Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Plaka, Athens, 1965
…the streets of my early sorrows where I once lived, loved, wrote, read, painted, first smoked dope…there we were - high above the city on The Acropolis @ sunrise – me and Linda, the light & love of my ever-loving past life!
Now this young love – so real then, so thrilling, so filled with promise, is a distant memory and a, let’s face it, tacky literary device…some people write what they believe others would like to read, hear; others – me for instance, write and make people believe what they are reading, or so I hope.
…a Bach orchestral suite interrupts my reveries…Bach’s 2nd orchestral suite for a flute and, Dude, this guy Ransom Wilson is blowin’ his brains out through his pennywhistle, it is just great and plunges me into a state of introspective lachrymosa, the only place for a melancholy man to be; I tried being happy once, I didn’t like it…I was young, thought there was actually something to it all, that somewhere an uncommon, if lugubrious, destiny awaited me…
Now this young love – so real then, so thrilling, so filled with promise, is a distant memory and a, let’s face it, tacky literary device…some people write what they believe others would like to read, hear; others – me for instance, write and make people believe what they are reading, or so I hope.
…a Bach orchestral suite interrupts my reveries…Bach’s 2nd orchestral suite for a flute and, Dude, this guy Ransom Wilson is blowin’ his brains out through his pennywhistle, it is just great and plunges me into a state of introspective lachrymosa, the only place for a melancholy man to be; I tried being happy once, I didn’t like it…I was young, thought there was actually something to it all, that somewhere an uncommon, if lugubrious, destiny awaited me…
Sunday, September 27, 2009
More Random "...NOTES..." From Wrinkled Scraps...
…the way things are going I expect a stroke will likely cut me down mate and shiver my timbers right into the grave, there to repose ad infinitum…
…I didn’t realize my house was such a sty until someone cleaned it for me and I saw the enormous difference. Who knew? For months dust and dust mites have had free rein…
…I never was a big fan of the Three Stooges but I always loved the word stooge, it is so descriptive; even without looking up the definition you know what it means…hmmm, but do I…okay so I look it up: stooge, well there’s the definition we know but alternately ‘an underling’ or ‘an associate’…I don’t know many stooges but it’s another vaudeville term originally…
…lungs like one of those flattened latex party balloons two days later, an apt analogy after having ruined my air bags and life through a variety of what in a polite society might be called missteps but really were far worse, smoking until I could barely draw a breath, strangling myself, gasping, can barely make it up in the morning or down at night, breathless, terrified, alone and in a psychological, physiological, philosophical, fiscal and physical meltdown, hell on earth!
…other than that everything’s pretty good…
…if it ever comes to it the tobacco industry won’t have to do too much to retool for dope. Instead of drying the leaf, dry the bud; shred and package like Camels and – bingo – off with your head…
…too much reality is not good for you which is where NFTD comes in handy…NFTD – Much ado about nothing since 1986…
…what happens when you crack your knuckles is, as I understand it, little sacs of senovial fluid are exploding which is cute and/or annoying in youth and sometimes beyond but that exploding senovial fluid was a lubricant like WD40 and now at nearly 66, having cracked my knuckles every which way known to man, twist, yank, bend, snap fingers practically off until the shit all dried up and now, an aging fool, merely bending a thumb and a forefinger around a pen is friggin’ agony…
…like a heart attack I once had I can assure you dying is not that much fun either, way not fun…I’m no visionary but everyday many times a day through each unbearable spell of barely breathing I envision death and dying, a grave deep in Mother Earth, pitch black (it’s the one thing I own I fear, having outlived all my other fears) not darkness while you wait for your eyes to adjust but true dark, black, no light, no getting used to, no in no out no up no down no escape…eternal darkness…then my air bags (so far) finally refill and life is back, o hey I didn’t buck the kicket yet, wheeew, that was close…now, where was I…
…my DgD (Darling Granddaughter) had the great good fortune of going to Van’s Warped Tour this summer down to Hartford and there was treated to a number of fine bands including this one, Flogging Molly, singing among other tunes this fine 21st Century Irish ballad, ‘Drunken Lullabies’
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDwlGbEcJ6Y
Here’s three books will make your life more full:
Steaming to Bamboola – (Can’t remember who wrote it…)
The Ginger Man – J. P. Donleavy
A Fan’s Notes – Frederick Exley
…I didn’t realize my house was such a sty until someone cleaned it for me and I saw the enormous difference. Who knew? For months dust and dust mites have had free rein…
…I never was a big fan of the Three Stooges but I always loved the word stooge, it is so descriptive; even without looking up the definition you know what it means…hmmm, but do I…okay so I look it up: stooge, well there’s the definition we know but alternately ‘an underling’ or ‘an associate’…I don’t know many stooges but it’s another vaudeville term originally…
…lungs like one of those flattened latex party balloons two days later, an apt analogy after having ruined my air bags and life through a variety of what in a polite society might be called missteps but really were far worse, smoking until I could barely draw a breath, strangling myself, gasping, can barely make it up in the morning or down at night, breathless, terrified, alone and in a psychological, physiological, philosophical, fiscal and physical meltdown, hell on earth!
