“Beware the lollipop of mediocrity – lick it once and you suck forever.” ~ Brian Wilson
I Know There’s an Answer
I know so many people who think they can do it alone
They isolate their heads and stay in their saftey zones
Now what can you tell them
And what can you say that won’t make them defensive
I know there’s an answer
I know now but I have to find it by myself
They come on like they’re peaceful
But inside they’re so uptight
They trip through their day
And waste all their thoughts at night
Now how can I come on
And tell them the way that they live could be better
I know there’s an answer
I know now but I have to find it by myself
Now how can I come on
And tell them the way that they live could be better
I know there’s an answer
I know now but I have to find it by myself
Sisyphus Camus – Part II
All of us are born to die, but Phus was born for suicide. He tried to tell me many times about his many deaths and many lives, and each time I listened. But my mind is ordinary. Sisyphus, my good friend, was more than I could comprehend.
“I’m going to a bonfire,” he told me. “There’s this art thing I want to do. You’ll just think it’s weird.”
Then into his backpack he stuffed the huge pile of green paper which he had been assembling by the printer.
That night I was sitting in the bar, sipping down a double bourbon when I heard the sirens roar. I rushed out on to Newport Avenue.
“There’s a man in there!” a woman screamed, running horrified from the beach, a green flyer crumpled in her right hand.
A howling wind swept a cloud of black smoke and green paper swirling down the street. I snatched a flyer as it flew past my face. I read in silence.
“Lose your ego. Love one another. The last words of the burning man.”
All I could think was, “Wow. That IS weird.”
Computer time has been hard to come by since serendipity dropped me on a sailboat in Mission Bay. I haven’t been writing much anyway; mostly focusing on exercise and practical things like finding a job. Although I did take some time to plagiarize Thoreau’s Walden, rewriting the first two paragraphs in my own voice to reflect my current situation. I guess it’s kind of hard to explain, so maybe I’ll make that my next post. In the meantime, I started this poem yesterday. One sure sign that I’m no poet is the fact that I never know when a poem is complete. I just stop when I get bored. But the idea was to write something every day, regardless of how lame it is.
The hourglass overturns;
the first grain floats slowly by,
descending gently
like a feather
falling from the sky.
I fail to see a rush of sand.
I focus on the first grain.
I’ve come to find
what we call time
resides only in the brain.
I like to play with time this way,
slow a second to a day;
and take the time to notice,
through patience and sharp focus,
the little things
like a blade of grass,
or the first grain falling in the hourglass.
During a recent stay with my family back East, I had a conversation with my mother regarding the current state of affairs in my life. I expressed some frustration about repeatedly having put myself in a position where I am forced to seek help from others for even the most basic requirements of what is considered to be a normal existence in society, ie. shelter, transportation, an opportunity to earn a wage. Drawing on her Roman Catholic upbringing, Mom suggested that I not think of it as needing help, but instead think of it as being a link in a chain, as reflected in the meditations of St. John Neumann. Well, what the hell else is a mother to say when her son is apparently unhinged and potentially incapable of sustaining himself in society. Moms are the best, aren’t they! Now, the words of St. John Neumann:
God has created me to do Him some definite service; He has committed some work to me which He has not committed to another. I have my mission—I never may know it in this life, but I shall be told it in the next. Somehow I am necessary for His purposes, as necessary in my place as an Archangel in his—if, indeed, I fail, He can raise another, as He could make the stones children of Abraham. Yet I have a part in this great work; I am a link in a chain, a bond of connexion between persons. He has not created me for naught. I shall do good, I shall do His work; I shall be an angel of peace, a preacher of truth in my own place, while not intending it, if I do but keep His commandments and serve Him in my calling.
For those who look on me and my struggles with disdain, I offer this retort: I don’t care what you say; my mommy says that I’m a link in a chain.
Thanks, Mom.
Serendipity, my old friend,
here we go yet again.
Are you with me?
Today marks the end of May, and I find myself thinking about an old friend who I never really got to know as well as I would have liked; and now I surely never will. May was the month, as I recall. By now she wears a golden band. That’s how it goes a lot of times. People pair up and throw a big party with hors d’oeuvres and champagne; they dance and collect gifts conveniently listed on the screen in the registry kiosk at Macy’s – all in the name of love. Anyway, I wish her well. She truly is a gem and deserves to be happy. Sure I desired her, but I’m pretty sure I loved her too, at least as sure as I can be; and as I am learning to distinguish between love and desire, I leave behind my whiny ways and wish happiness to all.
The subject of ritualistic monogamy now brings Jon and Kate to mind, but I am going to resist the urge to rant about the Gosselins and the eight future therapy patients that constitute their brood. I am so fucking sensitive. Everything makes me sad. On top of that, I am fat and pale, and I look old, old beyond my years. Thankfully, I still feel young. So I got that going for me.
