Almost Home...less

This African Guitar Lady Rocks!

2011-12-10T12:28:00.000-07:00

Today

2011-10-12T18:56:00.001-06:00

Banshee Train

2010-10-25T12:20:00.002-06:00

A banshee train
just howled its way west through town;
as if incited by murder;
the bad death of a lover.

Blats and blares and wrath spat
soaked up by the already heavy air;
shrieking in voices, all dominant, dissonant, yet unison;
of power, of pain, of rage, of despair

It gave me a thrill and a fright, my children;
and somewhere it's howling, I hear it
still, carried back in fits and gasps
on the leaf-blow'n Halloween wind.

Christina Osborn: Studio Demos

2010-04-02T20:48:00.001-06:00

Here are the 4 tracks from Christina's studio demo set. All songs are original pieces ("All Your Days Are Sad" was written the weekend before the studio session and I posted the original in an earlier journal - "How Sweet It Is" is my favorite.) The tracks are CD quality so, they're each about 5 MB.

Thanks!

The Mourning Pages (#1)

2010-03-27T00:11:00.002-06:00

This is the first installment of the Mourning Pages project, a collaborative effort between me and my oldest daughter - I hope to collect discographies from all my children as they grow, and, if Nina is any indicator, I'll have a lot of good music to listen to for the rest of my ecstatically proud life..

The title of the song(s) was a theme we chose as an exercise in writing, recording, and producing an original piece of music at home with a laptop and a microphone.

Brandon Osborn - All Your Days Are Sad.mp3

Christina Osborn - All Your Days Are Sad.mp3

As the project progresses, Christina and I intend to co-develop pieces during the coming 2 months, and spend the summer performing together.

Christina has finished her studio demo; it will be available (from somewhere) in a week or less - if you are interested, please PM or email me.

Comments, questions, and good vibes are welcome.

We hope you enjoy!

A Breath of Fresh Air: What Dreams May Come?

2010-02-18T10:39:00.002-07:00

From a Fresh Air Interview today:

Terry Gross: {Avatar is so dreamlike} do you have an "active dream life?"
James Cameron: Yeah, a lot of Avatar came from dreams I've had.

His tone of voice was what got me - I used to dream vividly, and often, sometimes lucidly.

I have, up until recently (and I mean like, the last few weeks), lost almost all of my ability to dream coherently, almost to a point of not dreaming at all - since I've been coming out of my Long Funk and started practicing, and dreaming again, I notice how much I've been missing in my dream life which surely is a bridge to creative living.

JC sounded emotionally grateful, mortified at the possibility that he would not have a dream life, and gracefully suprised at the question - I hope he gave Terry a hug and a kiss after that one :)

I'm glad I hard this today because, it increases the amount of hope I feel as I move along...

today ...

2010-02-05T13:21:00.002-07:00

I had the day off so, I got coffee & fish and chips, packed a box to ship to All My Aweome Children, watched women walk down the street while I sat and smoked on the front porch, watched a lecture section on some famouse historical geometric proofs, baked a little, worked on my meme, wrote a song about being lonely and free and sad and hopeful - and the day is only half over

I think about love
and I shrug about sex
and I sometimes wonder if the world has any use
for me anymore
and I feel like a closing door

I used to dream about
the way life could be
and worried over details
about what should be
going on
I just wanted to go home

Today, I found a little trulth
in myself concerning
my attitude towards
the inner yearnings
that I feel
all I want is something real

Reality is feeling
cool and fuzzy
and I like to think the universe
really does love me
and somewhere I'll find
someone of like mind

Just a cloudy winter day
maybe sun, tomorrow
or maybe, suddenly
change will follow
maybe Zen
I choose to choose again

Nina Trax (Live @ Jazzy Java)

2010-02-01T16:57:00.004-07:00

January 27, 2010

Somebody threw a "Piss on Christmas" at me

2009-12-20T12:59:00.000-07:00

Solstice Sunday afternoon for me is
The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul

Solstice
Christmas
Auld Lang Zyne

On a good chunk of this planet
this is the time when being alone
means flirting with death itself
no matter the LED bling
or thin illusions of connections

Jacob rattles
Bob watches
Indra feels every heartbeat
and, if the only stars we see
are fake atop a storefront tree
...

I heard a woman in the mall the other day, she had 2 little ones, a stroller, and a cell phone, she was tired, and happy - she said to the older, about three, "Oh, honey, don't eat the plastic!", and she sounded so much like a Best Friend with Good Advice, and the little girl pulled it out and held it up and cocked her head (pigtails), waiting...

I bought gloves

The mall smelled awful, like a perfume explosion shot through with the decay of shrubbery and hot glue - most people were frenetic, talking on cells - some not very Christmassy, either - woo - this time of year seemsto bring out the best and the beast in so many - it's confusing to be a Christian, it didn't work for me so I quit but, even so, the messages and the implementation of them seem to make a lot of people behave in odd ways around Advent - maybe we all just need a nap.

Back in the Day when you slept with your family under a pile of blankets, or die, and the winter was dead set against you - at the time when winter seemed darkest, a star, a child, a miracle.

Everything is so quick now, we just haven't learned to separate the myth from the ritual, both are lovely in their way but, taken together as an obligatory (and annual) rite of passage they seem to have become more than what anyone wanted, and less than they truly mean.

Piss on Christmas? Nah - it's a time when people try a little extra hard to be sweet to one another, and that's something.

Plan b

2009-12-14T20:08:00.001-07:00

Ryan Adams is a musical genius! But, that has little to do with this post...

Today I woke up and got up at 6:59, turned on NPR, showered, drank green tea, packed up my kit, hit the street at 7:48, stopped at the Phreakwood for coffee, cought the bus at 8:18, worked with one of my oldest bestest friends, sometimes housemate, sometimes business partner, C. for 2 hours proofing high school geometry, took a 20 minute walk in the rain, spent an hour and a half in dental care - and they care, I am so glad(!), took another 20 minute walk in the rain, worked for another two hours, caught the 4:17 back downtown, stopped by the Phreakwood for coffee (and to complete a job for a now very happy laptop owner / yogini-waitress) and onion rings, came home and drank green tea and played my guitar while shuffling Ryan Adams music to play along with.

I go to the dentist again Wednesday to hash out and schedule my treatment plan and (thanks to a gift in the mail - very much unexpected) pay off my current (not huge but nominal) balance at said Dental Sanctuary.

I will not be a habitual cigarette smoker by the time The Big Surgery comes down - it's a promise and a fact.

Once my teeth are stabilized and prosthedontically repaired to a level of professional presentation (in my face), and I have regained articulate control of my diction, i will have more work (and thereby money) than I know what to do with - I'm sure I'll have plenty of suggestions - lol. I owe my kids a trip to Costa Rica & I'm gonna pay up.

The degree is a question I have not yet settled on an answer for, I can finish Psych or Liberal Arts in three semesters or I could get a CPA in 2 years - education and some crossover IT kind of track are also a possibility but, I want to keep my life uncomplicated and nominally profitable with a chance for developing direct residuals - so, don't PM me about scAMway, k? Thanks.

I've noticed that my way of interacting with people I don't has changed for the better lately, even though there's no noticeable change in the state of my smile, I've found myself doing it more, lately - but, it's nothing to post photos about...

Oh, and I want a YMCA membership - Oi!

I'm kind of concerned about how the change in oral infrastructure will affect my singing - I ain't nobody but me, but I like my voice & hope to make something good come of it soon. I'll figure that out as the future presents itself, though.

I feel love coming my way
sense it glowing in the
strange light of these
pseudo-winter days;
making believe that spring
is just around the corner,
knowing all along
there's no holding back
the snowstorms gathering
above the great plains.

I am thankful; mindful
in my tired heart,
the gesture is so fine
as the real thing.

And I'm writing poetry (and shit) again - *sigh* - better...

I'm sleeping alone and waking up with myself - it's OK - but, sleeping alone forever isn't part of the plan.

So, yeah, Ryan Adams is a musical genius, and I'm off to play my guitar some more.

To Do List

2009-10-30T18:41:00.007-06:00

1. Get my teeth fixed within the next 6 months.
2. Register for school - fall 2009.
4. Become debt free in one year.

Extra Credit:
5. Find a partner who will enjoy collaborating a happy^2 life.

The greatest crime in the world is not developing your potential. When you do what you do best, you are helping not only yourself, but the world.
-Roger Williams

Steps: Skyline Drive

2008-08-26T09:35:00.001-06:00

As of 9 AM today, I am unemployed.

I decided to walk most of the way home from work. My friends W. and R. accompanied me to the Dixie Rock to send me off on the road.