…other than that everything’s pretty good…
…if it ever comes to it the tobacco industry won’t have to do too much to retool for dope. Instead of drying the leaf, dry the bud; shred and package like Camels and – bingo – off with your head…
…too much reality is not good for you which is where NFTD comes in handy…NFTD – Much ado about nothing since 1986…
…what happens when you crack your knuckles is, as I understand it, little sacs of senovial fluid are exploding which is cute and/or annoying in youth and sometimes beyond but that exploding senovial fluid was a lubricant like WD40 and now at nearly 66, having cracked my knuckles every which way known to man, twist, yank, bend, snap fingers practically off until the shit all dried up and now, an aging fool, merely bending a thumb and a forefinger around a pen is friggin’ agony…
…like a heart attack I once had I can assure you dying is not that much fun either, way not fun…I’m no visionary but everyday many times a day through each unbearable spell of barely breathing I envision death and dying, a grave deep in Mother Earth, pitch black (it’s the one thing I own I fear, having outlived all my other fears) not darkness while you wait for your eyes to adjust but true dark, black, no light, no getting used to, no in no out no up no down no escape…eternal darkness…then my air bags (so far) finally refill and life is back, o hey I didn’t buck the kicket yet, wheeew, that was close…now, where was I…
…my DgD (Darling Granddaughter) had the great good fortune of going to Van’s Warped Tour this summer down to Hartford and there was treated to a number of fine bands including this one, Flogging Molly, singing among other tunes this fine 21st Century Irish ballad, ‘Drunken Lullabies’
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDwlGbEcJ6Y
Here’s three books will make your life more full:
Steaming to Bamboola – (Can’t remember who wrote it…)
The Ginger Man – J. P. Donleavy
A Fan’s Notes – Frederick Exley
Thursday, August 20, 2009
I hate telling you this...
...in a way because it pokes yet another hole in the worn fabric which is my shredded character, but it goes like this and you can do with it what you might:
Later...
Whatever I had in mind to divulge to you has fled and so...you didn't want to know anyway...drunker. Stoned. All manner of the so-called real world blotting out - or trying to blot out anyway - the REAL world.
The REAL world, as I see it is an infinite variety of things one would never have thought possible. Isn't the real world starving children? In this latter-day Athens, Rome or Bamboola, isn't the real world a kick in the ass?
Shouldn't we pass out at night after busting our asses all day to help the afflicted? Should we be so complacent with our meager achievements while somewhere in this world our fellow Brothers and Sisters are dying like flies because they have nothing to eat? The white world-at-large doesn't seem to care much that blacks are starving to death. Maybe I'm wrong; the media could be painting an unclear picture, but it seems to me that if a half-million Limeys were starving in London they'd have whatever food they needed tomorrow.
Or sick with no cure in sight? I think, if I may speak my mind, that if AIDS were striking the middle-class and upper echelons of society instead of the poor, a bunch of junkies and homosexuals, that the cure would have been found about 50,000 deaths ago. The real world is a throbbing abscessed molar bringing tears to your eyes as you painfully, slowly - masticate your Gerber's.
It is a drive-by killing in LA, NY, SF - pick a city.
I realize the real world is also azaleas on Mineola Boulevard in the early spring and the real world is a kiss from your sweetheart at just the right moment in just the right place, so of course the life is somewhat improved by these things, and there are other reasons why the world isn't all that bad a place, things being relative.
A tooth is killing me (hyperbole, but it hurts like hell) so I drop a couple Rugby's a friend laid on me and a half hour or so later I'm feelin' alright, better. In fact, good but it'll pass and it'll be back to the real world again, pain and all. Whatta ya gonna do?