This post is pointless, just like every post on every page in every blog in cyberspace. But there doesn’t always have to be a point. The museum is a shrine to pointlessness where people stare with awe and wonder at magnificent works created just for the sake of creating. Next Wednesday at Farmers’ Market, visit the guy on Newport Avenue who makes artistic etchings in driftwood using sun rays and a magnifying glass. Ask him what the point is. The question doesn’t even make sense. There appears to be a lot of joy and reassurance in the absence of a point; and that to me seems like something worth exploring.
There is so much good that can be done. Why waste another second? I have reaped the benefits of a hard-earned wage, and I have drawn a smile from a new friend; and I promise you the two do not compare. There is room for me and my values in this country, where we are free to choose, free to speak, and even free to fail. I may be a “good-for-nothing motherfucker” in the eyes of the angry taxpayer. I understand, and I assure you that soon I will return to sweat and bleed on the factory floor. But for now, for just a little while longer, I have only my thoughts to offer and only my time to share.
Dear Family,
I am traveling light again,
running with the tramps,
searching like a madman.
Do not waste your worry on me,
I am exactly where I need to be.
I am strong,
I am determined,
I know my way around.
I have a pen to defend myself;
a notebook for a shield.
I am a peaceful warrior,
I carry the white flag.
I look people in the eyes.
I see truth,
I see my reflection,
I say “friend.”
I am he,
He is I,
Everyone is the same.
Nucleic acids holding hands,
passing through the gene machine.
Perception and illusions of self.
Five senses and so-called mind;
ions rush through axon gates,
synaptic lightning strikes;
the sentient being twitches.
Please, dear family, do not be alarmed
by my digression into science,
nor by the metaphysics that I ponder.
They are remnants of my education
at the university
where I paid too much attention.
It all means nothing.
I read too many books
and spend too much time in the library of my mind.
Dear family, I am searching;
you are with me every step.
Pay no mind to the loud ones,
the ones who shout “loser.”
I don’t know what game they’re playing,
but the winners are handed a shiny plaque
engraved with “I complied.”
There is a crack in the bell curve
where true liberty resides.
Dear family, I am searching.
For now I say good-bye.
While I’m not afraid of dying,
I still burn to be alive.
I took a ride up to NYC Friday morning to check out Green Day’s set in Central Park. The show was part of Good Morning America’s summer concert series; so at times the contrived television bullshit tended to detract from the full Green Day live experience.
Douchey Stage Manager over the PA system to the crowd: “OK. We are going to go live with a weather update in 3 minutes, so when I say…”
Rowdy punk element of the crowd in a spontaneous eruption: FUHHHCK-the- WEHHH-ther! FUHHHCK-the-WEHHH-ther!”
Funny stuff! The band rolled like the pros they are, right through all the starting and stopping and stifling douchery of the television production crew; and they seemed genuinely determined to give the audience what we came for, regardless of the carefully manufactured environment. Ten feet from the stage at a Green Day show, perfect weather, Central Park, and even the sound check rocked. All in all it was a real fun time.
Say what you want about Green Day, but those guys play with tremendous energy and put on a great show. Energy! Where does it come from? How do we get to it? Mass times the speed of light squared. Hone in on some thread of experience, capture it in lyrics, expressed poetically or in a simple rhyme; then shout from the belly on top of loud, artful noise, putting it all out there to see what resonates with the masses. I want to write the way a rock band plays. Poetry… and prose too. Why not! Hone, capture, express. Check. But how do we produce the artful noise with only words, music without a band? Rhythm and melody. Distortion and bass. Can it be done? My writing tends to come across as technical and dry, even when attempting to describe tender moments or playful banter, heartfelt emotion or a funny situation, or even the most ineffable clouds of thought. Learn to write the way a rock band plays. With energy!
So I thought I would try a little experiment . The beat poets come to mind when I think about writing the way a rock band plays. Take Allen Ginsberg’s America, for example. Read it to yourself here; then listen to Ginsberg’s reading in the clip below. How does his music compare to yours? Is it still the same song? Is there music in the words themselves or must the reader supply the band? What is the point of this exercise? I don’t know. Just write!
When you make a resolution to write something every day, you run the risk of producing a lot of crap. For example, there’s this little diddy that I typed out today…
“There’s a certain upleviating neuressence to it all,” I tell her.
She loves it when we talk like this, although I’m sure I love it more.
Her eyes widen, sparkling with curiosity and a hint of flirtatious affection. Sometimes they whisper and sometimes they shout, but these are eloquent eyes.
“A certain what?” she asks in a playful tone of feigned accusation.
“Upleviating neuressence,” I repeat, hoping my poker face remains calmly in place.
After a brief moment of contemplation, her pursed lips slip into a smirk which quickly bursts into a generous smile. She’s on to me.
“Those aren’t real words. You made that up!”
Busted.
“OK. You got me. But you have to understand… If I waited for every word to become real, I’d never be able to say everything that I want to say.”
Instantly she grabs my hand and leads me down the hall.
She really loves it when I talk that way.