Here are some photos I took as I took the first steps towards my future. The name of the road is Skyline Drive. (Click the image to see the slide show & descriptions.)

Malus Malum Mortum - and on from there

2008-08-13T21:11:00.000-06:00

The bPod died last night
my place looks like an estate jumbe sale
I spent the morning feeling like a castaway*
in a boat full of panic rats
I got some thins packed but, I felt heavy
worried, sad, and wished
to feel nothing at all.

Amidst the chaos of my picked-to-pieces
place of terminal sanctuary in Zion's Gate,
I won't even go there, now;
I went back to bed with a glass of wine
slept for 5 hours with no dreams,
woke up to heat and light and, damn
I probably won't sleep tonight.

I feel blurry, half-disassembled, wound
too tight, and posted off-center,
tt's dark and hot and the phone
didn't ring all day, of all days
oi vay

To be a castaway is to be a point perpetually at the center of a circle. However much things may appear to change - the sea may shift from whisper to rage, the sky might go from fresh blue to blinding white to darkest black - the geometry never changes. Your gaze is always a radius. The circumference is ever great. In fact, the circles multiply. To be a castaway is to be caught in a harrowing ballet of circles. You are at the center of one circle, wile above you two opposing circles spin about. The sun distresses you like a crowd, a noisy invasive crowd that makes you cup your ears, that makes you close your eyes, that makes you want to hide. The moon distresses you by silently reminding you of your solitude; you open your eyes wide to escape your loneliness. When you look up, you sometimes wonder if at the centre of a solar storm, if in the middle of the Sea of Tranquility; there isn't another one like you also looking up, also trapped by geometry, also struggling with fear, rage, madness, hopelessness, apathy.

~Yann Martel - Life of Pi

Google Form Test - say hi if you see this

2008-08-12T02:23:00.003-06:00

State of the union

2007-11-11T13:33:00.000-07:00

Lye to Me: A Recipe for Disaster

2007-10-27T00:26:00.000-06:00

You will need:

A sink with a garbage disposal on one side.

The ingredients for homemade Szechuan shrimp (be sure to make way too much rice.)

A pot of coffee.

Two plungers (one that is marginally decent in quality, one that just looks like a plunger but doesn't really work.)

A bucket

A saucepan

A pint of Jagermeister

A large black bottle of lye which comes in its own protective plastic bag (that's how you can tell it's really dangerous, ergo, effective.)

A phillips-head screwdriver.

Make the Szechuan shrimp and eat it - Yummy! Be sure you eat dinner shortly before you need to leave for work; busy, busy, busy! Put the leftovers in a dish to take to work for lunch.

While cleaning up, and running late, just run all that leftover rice through the garbage disposal. Go take a shower and get ready for work.

Make a pot of coffee and, during that process you will discover that the sink is BADLY clogged.

Get the two plungers - you'll need to hold one in each hand; one to cover the garbage disposal maw (because some housemate or other has taken the maw-plug for some nefarious purpose or other), and the other to plunge the conduit to the main draain. Plunge vigorously for a long time, and get your shirt all wet.

Give up on the plungers (because by now both of your arms will be sore), and get out the black bottle of lye.

Use the saucepan and bucket to bail all of the standing water out of the sink. A nifty trick is to turn on the garbage disposal for a couple of seconds, which will push all the water out of that side into the sink you are bailing - thus making it easier to get most of the water out of the way.

Punch a hole in the seal on top. Pour about 6 cups of lye into the drain-sink.

NOTE: This is about 6 times the recommended amount of lye to use.

Let stand for fifteen minutes. You should probably let it stand for about a half an hour, or so but, since your ride to work is going to be coming in about 20 minutes, you don't have that luxury. Check out the brown foamy stuff that is sizzling in both sinks now, and be afraid - be very afraid. Plunge a little too vigorously, and splatter some lye on your hands and arms just so you know for sure that the warning about lye burns on the black bottle are correct.

Give up, change your soaking shirt, and go work a 12-hour shift where you end up chasing a runaway heroin addict kid around town for two hours, almost get hit by a 90-year-old woman driving an Escalade way too fast in heavy traffic, and lose your cigarettes in the process.

Go home and get back to business!

Plunge vigorously (using both plungers, of course), and then - EUREKA - here's another nifty trick you can do with your garbage disposal. Take the "good" plunger and block the drain-sink. Then, pressing down on the plunger, turn on the garbage disposal to build up pressure in the pipes - this just MIGHT blow the clog out... But, it won't. You will also find that you won't be able to hold onto the plunger. The resulting jet of lye and pipe-emesis will shoot all over the freaking place. Be sure, when it hits your face, that your EYES ARE CLOSED.

Lye burns, and the only way to get it off is to sluice it with water, which makes it burn more. Spent 20 minutes under the shower making sure that you have removed every molecule of lye from your face and body.

NOTE: Chicks dig burns (it kicks in their mothering instincts) - first (and even second) degree burns are more painful than dangerous, don't be a wimp!!

Call the Roto-Rooter guy, pay him $100, and he'll unclog the sink.

Drink 1/3 - 1/2 of the Jagermeister and go to bed.

Bon appetit!

I have to go put some more aloe on my face, neck, and arms, and clean the kitchen now. The rest of the Jager is for solace, later.

In Wonder of Agony

2007-06-06T18:47:00.001-06:00

You may find this silly but, today I forgot to wash the conditioner out of my hair - didn't even notice until I was outside waiting for the bus trying to figure out why my hair was all plastered to my head. Drunk? Not this time...

Those of you who have met me know that I am a walking poster-dog for the effects of bad genetics, drug abuse, and poor dental care - which makes me a veritable dream for any practitioner of the Maxillofacial/Prosthodontic art. What I'm saying is that my teeth are abysmal and, as I age, are in steep decline.

I make too much money to qualify for any insurance that I cannot pay for, but I don't make enough money to pay for it. So, I'm living with the consequences of my parents, the biotechnological history of my birthplace (no treated water until 1970), and my often poor choices.

I am in the midst of riding out an abscessed tooth - helping the nerve die with dignity, and experiencing levels of physical pain that I can only describe as wondrous. I have been through this before, how many times? I don't know - but, this time is different.

This is the only time when I've gone through without a junkie mind - over the past few days I've begun to wonder about many things; if I need to experience all the pain I've put off by ingesting massive amounts of drugs for years on end, if I am experiencing this to learn the truth of what Khalil Gibran wrote concerning pain:

...
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.

And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.

It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
...

Or, simply the culmination of events come to fruition.

Whatever the case, I have died a thousand tiny deaths over the last few days - I allow myself a glass of wine to help me sleep, no more. I have learned that hitting the nerve with straight Listerine will do wonders when I need to clear my head enough to communicate or function. I have also learned that having direct discourse with the nerve as it dies, as it pleads for release is helpful - telling it to shut down, to sleep, to let go; that the message that it sends to my cortex is redundant and futile.

And, in the midst of this, I have several times transcended to a place where the pain of this one little nerve is the agony model of a world; confusion, longing, need, desire unrequited, and fear that there is no end to it. I can breathe all of this in, and breathe it back out into the vastness of a universe that I know is big enough to contain it.

The peace that I experience when the pain subsides is awe-inspiring. Though I know it's only a remission, I also know that the blinding silver-hot bubbles of bio-agony that strike like lightning through my face and down into my chest are manifested perceptions that equate to seemingly endless torture the are but momentary pulses that, somehow, I can learn to step between.

Peace.

A Call To Hack

2007-03-21T11:38:00.000-06:00

Greetz to the Geeks
The call is out!
You are the commanders,
ghost bastards,
pirates of the ether!

There is a disease
in the light-pipes;
pumped in by the lusty thrusts
of the lowest scum
spewed into lives
a sickness that grows, and eats.

$pammers and $cammers
deserve no better
than to watch their bloated beast die
naked in the virtual streets.

Nuke their servers.

Exploit their processes.

Defile their Webspace.

Shred, Scramble, and Wipe their data.

Syphon their accounts.

Publicize their paswords

You know the routines;
get jobs there;
let them pay you
to bring them down;
photograph the management wheeling
out as much as they can pack into
an office chair on the final day.
Sell their corpse-rat souls to clandestine crime
video the horror when the Man comes by
to collect.

You are so much better
than I ever could have been,
though I was good enough when it counted -
you, with more than a million times
the power and speed;
your spooky intuitive decryption techniques;
Oh, I envy the havoc you shall wreak!

Jesus' stepdad was a Subversive Freemason!

