhere. Waiting to join the others of its kind still remaining in that shallow grave to oblivion.
“My old heart ain’t gaining any ground ” “Because my angel eyes ain’t here”
What happened to those eyes when they hit the heat of the oven? When the impossibly inert flesh in that awkward cardboard box rolled into that super-heated firebrick lined cavern and then was no more? It was impossible to imagine those eyes without life. Gray and striking to others, so full of life and its irrepressible enjoyment. The world still operated much the same way that they had and they still existed, somewhere. Somewhere other than this abode that had once been full of life but now was simply a mausoleum. The dead zone where all the memories of one’s former life sizzled out like the slowly deflating tires of that old bicycle leaning against the wall in a dusty attic. The light of day long diminished. Somebody that wasn’t known to anyone was pounding nails into that coffin a shovelful of ashes at a time. Those two sets of voices no longer recalled by the ability to identify their characteristic sound but by the brilliant instant after when the mind still had firm possession of what had just been said.
This last weekend he had sat at the bar where he would occasionally sit on one of its four stools alone on the way back from work. The place and the conversation hadn’t changed much. Only the faces and the voice from an equally wearied manager’s wife who still could recall the old names and personalities of that same lingering bygone era that both had known so well. A few words here and a few words there all between the chores and orders of other equally anonymous customers. No, he was not dead. His sense of youth perpetually naive still existed preferring not to strike a kinship with those former observations of his own kin that he now so obviously discovered had been passed down by time and age to be his own.
“Angel eyes, that old Devil sent”
That reluctance to recall anything with any verve as the players were all off somewhere else tonight so far away from and no longer had any wont to see him.
“Need I say that my love’s misspent”
All gone and slumbering under the watchfulness of a perpetually persistent state of constant tinnitus. Just that goddam lyric floating with those dead lips preserving that voice singing alone in tan empty auditorium long gone to its final rest in irretrievable pieces somewhere far away outside the reach of anyone still really alive.
“Misspent with angel eyes tonight” “Because those angel eyes ain’t here”
What can people write about? Or rather, what is worth writing about that makes some sense? One’s experience? One’s family? One’s ability to compose tall tales from an overly active imagination. Weave a fantasy that takes someone who reads it to somewhere else far from themselves? A bit about history or more likely the most acceptable version allowed by the officially sanctioned told tale that since it is so oft repeated that it becomes public knowledge a the strew set of facts. But the author’s sense of of all these things through the perception of their keyboard or pen. The characters that are fashioned from a fabric that is purposely torn in the course of retelling and then unexpectedly re-sewn into another kind of guise. That damnable blank piece of white bond that offers nothing yet promises a universe capable of everything. A catcher’s mitt for grabbing something speeding too fast to perceive until wrought in characters on that page. The most likely starting point being to capture a common emotion through unexpected circumstances that circumvent the reader’s most common expectations yet does not travel too far afield of them so as to be hopelessly enigmatic. Something so simple that to see it again becomes extraordinary. To hear those words pitched by lovely lips whose vowels and intimation bring new life to old sayings. Though words may be utterly silent a voice imaginary or real is needed to convey it in pantomime to the ears of one’s inner understanding. Your voice. Another most memorable voice of someone loved or someone else equally detested. Something sung with an accent to invoke passion or finding a regular meter that keeps one in step with the pacing of the tale. The satisfaction of the scribe coming in some form of verification that their is an audience that in some measure truly understands the import of their deliberations. Someone gets it!
But there is an equal amount of apprehension that these same hieroglyphs will confuse or perhaps ignite sentiments that are merely counterproductive. The pendulum is likely to swing both ways in a manner that suggests that one is not in command of the sentiments of their own era. A fickle beast that is tamed and trained by the collective efforts of battalions of social moderators who act as interlocutors on behalf of an otherwise occupied public who have no time nor the inclination to form their own viewpoints out of the illusion of consensus that like any other commodity they expect will be manufactured for them and put in easy reach on a daily basis. The holy grail of author’s best seller’s lists with their exclusivity which acts as both a benefit and a curse. Defining for the otherwise clueless what has worth and what is merely uninformed babble not worthy of a moment’s time. The idea of criticality based upon some standard that of itself is mutually nebulous as it can change with something as eternally trivial as the latest shift in fashion based aesthetics for a given season of the year. Does one laud or criticize? Or does one dare to even comment. For there is the danger that the would be chronicler’s paradise of thoughts rest too far outside the desired pathways of thinking. Right and wrong. Fact and heresy? Who is to say that one is not an inadvertent clown too far from center stage to be taken seriously or worse yet a dilettante. The words of a lifetime may accumulate over the years but most will never be read by more than a few friends and a couple accidental admirer’s. The sum total of all this unappreciated effort demotes the author to a simple journal writer marking the shift over time of their own mental musings.
How then to proceed? Is this even an issue to those who have caught the bug and find it an obsession to daily construct some form of ongoing genetic chain of ongoing thoughts and observations along the lines of an eccentric personalized structure? Does this encompass those who though themselves turn out to be voracious readers but are so overstuffed by this diet that they must vomit out their own version of same in an antithetical manner in order to keep some sort of internally perceived moral balance to their notion of the larger phantom discussion? And of course their is that other sense of being an unconscious conduit that by the simple process of detailing ones thoughts unvarnished by editorial interference there is a purer sense of vérité. The act of same even without any public recognition places the instrument in closer proximity with the inference of the divine. For after all, is the single ant within the colony of millions to be considered an architect of the anthill or an unknowing slave to the happenstance of its creation? To set down one word and decide with great meditation, or not, the proper order and juxtaposition and possible reappearance within the same batch of same is noted. One lives or dies by that single word that to one’s horror they much later was out of place to what they recall was their original intent. That is the genius of it or alternately the unforgivable flaw. What personal conclusions one comes to about all this remains solely one’s own.