Later...
Whatever I had in mind to divulge to you has fled and so...you didn't want to know anyway...drunker. Stoned. All manner of the so-called real world blotting out - or trying to blot out anyway - the REAL world.
The REAL world, as I see it is an infinite variety of things one would never have thought possible. Isn't the real world starving children? In this latter-day Athens, Rome or Bamboola, isn't the real world a kick in the ass?
Shouldn't we pass out at night after busting our asses all day to help the afflicted? Should we be so complacent with our meager achievements while somewhere in this world our fellow Brothers and Sisters are dying like flies because they have nothing to eat? The white world-at-large doesn't seem to care much that blacks are starving to death. Maybe I'm wrong; the media could be painting an unclear picture, but it seems to me that if a half-million Limeys were starving in London they'd have whatever food they needed tomorrow.
Or sick with no cure in sight? I think, if I may speak my mind, that if AIDS were striking the middle-class and upper echelons of society instead of the poor, a bunch of junkies and homosexuals, that the cure would have been found about 50,000 deaths ago. The real world is a throbbing abscessed molar bringing tears to your eyes as you painfully, slowly - masticate your Gerber's.
It is a drive-by killing in LA, NY, SF - pick a city.
I realize the real world is also azaleas on Mineola Boulevard in the early spring and the real world is a kiss from your sweetheart at just the right moment in just the right place, so of course the life is somewhat improved by these things, and there are other reasons why the world isn't all that bad a place, things being relative.
A tooth is killing me (hyperbole, but it hurts like hell) so I drop a couple Rugby's a friend laid on me and a half hour or so later I'm feelin' alright, better. In fact, good but it'll pass and it'll be back to the real world again, pain and all. Whatta ya gonna do?
Sunday, July 5, 2009
ONE TIME WHEN I WAS A KID…
…and knew a lot more then than I know now I was boosting some Midnight Auto Supply ground effects from a new car dealer, prying eight hubcaps and four fender skirts off two very fine 1957 Black Chevy Bel-Air convertibles, I shoulda took a whole car but I was more petty then and noisily pried the hubs off with the thought in mind that I could sell them at The Green Door in the morning – they’d be worth quite a few pitchers and cheeseburgers for the day, but as I start to gather them up and sneak away I am interrupted by a basso profundo growl; from the top porch of a three-story walkup, I hear – ‘We got your license number, is there anything else you want?!’ - and Dude I tell you for a split second it rained hubcaps and there was an incredible cacophony of metal clattering to the pavement as I scrambled to that idling old Studebaker and sped away into the waiting arms of the law…I fought the law and the law won…
THIS IS A LONG OVERDUE, SORT OF SOTTO VOCE DISCUSSION WE NEED(?) TO HAVE…
…who gives a shit? See what I mean? This is not just some festering scatological detritus we are dealing with…shit can save us…(WHAT IS this fool banging on about?! You may well ask…) I put it to you thusly…the shit you took this morning (or wish you could have) is on its way down the drain and into the system; depending on where you live it will be gotten rid of in any number of venues in a variety of ways, about half of them illegal and none of them good, when what should be done with the shit is to burn it in furnaces – there’s no end to the shit in this world so there’d always be plenty; shit happens yes, but shit burns too and puts out some pretty steep BTUs…well, enough of this shit, I’m just saying it’s reusable and a good source of energy…doesn’t mean you have to toddle over to the specialized dumpster every couple of days with a blivet in your hand…instead of flushing the shit down the drain send it straight to hell, to the furnace, be done with it…into the furnace…toilet to furnace, and a blivet in case you’ve been living under a rock is ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag…enough of this…where was I…o yeah…
…and knew a lot more then than I know now I was boosting some Midnight Auto Supply ground effects from a new car dealer, prying eight hubcaps and four fender skirts off two very fine 1957 Black Chevy Bel-Air convertibles, I shoulda took a whole car but I was more petty then and noisily pried the hubs off with the thought in mind that I could sell them at The Green Door in the morning – they’d be worth quite a few pitchers and cheeseburgers for the day, but as I start to gather them up and sneak away I am interrupted by a basso profundo growl; from the top porch of a three-story walkup, I hear – ‘We got your license number, is there anything else you want?!’ - and Dude I tell you for a split second it rained hubcaps and there was an incredible cacophony of metal clattering to the pavement as I scrambled to that idling old Studebaker and sped away into the waiting arms of the law…I fought the law and the law won…
THIS IS A LONG OVERDUE, SORT OF SOTTO VOCE DISCUSSION WE NEED(?) TO HAVE…
…who gives a shit? See what I mean? This is not just some festering scatological detritus we are dealing with…shit can save us…(WHAT IS this fool banging on about?! You may well ask…) I put it to you thusly…the shit you took this morning (or wish you could have) is on its way down the drain and into the system; depending on where you live it will be gotten rid of in any number of venues in a variety of ways, about half of them illegal and none of them good, when what should be done with the shit is to burn it in furnaces – there’s no end to the shit in this world so there’d always be plenty; shit happens yes, but shit burns too and puts out some pretty steep BTUs…well, enough of this shit, I’m just saying it’s reusable and a good source of energy…doesn’t mean you have to toddle over to the specialized dumpster every couple of days with a blivet in your hand…instead of flushing the shit down the drain send it straight to hell, to the furnace, be done with it…into the furnace…toilet to furnace, and a blivet in case you’ve been living under a rock is ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag…enough of this…where was I…o yeah…
Thursday, May 28, 2009
I'm in Oakwood again...