2007-03-17T20:58:00.000-06:00

Joe was not just your average Joe - he was of royal descent; if not ennobled, he was threaded and blooded - and he was successful; so successful that he probably did during tax-time what I used to at work when there was a fire drill - locked himself in his office doing whatever it was he did with his hands until The Man came by to tell him he'd better get his type A together and head for Bethlehem or there just might be some PENALties in it for him. The reservations were never made, he showed up feeling like the mule he found out he was going to have to share quarters with. The Son of God's Stepdad (The Divine Cuckold) - that gets me - hey, if my wife had sex with God, I'd at least want a little, too - anyway, all things considered there had to be some sort of compensation; ergo, success. By the time they got to Nazareth, Joe needed a job, and he got one - bear with me.

With all of the travelling they did for the first year of Jesus' life - they had to have money - bribes paid to the Romans, the Jews, any bandits they may have come across (what do you think they payed their taxes with, VISA? The Temple changers, mose likely - but a bank note from a Temple could be sold or stolen without too much of a fuss)- unless you say that Jesus' divinity did the deal; which is as good, if not better - if you didn't have the gold or lambs to pay the banditos, you'd get your throat cut for a good eatin' mule; that's some hard country out there. They had to camp, which meant support staff; especially with a pregnant and then recently delivered woman. Nobody mentions the help, but, they had it - so, if Joseph was 'average', then the standard of living must have been damn near that of a water-fat Utopia.

He was wealthy, and he was skilled -

The Jews were struggling to eat - and it was never indicated that Jesus grew up in squalor. No way, they took him to Passover feast every year - and when he went to hang out in Temple, his parents didn't even know he wasn't with them, for a whole day - they must have been really busy keeping track of the support staff and stuff that were with them - some of whom were supposed to keep an eye on the kid (kids, by then.) I know I can't afford to go to NYC for Chrimas every year, and there is equivalency in these analoguous ideas; Passover means lotsa food, lotsa presents, lotsa schmoozing; and ritualistic everything.

Luke reported that, after the fast and feast and fest with the rich and famous at Temple (2:52) "And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man."

By this verse alone, it's pretty obvious that Jesus ate well (grew in stature), didn't have any major problems, and learned his learnin' well (the wisdom part); a divine child should be King's College material (hey, they let Maugham and Tolkien in), and he impressed people with his either his skill in his trade - who taught him? Nazareth was a village that might has well have been in BFE.

Whatever the case, there is every indication that Maslowe's hierarchy of needs was being met pretty solid.

The idea of a hungry, rag-wearing, desperate kid growing up to be a learned Rabbi, prophet, and Incarnation of The Divine One a bit twisted - that's just church propaganda to help people feel complacent int their post-tithe poverty (sure, 10% goes to the church, but you're not considering the huge amount spent of Yahweh knows how many feast days, offering days, etc. ad alcohol - it numbs the pain.)

So, I think I've established that; for Jesus to be BMOC with the priests, he had to have some background - he wasn't fully transfigured until after the temptation in the wilderness almost 18 years later - he had to get his education the meat way.

Another point people sometimes overlook - there wasn't a lot of wood in that area - if Joseph was a tekton, someone who worked with his hands building things; someone who made a good living doing it, while living in VBFE then he was probably working for the Romans, wealthy citizenry who probably lived in Jerusalem, or for that craven idiot Herod, someone like him, or, at least, one or the court pets that were always hanging out wherever favor or money might be had.

King Herod's Temple was begun in 19 BCE. This was more like a total refit of Zerubbabel's Temple, (also known as The Second Temple built around 515 BCE), with some major additions. The project requred 10,000 skilled workers; and around 1,000 Levites (hereditary Temple workers) who were trained as carpenters, masons, etc., to service the areas of the temple where laymen were not permitted to go.

Did Joseph work on any part of Herod's Temple? Jose Saramago believes so.

Bob Corbett wrote:

excerpted from
THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO JESUS CHRIST

By Jose Saramago. Translated from the Portuguese by Giovanni Pontiero from the 1991 O EVANGELHO SEGUNDO JESUS CRISTO.

...
how do Joseph and Mary eat? Jesus is feeding at the breast, but Jewish law requires a 33 days laying-in period for the woman followed by an animal sacrifice in the temple for purification. Joseph and Mary are quite poor and young with no savings. Joseph must find work and Saramago puts him to work in the reconstruction of the temple in near-by Jerusalem. The angel messenger turns out to be a disgruntled soldier talking with his buddies about this crazy job Herod has given them. Joseph overhears this complaint of the madness of Herod, the horror of having to kill these young children, but the impossibility of resisting his order without getting themselves killed. When Joseph hears that the slaughter is to be in Bethlehem he races off to save Jesus and hides Jesus and Mary deeper in their cave.

...and he goes back to work - in the midst of some 11,000 skilled people who are being underpaid and oppressed, not just by the Romans, but by Herod, as well - the kind of place where secret societies pop up. They couldn't do much about Herod, but the Romans were another matter - this particular instigation developed over several decades to rebellion, and was put down (rather nastily) in about 70 CE.

He was God's step-dad, had a good amount of respect, if not influence among his peers - and people liked his son. He certainly knew about the plumb line, the level, the compass, and the square- I'm sure, like anyone doing any kind of construction, he used them ever day.

My conjecture - Joseph was not an average Joe, a nobody - he was one of, if not The progenitor of the Ancient Free and Accepted Masons.

Sick

2007-03-17T16:30:00.001-06:00

I remember, today
Charles Bukowski
and how he drawled
his life out, reading
memories, not just copied,
transferred; gone from inside,
like Burroughs two days after
the doctor started leaving his phone
off the hook

The static rap in my brain;
contrapuntal guts, empty;
desiring their emptiness;
bitching from old habit,
denying solace;
tendrils seem to reach,
invisible through my skin
hooked directly into
the rip and slap of thought;
confused and aggravated
by bright sun and tepid wind.

I'm a shell, then the nut
then the seed, then a flash
and a thump; this heartbeat
seems to move, sluggish
from chest to head to wrist;
checking for leaks? Or, just
trying to find a way out
which I have forgotten about?

Out the window, they run, drive
hurry by; it's like watching
old film in bad light;
or, a hangover with no satisfaction
of how it got like this from last night.

I am sick and tired, and sick and tired
of being sick and tired;
and the day moves me through
waves of hope, and cross-cut currents
of metabolic dross, and I just hold on
longing for darkness, and bed,
and patent-pill, and / or alcohol
induced respite;
and the backhandedjoy
found in every breath,
that I don't ever have to take tha one again
while feeling like this.

Yuck
~b

I found a place - it'll do.

2007-03-16T18:44:00.000-06:00

Henry Ford (who was the turn-of-the-20th equivalent of what we would call a geek/nerd), said:

[i]"Start living your dream now, whether you are ready, or not."[/i]

That quote popped into my head as I was answering the phone to talk to my (I found out during the call) new landlord - though, I had some minor (mostly cosmetic) reservations, I went with it.

I will be about an hour's walk, or a 20 minute bus ride from my kids.

So... I found a room to rent with a common kitchen, bathroom, patio - it's small, quiet, and will do for now. So, I paid 1/2 the deposit, and now I will be packing with a purpose; so, it should go a bit faster.

I figure I'll be there for about 3-6 months.

My internet will be off by the 20th, or so, and I won't be back up until somewhere around the 10th of April.

This all feels a little sub-real, but, It's nothing unexpected.

Peace

Observancy Disassembling: Holes

2007-03-15T23:07:00.000-06:00

Packing my things away; a few
boxes taped; stacked; done-
the rest is disarray;
the process retarded,
passionless because, as yet
I haven't found the next place.

I feel my emotional anchor coming up;
slowly, drawn link by link -
a jarring inside me; tidal shifts of
current, mass, wind, and gravity;
balanced atop this weight,
rising from below.

I stop and, mindful
of the fragile clutter;
step out to grab a plastic bag,
or take a smoke break;
the reason doesn't matter,
every time is the same.

I leave behind the known;
patterns of comfort and personal order
which I have often seen behind my eyelids;
and, if I should jerk awake, or reenter
this room, from within or without;
and stop, and really see the change.

The ragged edges of the disassembly,
cavities eat away at jumbled shelves;
surfaces empty in time-lapse;
cleansed and wrapped and packed
against one another like days
in my habituated brain.

Puzzle-piece teeth sharpened on
blank walls which; perspective inverted,
seem to drip my life from them
into cardboard cartons that,
for a sharp moment,
seem more like depth-less holes.

Godnarbian Solution Revealed: Transcending the RIAA

2007-03-14T20:02:00.000-06:00

"The best rational defense is a good irrational offense."
~me, I just made it up.

Or Is It?