03/05/2016 – Coffee House Saturday 7:00 AM
Happy Birthday! Years ago having been pushed forth into physical reality. And taken through its steps all the way to the present.Yet, now in a similar sense of same, once more again. Luckier before to have loving arms awaiting me. Now only the inevitability of departure to the unknown realm where all my anonymous forebears reside. But as I look at the layers of life in different vintages of those young, I do not feel envy. I am on my way somewhere? A very well-traveled path. Yet in the eyes of a toddler I can recall that sense of wonder and excitement that once was mine. Perhaps why my father felt so all alone? How selfish are the young to not take into the account the feelings of the generation that spawned them!
03/12/2016 – Coffee House Saturday 7:00 AM
I am always amazed at how bad reporting generally is. The kernel is that people will believe what they want to! Not necessarily what transpires in from of their eyes. My God! My Jewish friend is ‘pussy-whipped‘ baby in a sling style. The other daddy opposite him with the perambulator, rocks. He’s too busy being dad. The music format he past seems to want to summon dead Hippies. Delving into the ‘B’ tracks of half a century ago. A man and his son. The father young enough to still be innocent to enjoy the rite of pleasing his with some donuts.
In 1968, I was in Europe while it exploded. More appear to strut fashion guidelines conforming to the pseudo style of Retro. Their clan rejects my generation. Uncomfortable to talk to. A strange culture of ‘White‘ that wants to roll up the red carper behind them as they go on.
The parents shower their infant offspring with their eternal fascination where other cultures might have imagined what outcomes might be. The baby’s banana soon replaced by a sugar bun. And God created sweets! The lifetime of addiction commences.
03/19/2016 – Coffee House Saturday 7:00 AM
Physical death and release. Momento Mori. The wold as constructed cannot speak more than the memories that are collectively built within it. Action. Reaction. Caught from morning to midnight. What is the best method to engage? To play the part to the hilt? Or remain observantly removed?
03/26/2016 – Coffee House Saturday 7:00 AM
Helen showed up inexplicably in my dream? “What are you doing here in Costa Rica!?!” She rode off on horses with her friend Mary.
Underneath every young ingenue is a shriveled potato headed grandma waiting for her time to be recognized. The talk ranch sat half-fiction in the morning Sun. Awaiting their choices. Maybe the clothes of the brain is undeterred like a disc drive? The jumbled fragmentary events unwound. Maybe the chaos of the brain? The jumbled sectors rearranged from fragmentary events. Are the aches and pains unwound. Maybe the living turned dead hop from lifetime to lifetime like porpoises? When the world that you once knew collapses down around you, its members fade away. then that former awareness becomes an arcane, well-regarded, secret.
The transfiguration from innocent youth to its battered aged equivalent. So many small charms preserved but now sugar-coated in armor plate of hard won survival. Now I see all the frailties of the other side of mother to only child. The totality encapsulated in so many shortcomings. And so much ceaseless effort. All of which comes from that mysterious bond of creation that engenders undying love. The avoidance of the dangerous mystery of my mother’s red rubber vaginal cleaner bag hanging mute on the shower stall. A mental stand-in for the uterus. When you’re an only child you need your fantasies to keep you safe.
I will always wonder why we have to tremble at the demands of the ‘enfant terrible‘ minorities in a nation supposedly built upon the will of the majority?
The circus museum at Sarasota where I stayed overnight. The gravity of their loss and the lost opportunities remain incalculable.
04/02/2016 – Coffee House Saturday 7:00 AM
Woke up with a reasonably decent head. So this is how Don Draper feels the morning after? After!?! After what’s changed since childhood? Still in a fantasy world of cartoon characters and feelings they evoke. Caught up in at the impossibility of of a lexicon of tailor made emotions from the plotting of others. Now my existence is not my own. Simply a patchwork of episodes that stuck more than others. The times in-between are empty. A picture of discontent. The official base measurements of life. I wince every time I think of what I put my parents through!
The frog dissection at Old Orchard Jr. High. Strings of grasshoppers. The National Enquirer with the title, “I Cut Off Her Head And Stomped On It.” A plastic balloon flour covering. The ‘fight‘ with Shelly and a punch in the nose friendship. Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs on a flatbed trailer playing outside of the store.
For those whose physical circumstances will never meet the expectations of popular cliches, “Too Poor!” “Too Fat!” “Too, too, too!” The doyens of Rock and Roll are all about and grayed resembling your grandparents.
04/16/2016 – Coffee House Saturday 7:00 AM
New York in three days. I know how Ray Milland felt with his X-Ray eyes. Too observant for my generation. Motivation failure dealing with the gravity of Jupiter. Changing the bugle call. Wonder at the range of life experience. Changing the number of rotations of the dynamo. Do these habits reveal membership in a detestable creed?
A thousand pairs of dusty boots treading up the slow winding incline on the back of the snake. The amazing flea circus of the .303.
A plastic society where so many stretch forth to fit within the mold of a fickle Utopia. No sympathy for the downfall of tyrants and their folly. The foe must stand up to their new person. In this way history is never true. I watch my fellow humanity like a bird expert. What is after all the psychic dimension of music. A convenient carrier for pleasant emotions? I’ve had no charity in my soul during this life. A cold barren furnace devoid of warmth. The infant’s blue eyed pensive gaze taking in the world with a basic sense of apprehension. And pondering it all the same.