…I CALL IT A PRACTICE SESSION…
…Oakwood is a cemetery here in East Eden, a place to hang out in solitude and quiet, or not; on a number of occasions I’ve had to crank it up so I could be sure Alexander Cushing (who took a minnie ball in the head at Antietam) and Ginny Allbee (my Friend who drowned in the Connecticut River) heard it wherever they are…not to mention the Follets, the Duttons, Chamberlins, Stebbins, Youngs and Stowells…from Antonio Vivaldi to Killer Kane to ZZ Top, Oakwood’s heard it all, but in the main the appeal is its stillness which I find cathartic, for exhilaration is brief and silence eternal; in life I’ve spent a 1000 hours in this wonderful old boneyard and after life I expect I’ll spend eternity here, for here it ends, I think. Here in Oakwood when I roll snake eyes is where I wish to lie.
…but because I think, I wonder, is that it? A box of bony ash? No Beyond? No blinding flash of eternal life-giving white light? No Hell, No Heaven, just a very small pile of dust in a very big universe…that’s it? Why bother? What was/is the point? Is there a point? To be sure I am clueless; after 65 years I have no idea, well I have ideas about what lies ahead – nothing – is my flippant and probably blasphemous guess but I’m a survived Catholic and so that Heaven and Hell schtick was deeply ingrained and I (un)consciously sweat the latter…I’m desperate for diversion…
I crank up Telemann’s Tafelmusik and the gossamer wraiths of a 1000 dead twirl ecstatically in their habiliments of death through the flower-strewn paths of Oakwood…
…Oakwood is a cemetery here in East Eden, a place to hang out in solitude and quiet, or not; on a number of occasions I’ve had to crank it up so I could be sure Alexander Cushing (who took a minnie ball in the head at Antietam) and Ginny Allbee (my Friend who drowned in the Connecticut River) heard it wherever they are…not to mention the Follets, the Duttons, Chamberlins, Stebbins, Youngs and Stowells…from Antonio Vivaldi to Killer Kane to ZZ Top, Oakwood’s heard it all, but in the main the appeal is its stillness which I find cathartic, for exhilaration is brief and silence eternal; in life I’ve spent a 1000 hours in this wonderful old boneyard and after life I expect I’ll spend eternity here, for here it ends, I think. Here in Oakwood when I roll snake eyes is where I wish to lie.
…but because I think, I wonder, is that it? A box of bony ash? No Beyond? No blinding flash of eternal life-giving white light? No Hell, No Heaven, just a very small pile of dust in a very big universe…that’s it? Why bother? What was/is the point? Is there a point? To be sure I am clueless; after 65 years I have no idea, well I have ideas about what lies ahead – nothing – is my flippant and probably blasphemous guess but I’m a survived Catholic and so that Heaven and Hell schtick was deeply ingrained and I (un)consciously sweat the latter…I’m desperate for diversion…
I crank up Telemann’s Tafelmusik and the gossamer wraiths of a 1000 dead twirl ecstatically in their habiliments of death through the flower-strewn paths of Oakwood…
Sunday, May 3, 2009
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