The RIAA contends that reproduction of recorded media should be paid for. RIAA has established guidelines, which the CRB has supported.

At the same time, the RIAA contends that artists are reaping more benefit than they should from an expanding audience.

The RIAA has acquired a fair amount of power to recover revenues, which escape this system of payment via piracy.

These tenets, rationally displayed and validated by the RIAA, and upheld by the CRB create an irrational system in which every aspect of the entertainment industry (in this case, music) now operates.

So, what to do?

Looking at the problem in terms of numbers, because, that's what it's all about; artists want money for their work (or, someone comes along and convinces them they [i]should[/i] get paid for what they’re doing), record companies want money to lavish their empire, which results from sales and distribution, and, of course the peeps who want cool tunes, rockin' jams, and, roughly, any coherent (even, sometimes, incoherent) permutation of the mathematics and inspiration; the combination of which creates music.

The money flows one way, the packaged data flows the other way. Artists and peeps are willing mutual suppliers; you play me a song I like, I'll give you what I can afford to show my appreciation - if it's not enough for you, you go away - if your music sucks, I will go away. The music industry couldn't care less (not unless it has to) how much I can afford, nor whether or not your music sucks – just so long as they can convince artists to make music they can convince me to buy, then they get the bulk of the money, and control of the distribution and packaging of the music – because, contractually, they own it.

The RIAA has lobbied, schmoozed, and arm-twisted their way to being the single representative of a multifaceted monopoly. The industry claims that it is losing money due to copyright infringement and revenue imbalances caused by low prices to re-distributors and high payouts to artists. If these claims aren’t outright lies… Well, I don’t see, nor have I heard it reported about David Geffen, or anyone vested in the music production / distribution industry loading up the Escalade with stuff for the pawn shop.

It’s all about numbers – the numbers of pennies to millions, no billions of dollars that pass through the hands of the industry every year – an irrational self-serving system wearing the clothing of a rational business backed by The Law.

To transcend these fallacious reasons for squeezing both the artists and the peeps for more number, and to keep the dynamic model analogous, we have a simple solution at our disposal that completely transcends the ir-rational paradox of the recording industry, the RIAA, and the CRB.

Pi.

It’s all in there.

Every CD, DVD, piece of software, (good, bad, flawed by one byte (every byte)

f(c)=n!^(n-1) – where n is the number of elements, factorial raised to a number which describes the maximum number of numerative cycles before the described set could be observed – pi is irrational because it goes on forever. Any rational sequence can be found in Pi because it is a non algebraic function – it cannot be reduced to zero (null.) It is, therefore, transcendental.

What I’m sayin’ is that Pi holds all copyrighted data ever to have been, or which shall be devised by the mind and machine of man. You can’t shake it, and you can’t break it.

Begone, foul beasts!

Happy Pi Day

~b

"It's All In There"

Meditation at Work: The Maharishi Effect

2007-03-11T13:42:00.000-06:00

"Woo" or "Whoa!" ?

Please consider from the excerpt from the following article:

The Maharishi Effect

4,000 Yogic Flyers from 62 countries creating coherence, improving the quality of life and reducing violent crime.

A 21 percent reduction in the most violent crime categories was reported when over 4,000 people from 62 countries gathered in July of 1993 in Washington, D.C. to practise the Transcendental Meditation and Yogic Flying programs. A final report by a 27-member independent team of scientists and community leaders found that the crime drop was consistent with the predicted causal role of the group of Yogic Flyers.

This study shows the decrease in violent crime rate (orange line) when over 4,000 experts gathered in Washington, D.C., in July, 1993 (shown in highlighted section). Scientists took into account changes in policing, weather patterns and all major factors known to affect crime rates. This chart also shows a time-series analysis prediction without the coherence creating group. Source: Institute of Science, Technology and Public Policy: Technical Report.

IMO, to refuse to consider data; to call it "Woo", because we cannot understand how to empirically connect it's qualifications and it's quantifications; here lies the border between ignorance and discovery.

Observancy Disassembling: Inversion

2007-03-03T18:12:00.000-07:00

It hasn't hit me yet, I can feel it coming;
the rush of blood to the head, the vulgar flush;
like a freight train, late for stupid reasons;
Plain white bright light, moving;
yet, far enough away;
27 days.

The first CD that came off the wall
was the hardest - 50 more down, and
I'm a CD/pushpin removal expert;
craning my neck just enough
but, not too much - 7 hours of
carpet cleaning have already taken
their toll.

Tom Waits' Rain Dogs
came off the ceiling in pieces
leaving an articulated sliced disc
in negative; pristine paint swaddled
in the champa-stain memory
of this, my space.

I had to stop
to take in the process
no photos, please
but songs to take hold
of this moment; wrap it
and stow it away;
time will be when
I'll need the key, maybe
a crowbar, too.

I watched the gloaming
from this obstructed window;
poured a drop of something
insubstantial, yet essential
from each pore, no blood;
translucence - like a scent
breathed for years, then lost
for decades, to find it waiting
spun out of time, web-charged air
a step beyond
some strange door.

What have I wrought?
can I guess; there's no telling
what mischief waits no matter
the choice; the scenery changes
but the lessons are the same
until they're learned;
until their smell, alone
announces the change of skeins.

I built this web;
node and conduit;
paths and patterns;
structure and desire
wind, wave, and gravity
pressing me towards
some edge, not dark
but mystery lit, opaqued
by hanging time; signs
that only serve
to draw me on.

Today I decided to go.
And so, I begin to move;
shifted down, low gear traction,
meticulous detail springs
into focus, a fantasy of
stepping between moments,
every moment, solid and bright
observancy disassembling
storing itself away
for some tomorrow I cannot
yet begin to grasp.

Future, past, present, change. Now, I need to do some choosing.

2007-02-27T08:09:00.000-07:00

Right, so, most of you know my story - or enough of it to be shocked at what I'm about to say.

My children will most likely be living with their mother before the year is out; possibly the school year.

Ever since my X and I split up, the kids have had it rough - first, living with me during the most miserable, confused time of my life; then, living with her while she tripped along the chaotic path to self-destruction (drugs, sex, booze, lies), until the government stepped in and took them away - I dropped everything, including my girlfriend, job, etc., because it was in the best interest of my children (as far as I could see it), to come to a place I swore (by whatever Gods I could think of at the time) never to return to, and pick up the pieces. They have never given up the hope of living with their mother. I think it has a lot to do with self-sufficiency - I admit that I don't need them to validate my survival, keep me "on track", etc. I am a subtly emotional person, I don't have great histrionic catharses that requre me to be "talked down", and placated - their mother, on the other hand, is a phlegmatic and (I am a choleric) (Here's a simple personality type test, if you're curious.) Our methods have always been night & day to each other - she wants compromise, I want collaboration - never the twain shall meet...

When I have lived "away" from the kids, they never worried about me - their mother, on the other hand, has always been a source of concern; I think that a lot of the reason they wish to live with her, is so they can take care of her. They don't feel that I "need" them in that way, and I think I understand.

The day I acquired custody of my children, I told them that we would stay here as long as was necessary, but, this place wasn't my home, and I wanted to live somewhere with green things and a diverse, vibrant culture - a place where miserably hot wasn't the norm, and winter (such as it is) was not a 2 month respite.

Their mother is sober, (the recidivism rate for Meth use is about 95%++), so, she's managed to shine out and attract others who really want help) - a couple of my kids who started to follow her path have also been working closely with her on their own recovery path. That's great.

I think my time as a stay-at-home single father of six kids is coming to a close - I'm a litle sad, and have spent a lot of time revelling in deep frustration, ego-combat, and some grief as to why I'm "such a failure", etc., ad nauseum, over this whole thing - and I'm coming to realize that it's what is meant to be, for the good of everyone.

I don't know where I'm going, but, unless attitudes and desires which I have no control over shift, I'm going sometime soon - I will go willingly and happy, and continue to do what I do, talk to them on the phone, visit, have them come to visit me - and know that they aren't wondering what kind of craziness I'm getting myself into, but, looking for things to share with them, gifts, songs, time to talk about where we're going and where we've been - we shall see. I am now accepting that it may be in their best interest for me to give custody to their mother. I'm still not sure, but, I'm working through it.

And, I can hear some howling about "leavers" and "deadbeat dads" - well, I guess, if that's your truth for me, I'd rather hear it than not.

And please, if you spend any time thinking about this at all, remember - this is only the tip of the mountain that I see over my horizon, the small part that I am able to talk about right now; like Mohamed, I know that mountain isn't going to come to me.

The Needle and the Damage Done

2007-02-03T09:22:00.000-07:00

This track was recorded live at La Soiree on January 27, 2007.

The 3-hour show features Steve H. on drums, me on vocal and guitar, sometimes on hand drum (djembe.)

This track was mastered by (and with much thanks to) Aram "Hippie" Cartozian of 21st Century Remastering.

Needle and the Dam...

Parent Rage

2007-01-30T07:53:00.000-07:00

This morning, like every morning, I woke the older kids at 5:30, and went back to bed until 7 AM.

This morning, like every morening, my oldest daughter didn't get up until 7 (she has an alarm clock which, I think, she has, unplugged); her ride showed up at 7:10 (pretty much like every morning) and she got ready while they sat in their car and waited (and honked, and stared in through the dining room window) until 7:25.

She goes to a high school for the performing arts; it's a charter school (no transportation) about 20 miles outside of town. I don't drive (bad vision), and she probably won't be driving either anytime soon (same reason.)

I am furious at the casuality with which she uses these people. I can't, for the life of me, understand why someone would keep coming here, day after day after week, while she disrespects the offer of a ride which she desperately needs to get to school; when, if, for some reason (sickness, whatever- and it's a rare occurrence), her ride doesn't show up, she freaks out and feels slighted.

This morning, (AFTER I typed my response to Rose's journal) I lost it - and told her how awful I felt she was treating the only ride she could find to school. She started yelling at me to leave her alone. I told her she was being selfish and a user, and I didn't think it was right she should, on a daily basis, make them sit out there and wait.

Are they stupid? Why do they come every day, knowing she won't be ready? I don't get it.

So, for all my good intentions dealing with uncaring teenagers, I guess I have my own rage to deal with.

WTF? Whatever... The show must go on

2007-01-27T11:53:00.001-07:00

My friend Steve & I have been planning a show for about a month. Yesterday, the shit totally hits the fan:

He gets into a fight with his girlfriend; she won't talk to him; he cancels the last practices so he can try to get her to talk to him. He is not answering his phone now. (I tried to call him 2 times, last night and this morning - his phone is OFF.)

The black cartridge in my printer chose to die last night. (I cannot print the show notes, lyrics, etc.,) - so, not a big deal, I'll be flying blind - and I'd really rather have the backup notes.

2 pairs of kids' broken glasses.

Personal issues coming from several different directions via telephone and e-mail.

The worst part is (IMO),

people are so used to talking to me about their problems; it seems, when I have some, nobody's around - too busy... So, the worst part is that I'm wasting time feeling a little sorry for myself.

Fuck

Oh, well. worst case scenario; I'll have to do the 3-hour show solo.

Whatever - the show must go on.

Late Summer

2007-01-25T18:31:00.000-07:00

Late summer when the world,

saturated in energy, hanging

on the cusp of freefall into

cool, Autumn lethargy;

when the lifetime of flowers

has moved into middle age,

when day lilies open brightest,

and the rose and the orchid persevere;

in ardent vigor shed their scent onto

slow light and charged, languid air.

To stand there in the long light

drunk on the light, wrapped in her hair

full of the promise that change will come

but not yet, meantime rest

my head upon her breast

golden-green and soft

as living earth can be

full of her breath, held

drawn in quivering wonder

toward her brazen mystery

MEME: What's Your Dosha?

2007-01-25T08:03:00.000-07:00

Dosha is commonly referred to as meaning energy balance; actually, the Sanskrit (Pali; Dosa) word means something like patterns of disturbance in energy which affect form. Abhi can probably give a more clear definition than I.

Knowing my Dosha alignment has helped me understand my body; not only how it works and why it isn't working the way I think it should, but how to re-align so that it will work better.

To take a test to determine your dosha click here.

Look at the highest score, that is your primaray Dosha; if scores are close together you may be double- or tri-dosha.

I am Pitta-Vata Dosha

All About Vata
The Vata Diet
All About Pitta
The Pitta Diet
All About Kapha
The Kapha Diet
Double Doshas
Tri-Doshas
The Calendar & The Clock
Celebrities & Their Doshas

Dosha type references are linked from whatsyourdosha.com - I used another site's test, because I thought it more comprehensive.

They called it 'Collateral Damage.'

2007-01-23T22:33:00.000-07:00

"He who has not made the experiment, or who is not accustomed to require rigorous accuracy from himself, will scarcely believe how much a few hours take from certainty of knowledge, and distinctness of imagery; how the succession of objects will be broken, how separate parts will be confused, and how many particular features and discriminations will be compressed and conglobated into one gross and general idea.

To this dilatory notation must be imputed the false relations of travellers, where there is no imaginable motive to deceive. They trusted to memory, what cannot be trusted safely to the eye, and told by guess what a few hours before they had known with certainty."

~Samuel Johnson: Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland

In 1985 I was living in an apartment just off West Michigan Avenue in Kalamazoo, Michigan.

The place was low-rent, 1/2 HUD housing, and was a hodge-podge of race, color, creed, gender, disability, age, and ethics. Most of my neighbors bought dope from the rest, and sold it to each other when times got hard.

IN January 1986, times got real hard. Somebody had sold some, let's just say, abominably-less-than-pristine cocaine to someone who didn't live in the complex. The customers were most definitely not happy.

They weren't thinking very well, either. since 20 years have gone by, please forgive my lack of memory concerning the numbers; I will say that the purveyors of said blow-a-la-roach-powder, baking soda, and FSM-knows-what-all lived in apartment #1200, which was on the other side of the complex from where I stored my stuff all day, and my bones (and the stuff that holds them together) at night, behind a nice Schlag lock. I also kept those bones (and accessories) stoned as often and as intensely as was possible on my student budget; being an active part of the neighborhood brain-candy store helped, too.

I digress...

Apartment #2200 was about 75 feet from my bedroom window. At about 2 AM, the gunfire started; the double-pane plate glass balcony doors then the single-pane plate-glass windows of the two bedrooms blew into large shards with not-so-small holes at their edges, shattering and spiderwebbing and making wierd scraping sounds as they tried to outdo each other in their frantic efforts to obey the law of gravity, I barely noticed. I was busy trying to be awake and see something through the muzzle flashes - it's amazing how long a bunch of hot light can hang in the air...

the perps fired more than 50 rounds into the wrong apartment that night, the home of a single mom and her small daughter (I think that's right), and then the tiresqueealing began, and the big block whater-the-fuck-it-was left the premises and, for about 30 seconds (30 eons, more like) it was silent, save for the doppling down of the getaway car fading into ignominy.

The people in #2200 were not hurt. A fish tank in the apartment behind #2200 was shattered. If I'm remembering correctly, 20-gauge, 9mm, and .410 shot were picked out of the walls, both inside and outside the apartment.

The perps were (to my knowledge) never caught.

Congratulations Nina

2007-01-17T17:30:00.000-07:00

These qualities very much describe my oldest daughter; good thing, because she is being inducted into the National Honor Society tonight - her mom will be there but, for various reasons, I cannot make it.

She's a junior, and should have been inducted 2 years ago, or last year; but, because she was either working or performing service, she put off the ceremony until tonight- they told her she had to be properly inducted, and they would induct her if they had to drag her there tonight. :)

Nina's GPA is above 3.89, and she could really care less - although she gets an odd (smug) look when she reviews her report card at the end of the semester; a little smugness is allow, I think, for such diligent and sometimes tedious work. She loves education; the old, new, and odd ideas, the new skills to learn, tools to use, and her imagination is always humming along in the background; twisting, turning, permutating these ideas and methods to see if somebody missed something important, or if she can find a different way to make something work- I think she views the universe as a multi-dimensional Rubik's cube with a soul.

I just wanted to let you know how proud I am of her.

I Hit the Bottle

2007-01-04T20:59:00.000-07:00

I opened a bottle of sparkling cider (cranberry) for my kids' dinner. It's been a really tough day here; I won't go into detail in this journal, but necessary changes are afoot, and today wasn't an easy day on that path.

So dinner. Fried chicken (deli), baked beans, potato salad, macaroni salad, veggie tray - and sparkling cider, which, immediately covered me (and everything close by) in sticky pink fizz the instant I popped the Painter cap. I stood up, took two steps, the ground circled, swooped up and smacked me; I landed on my left shoulder, I hit the bottle.

So... Bruised rotator cuff, sore lower back, (some of you know my woes with ~L4 and ~L5 after getting into a fight with a Lexus about 10 years ago - you shoulda seen the Lexus... Smarting hip, that icky post-impact feeling... :whine:

Anyway, I'm going to ice it and take drugs and probably drink some alcohol; as the drugs I have are not really worth calling drugs, and neither is the alcohol (4%); and then I'm just going to try to be really, really still.

Minifesto

2006-12-28T13:06:00.000-07:00

I am who I am and you aren't required to like me or agree with me. So, quit bitching if you don't; it's your choice, and it's not my problem. I'm certainly not going to change who I am just so you will feel more comfortable - not in the slightest.

If you feel the need to play your smarmy life games to get by - fine, have at em; but don't ask (or demand) that I play like that; IMO, it's stupid, and I just plain won't.

Table for one, please...

2006-12-22T09:49:00.000-07:00

Global Orgasm Day - December 22, 2006

Thought for Today

2006-12-19T12:19:00.000-07:00

Belief is assent to an unproven assertion based on one or more fundamental assumptions.

Knowledge is the awareness and understanding of facts, truths or information gained in the form of experience or learning (a posteriori), or through introspection (a priori). Knowledge is an appreciation of the possession of interconnected details which, in isolation, are of lesser value.

Today, I am happy to know the difference and which one I want as a tool to navigate the relatively mapless territories of my life.

Thanksgiving In America: Blunt Observations

2006-11-23T13:36:00.000-07:00

In America we are giving thanks to:

The pilgrims for being criminals and outcasts, so they could be kicked out and sent to this fine land.

The native Americans who tended and lived with the land here (notice I didn't say "owned"), until it was ripe for our ancestors' pickings.

The Crown for being so foolish and greedy as to create a society where the situation became so unstable that they had to ship the dross to places like America, Australia, and New Zealand (among others.)

God, who gave us the power to plunder this land for all it's worth - and then some, to dominate (through WMDs and economic pressure) the entire world; because, face it, we deserve it.

At least, that's how I see America as an aggregate.

As an individual, I'm giving thanks to everyone who loves life, is willing to reach out and help someone who needs it, and to those good souls who better themselves for the betterment and enlightenment of every living being (including the turkey in my oven.)

Not a Bedtime Story

2006-11-22T13:42:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time, the Earth wanted plastic - so it twisted up some RNA, slapped them together and ...

*poof*

I think the Earth has enough plastic now, don't you?

The Kitchen Fire: a true story

2006-11-16T12:33:00.000-07:00

It was 20 years ago...

My girlfriend and I got into married housing on campus by lying to the university (I was, as far as they knew, her sister who had suffered a serious nervous breakdown), and we really loved our little cinderblock apartment - it was cheap, it was bigger than 2 dorm rooms, and we could party all night if we wanted without some RatAss showing up to bang on the door and complain.

Shortly after we moved into the 2nd floor unit, we found that we were getting a new neighbor. Pam Berger (say it fast a couple of times), was a graduate student (Psych Ed, I think); seemed quiet, conservative in her manner, liberal in her politics, a Birkenstock girl with a head full of plans and a stiff upper lip to keep her pointed in the right direction.

It took her a day or so to get her stuff into the apartment and get settled. We had seen her go in and out any number of times, and made it a point to introduce ourselves. It was smiley and smarmy, and over pretty quickly. One of the great benefits we obtained by living in married housing was the ability to share our abode with Niki's 80 pound golden retriever (Sandy.) Pam, our new neighbor, hated the dog on sight.

It was a warm mid-September day and we had our windows open, so it was easy to hear the blood-curdling screams that came from the open windows next door. I ran out the screen door, turned left, and almost collided with Pam who was running out of her identical door; waving her hands, and screaming... except she didn't have any breath left, and had forgotten to inhale and properly execute the shriedk - her short curly brown hair, and almost perfectly round face, combined with her lips simultaneously trying to open as wide as they could and grab any nearby molecules of air - and the aspect of her face defined by the utter lack of color in it made her look like nothing other than a great hairy fish who understands that it is about to die of a heart attack.

I grabbed the railing and avoided the collision - she ran past me, turned around and yelled "My kitchen is on FIRE! Please call 911!" Well, I didn't smell any smoke or see any smoke so I went into her apartment and moved back and a bit the the left to enter her kitchen where...

...I turned off the gas stove, called her into the apartment, explained the aparatus to her, and turned it back on (she jumped and let out a little squeal), and talked to her about natural gas, and pipelines, and meters, etc. She was horrified that gas lines were flowing, connected through the cities, towns, and countryside of our nation. She had never seen a gas stove before - she was 27.

She stayed in that apartment for a week, and then moved out; where, I do not know. I think she couldn't stand the flames.

Umquam noli desinere somnantem

2006-11-13T14:53:00.000-07:00

I dreamt I was lying in bed watching CNN; there was an ongoing discussion of imperial politics and suddenly the door opened and in walked the woman I love - she stripped, threw herself atop me and drove me like a rented Jeep.

So, as the dream progressed, I became aware that all my friends were appearing in the room; waggling fingers at me, laughing, blowing kisses, shaking up bottles and making faces, and then they would wave or simply vanish - one friend, one of my dearest and bestest friends, sat on the bed talking to me while the thrashing ecstacy consumed my very soul.

The dream ended when my lover kissed me and got out of bed, threw on a black silk robe, and sat down next to my friend and shared a cigarette with her.

Veterans Day

2006-11-11T15:49:00.000-07:00

I take my cue from Jimi Hendrix, a veteran.

"When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace."

I cannot think of a military conflict (call it war, police action, military intervention - whatever), since the end of WWII where the US had good resons to become involved. Those military conflicts, every one, ended badly - actually, they haven't realled ended. Soldiers are sent tot he DMZ, Vietname will never cease to be a thorn in our national side, US military action has protracted and irritated the situation in the middle ease and Africa, and, I would remind anyone who is considering the cold war an exception that the USSR and the Berlin Wall came apart regardless of military impositions. The communists are still communist, the fascists are not becoming any less so, and the US stands military, under the direction of a demonstrated idiot ready to destroy peace, while wasting national resources; most importantly, human beings who could be building up the world.

The American ideal of creating world peace through diplomatic, economic, technological, and military induced pressure is a lie that we start telling our children at a very young age - it's a story that little kids buy, and think about when they, as young men and women, go to their inductions...

While the demons we have hired to rule us laugh and plot tactical maps projecting body counts and profit margins.

I can thank any individual for doing what she or he believes is right. But, the truth, the innards of the machine look pretty ugly.

Bluster

2006-11-08T15:45:00.000-07:00

Bluster.mp3

Hosted by eSnips

2006-11-07T13:30:00.000-07:00

2003; Second St., downtown Ann Arbor, Michigan:

There was a lonely drunk man living upstairs from me - nothing unusual, most of the renters in that house were separate from society in one way or another.

Crack addiction
Alcoholism
Prostitution
(in my case) Isolation from my "old life."

The guy, I never knew his name, drank himself to death one night in his rear second-floor room while the Guatemalan guys who rented the basement were busy cutting each other up with knives and broken Bacardi bottles.

We didn't know he was dead until 2 days later, while my neighbor and I sat and smoked a doobie as the EMTs, dressed in HazMat suits and tanks went in to remove the body.

I said "Hi" to this guy a few times over the almost three weeks he remained alive while residing in that house - I know there wasn't more I could do for him; in his state, he wanted to be dead and was beyond the reach of anyone - he put himself there.

The vibe I picked up from that man was gray to black; madness, depression compressed to the density of hysterical catatonia, a feral need to escape what he believed to be an endless dark tunnel the walls of which defined, for him, an unalterable and insatiable existence.

It's a sad thing to see the evidence of there being only two types of people in the world - those who choose to care, and those who choose not to. For me, this man's death provided a lesson of intent; one that made me look at my own choices, comparatively inoccuous as they seemed, and reevaluate my purpose in accepting my next breath and the responsibility, and more importantly the opportunity to care that it implies.

Every Junkie's like the setting sun.
-Neil Young

An Apolitical Moment

2006-10-21T13:27:00.000-06:00

Ah, so! The media is caught in the act! Deterring focus from peace by reminding us (like all good ego-centric processes do) that any disturbance in peace should be escalated by acts of retaliation - the imagery of the New York Times smearing (screaming like a claxon) the reminder of the death of peace as a result of 9/11 over any call for consideration of peace in Iraq, Iran, or elsewhere!

How does war effect media markets in terms of circulation and profit? How does the media bias coerce the various non-apolitical factions to rattle and hum in the wake of the media fueled public outcry? Either take a guess, or I will simply leave it as an exercise to the apolitical student.

Peace is not dead, but the media must keep it comatose for as long as the anti-apolitical monkeys are throwing their excrement at the laughing, photographing, paying crowd!

Heartbreak Haiku

2006-10-10T19:13:00.000-06:00

Letting go is hard
as frozen ground holds still life;
Spring Sunshine needs rain.

Reasons For Rain

2006-10-09T11:17:00.000-06:00

There's a dime in my right shoe
How it came to be under my second toe
I'll never know, but can probably guess;
It's Monday, and there's no telling
ever, what odd maifestations come to be
when it rains in the desert.

My old leather
my new sneakers
with the dime bouncing and sliding
and I'm out the dorr; visions of debit
and the electric bill paid;
the sky is full of electricity
swirling like the puddles around and into
my new sneakers - cold, in the desert
wet, in the desert
and the Counting Crows sing their songs of rain
into my damp ears.

Two blocks and I am streaming water
that tastes like the tears coming
into my ears from digiized ache
and I'm threading through rivulets
and pools and the cars are now boats
creating wakes that fall just short
fof my legs.

Two more blocks - the sky is myriad grey;
the pavement is black and rainbow-hued;
I look up street, up the mountain,
the rain is solid, yet thin;
a scrim that makes me wonder of Dover;
does the mist there look like this,
sometimes, even a little?

Past the sodden park, past the lake that once
was a rodeo field; across canals, once streets;
the water flows shallow, determined to create
some illusion of Venice in the desert;
som play of light and shadow and wet elsewhere;
"Mr. Jones and me, staring into the future..."

The parking lot of the bank is thick with empty wet
It's a holiday, you dope - six blocks of
streaming, music-infused trudge and I shrug at
the illusion of Comumbus' great discovery -
just another particle washed away by the rain;
and I think of worthlessness, and smile
because I have six blocks to go.

Back down the hill, back through the rivers
that are never the same, swirling water;
patterense of uncaring change and erosion;
drops of water touching me, taking an atom here
dropping off some isotope there- finding it's path
as I find mine; a somnolent roll of thunder, more
a sigh than a cough or - "...and kindness falls like rain..."

The rest of this walk is silent inside, I'm singing now, at the top of my lungs - streaming tears that taste like rain; footsteps flowing along the course that takes me back to this home, but not the same one I left - I have stepped sideways, into a new current, into a universe next door; the dime sticks to the sole of my foot.

The traffic flows by; lights on, wipers flap to the beat in my ears, to the beat of my heart, to the rythm of my steps, to the cadence of water drops pounding out their coded message on my soaked scalp. I see, in my minds eye, puzzled faces in the SUVs, sealed and intrepid, plowing their way through this symphony unheard; I pity their comfort today - I smile, and I wave at them - come out, the water is fine!

I am in no hurry to walk in my front door; to smell the Champa and Bergamot; to drink the strong black coffee; to warm and dry away this shower of serenity, but I have discovered the resons for rain; for a moment I am the Rain King, and the lesson can be released and passed on the next heir apparent. And now, I type in rythm to the drip and swoosh of cars and rain going by, I'll take the dime from my shoe, and put it away somewhere safe; today, it has earned it's place.

Hypothesis: Sex Driving

2006-10-07T10:12:00.000-06:00

It is my hypothesis that:

(H₀) We can tell a lot about a person's sexuality by observing the style, attitude, and mannerisms that person uses while driving / riding / moving in traffic.

I have carried this hypothesis in my head for a long time, and have experienced some validation of it.

Any thoughts?

Welcome Home (Raw Mix)

2006-10-04T15:04:00.000-06:00

No frills, studio "live"

Welcome Home (Raw Mix) - I'm using e-snips to host the file - if anyone has any better ideas, please let me know. Thanks.

[u]Welcome Home[/u]

*1*
Out on my front porch
late tonight
staring at the moon
playin’ & singin’,
smokin’ and drinkin’, & thinkin’
thinkin’ hard about you.
I shouldn't wanna do it
if I don't wanna not do it right,
Baby, it’s the truth!
All I need to do is look into
the mirror of my life
to see the proof

*chorus 1*
I've been searching for so long
Knowing that this song
Won’t write itself, alone
Moving; patient, toward the day
When your light would shine my way
When I could feel your soul and
sense your whisper
“welcome home.”

*2*
When you call,
I feel so full of you, connecting,
coming through my telephone.
It’s just like I'm waking
from a long deep dream, and you’re
telling me it's morning.
I don't need much more
than just to hear you tell me
you're feeling all right
But, I must admit I really
want to dance with you tonight
and feel your soul light up!

*chorus 2*
I've been searching for so long
Knowing that this song
Won’t write itself, alone
Moving; patient, toward the day
When your light would shine my way
When I could feel your heartbeat
whisper
“Hey, Darlin, Welcome home”

*3*
Sitting on my front porch
Late tonight
In a state of grace
I look into the full moon
And know the destiny
That I embrace
I feel your warm heart
Shining in me
The moon reflects your face
The stars' domain cannot contain
This waking dream remains
I speak your name.

*chorus 3*
I've been searching for so long
Knowing that this song
Won’t write itself, alone
Moving; patient, toward the day
When your light would shine my way
When I wrap you in my arms and say
“Hey Darlin’ welcome home.”

Newstrich: Is avoiding Loop-News the same as sticking one's head in the sand?

2006-10-03T09:46:00.000-06:00

"After the first report of catastrophe, it is no longer news."
-Henry David Thoreau

The stormcrows that be would like you to think yourself irresponsible for not sitting down, tuning in, and falling through to the universe of constant struggle, pain, and sorrow. The world is getting crazier because the water that we drink (Christian metaphor here) is not just tainted, it's doctored - spun, tweaked, and flavored poison.

I used to be a news junkie - NPR, CNN, FOX, Pacifica, and C-Span were my downfalls (Comedy Central was some twisted relief for the twisted reality.) But, I "stuck my head in the sand" - more like, I pulled my head out of the bucket.

There is more news out there that is not reported than the news that is - fear, fire, flood, pain, panic, and murder are the global news agenda; that's not life, it's death!

Blue Oyster Cult's ("40,000 men and women everyday") wrote 'Don't Fear the Reaper', runs through my head once in awhile when I find myself somewhere I cannot avoid the newsloops - loops, loops, loops... And I try to remember This One Thing - I'll write it big:

They don't call it programming for nothing!

False Friends: a lesson

2006-10-01T00:00:00.000-06:00

False friends are nice
they will turn you over
and say, "Namaste!"
they'll even do it twice
to make sure the word
touches you.

That short sharp shock
will leave you numb,
will come from behind,
just in front of the denial;
there is an endless line-
move along, pay no mind- next!

And when you know it's done
the laughter comes,
tickles your ear
like a kindness
almost heard, then bites down;
and you learn that your soul can bleed.

Thank you for the lesson - goodbye

Today Was Fucked Up Enough, I Think... (VENT)

2006-09-27T20:12:00.000-06:00

Everything went pretty much normally today, until Christina came home.

The boys came home at their normal time - George had group, I had the others do homework & help out, etc.

So, Christina got home (after her therapy appointment) around 5 PM, she worked today, so she had to get ready. I asked her how the appointment went, and she said, "Fine.", but I had the impression she really didn't want to talk about it. I went back to what I was doing.

Anyway, Kevin was watching The Alamo (2004) for his film class, Eric was in the kitchen / dining room making cocoa - and they got into a discussion about a bike that Deanna's boyfriend was going to sell Eric for $20. Eric said that he figured he could turn the bike around on ebay for $150, Kevin said he wanted the bike. I was back & forth through the living room, and came downstairs to hook up the recording deck - the discussion became an arguement, then a hostile conflict - Kevin told Eric he was acting like a jerk over the bike, Eric was muttering at Kevin about how he was acting like a baby, stuff like that.

I went upstairs to break it up, and Christina started yelling at me that I didn't know what was going on, and that Eric was being unfair, and I told her to stay out of it, I just wanted the fight stopped, and besides, Eric didn't have the bike yet, anyway - it was no big deal. She kept up bitching at me, and I said I just wanted the arguing stopped, and went into my room to lie down and get quiet for a few. Christina called her mother and went outside to wait for them to pick her up. They did at about 5:30. About 15 minutes later I get this phone call from Deanna who started in on me about how Christina is miserable and how she "Can't talk to me." and how it's no wonder she doesn't want to live with me anymore.... I told Deanna that Christina wasn't talking to me about this stuff, that I always heard it secondhand from Deanna, and that Christina can (and does) say anything to me that she wants, but that all I could figure was that this was just another case of unhealthy triangulation. She said "You don't show the kids any affection at all. And I'm not going to sit around and put up with it." So, I told her that I was planning on leaving St. George, and I would either take the kids with me, or she could get her shit together and take them if that's what she wants to do. She asked me when I was leaving. I told her I didn't know, but reminded her that I told her from the instant I came to this town that I wouldn't stay here a minute longer than the kids needed to be here, that I didn't have any, nor did I want any roots in this place.

So, she starts yelling and swearing at me, about how "I had to get away from you because of all the Hell you put me through, and now you're doing the same thing to the kids!" I didn't take the bait. I told her if she didn't stop yelling and swearing at me i would hang up. She screamed "Go ahead, hang up on me, I don't give a fuck..." So, , I hung up on her.

Fast forward to about 7:00. Deanna's boyfriend's car pulled up in front of the house. All the kids ran outside and started talking to their mom. I stuck my head out the door and asked "What's up?" Deanna said that Christina was going to a business meeting with them, but needed to change after work. She seemed to be acting like nothing had happened. Well, I didn't have any interest in talking to her so, I went back in the house and finished putting dinner on. After I finished, I went back downstairs and told Christina that I didn't really understand what happened this afternoon. She said, "Well, neither do I. I was suddenly VERY angry, and I'm not sure what it was all about." I told her that her mom called me up, screaming and swearing at me, and Christina apologized and said it wasn't my fault. I told her that I was sorry for participating in her upset, but I didn't know what she wanted or thought because she hadn't communicated anything to me other than anger. She then left to go to the business meeting.

So, WTF?

Anyway, like the subject line says, I'm just venting. I love my kids, and I don't want to "get rid" of them - but, I swear, if she would just go somewhere and be happy, or do whatever so I didn't have to deal with her directly anymore, I would breathe a lot easier. Gah!

Done venting.

I hope your day went better.

We're all an OCEAN

2006-09-23T20:54:00.000-06:00

I'm a O80-C74-E48-A22-N14 Big Five!!

Can you make it easier for me to understand,
How you're holding my heart, in your trembling hands...
Eyes that rise to meet me half way up among the stars,
You may be from Venus but I'm definitely not from Mars

CHORUS
You're An Ocean, You're An Ocean
Settle Down, Settle Down,
What's the commotion,
I'm an island, but you're an ocean,
It's a stormy sea of love and emotion,
You've got me suspended motionless in time

Make the warm winds circle round my head just like you do,
If I could do it, I'd be doing it to you,
I believe I'd buy whatever you would sell to me,
Nothing in my life ever came with a guarantee,

CHORUS

I believe I'd buy whatever you would sell to me,
Nothing in my life ever came with a guarantee,

CHORUS

-Fastball

A Letter To My True Love

2006-09-12T21:01:00.000-06:00

My Dearest Love,

We do not need our love for survival, which is a mean thing.
We will survive beyond the illusions of death and time.
May our mingled light draw life unto life,
that our joy may inspire the lonely survivor to shout and shine.

We do not need our love for happiness, which is a personal responsibility.
I cannot be unhappy knowing who walks beside me.
Percieved distances and differences are but a measure
of the potential of our collaboration, itself a priceless treasure.

We do not need our love for pleasure, for sensual is fleeting.
The sky and stars, some wine, a blanket, and thou.
A word, a touch, ah, the sound of sunrise singing; quiet things,
moments; threads; woven to years of a future history's tapestry unfading.

We do not need our love for easing sorrow, for sorrow is passing.
Sorrow must be borne, and will not bear us down. Grief as real as death
stands not against love, but sorrow humbly kneels to love, bowed head knowing
the value of pain that strngthens and renews love's courage and forebearant worth.

Kahlil Gibran wrote in The Prophet:

You were born together,
and together you shall be forevermore.

You shall be together when the white wings
of death scatter your days.

Aye, you shall be together even in the
silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love.
Let it rather be a moving sea between
the shores of your souls.

Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance together and be joyous,
but let each of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone
though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together, yet not too near together.
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress
grow not in each other's shadow.

You just call out my name
and, you know, wherever I am
I will be there
You've got a friend.
-Carol King

Feed us to the hunger of our noble hearts
Consume us in our passion's flame
Beguile us with our bodys' subtle arts
The morning sun will rise yet again.

May we always be kind.
May we always be true.
May we ever be mindful.
And do with love and thankfulness
all we do.

Goodnight Love
-b

I Cleaned My Room

2006-09-11T20:01:00.000-06:00

The title link will take you to some photos - for the sake of propriety, I have covered up the orange sheets.

Now, I need to clean my bathroom...

What 9/11 Taught Me About Hopelessness

2006-09-11T06:31:00.000-06:00

Yawn, stretch, eek - it's 9/11 again!

Five years ago I sat & wrote the following notes on my own changing condition of hopelessness... I had been clean from narcotic addiction for 2 months and 2 days.

The only thing I used to feel hope about was scoring, my life was reduced to "Waitin' for the man, and the man don't come", not soon enough, anyway. Whether it was a bag or a script, it didn't matter- hope thrives through prayer, and about the only time I prayed was when I was on that unholy cusp between the rock of the potential fix and the hard place of impending withdrawal. If I scored, hope was unnecessary- I was either hopelessly happy, or hopelessly lost.

I would use for a few days, not even bothering to keep track; sometimes I would purposefully "lose" pills, drop them into my backpack or in a drawer. Soon, I would start paying attention, and would start trying to hedge my bets. Every night before bed I would check to make sure I knew exactly what I had, which was bad if I had a lot, because I'd just use some more and end up staying up half the night wasting. When I had a moderate amount, I would carefully calculate how long I could go before the next score, or the next withdrawal period- then I would start formulating plans for the next doctor's office, dentist's office, or ER run. When I was running out, I got depressed and irritable, I would get cold and indifferent to the situations of others, and be an all-out bastard. I was feeling sorry for myself, and the hopeless state I was in, and I took out my misery on everyone around me, especially on my wife and my children. During the last three or four years of use, I wouldn't give any drugs to any one for any reason, no matter how bad the toothache or headache or whatever it was. I figured, if their problem was that bad, they could get their own. Of course, if I found out somebody had drugs I liked, I'd beg, borrow, or steal them- it didn't really matter how I got them- I got them.

Not being satisfied with my own hopeless situation, I created an atmosphere of anti-hope in my life. I became unapproachable by my friends and family, and made it a point to jump all over any shortcoming (real or not) of anyone who I even thought might try to tell me there was something wrong with me. A good frined of mine once told me "You seem to take great pleasure in pissing on the flames of any happy campfire you happen to run across." My response was something like "Everybody needs a hobby."

That's the extent of the journal entry for that day - I had to get the kids our the door for school, and then everybody what kept me busy for the next... well, not five years, that's for sure - or, is it?

I did a scan of my hard drives, and the only other file created or last modified on September 11, 2001 is Oasis' "Don't Look Back In Anger":

Slip inside the eye of your mind
Don't you know you might find
A better place to play
You said that you'd never been
But all the things that you've seen
Will slowly fade away

So I start a revolution from my bed
'Cause you said the brains I had went to my head
Step outside the summertime's in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace
Take that look from off your face
You ain't ever gonna burn my heart out

And so Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as we're walking on by
Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger
I heard you say

Take me to the place where you go
Where nobody knows, if it's not all day.
Please don't put your life in the hands
Of a Rock 'n Roll band
Who'll throw it all away

Gonna start the revolution from my bed
'Cos you said the brains I had went to my head
Step outside cos summertime's in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace
Take that look from off your face
Cos you ain't ever gonna burn my heart out

And So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as she's walking on by.
My soul slides away, but don't look back in anger
I heard you say

So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as we're walking on by
Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger
I heard you say

And So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late and she's walking on by
My soul slides away, but don't look back in anger, don't look back in anger
I heard you say

At least not today.

Ironic, no?

Afghanistan is fallen, Iraq is fallen, Saddam Hussein is in jail, and, and well, and the Bush Administration just requested another 80 billion dollars to keep these two occupied countries occupied. The administration has misled us, lied to us, twisted what little truth there is concerning "The War On Terror. (Ever notice that acronym?) But, the countries named above aren't fallen enough, never mind the New World order to-do list that dwarfs any action taken so far; even considering the entirety of the history of warfare, what Bush has planned is pretty freakin' huge.

I don't watch TV, but my son says they're selling commemorative coins made from metals salvaged from the towers - $29.99 (discounted from $49.99) + S&H (only 5 coins allowed per customer.) Here's a google-search that reveals a plethura of 9/11 commemorative crap. (even a 9/11 Zippo!)

Hopelessness? Let me just finish on that point.

I'd much rather be a recovering junkie and have to face the errors and / or sins of my past than have to face the memories of the five years since 9/11 as a surviving member of a family that lost someone on the planes, in the towers, on the ground as a rescue worker, or in some other way that this disaster managed to rip lives apart.

Five years of many people being shuffled around like paperwork by their government at all levels, while that same government vastly increased defense (defense - lol) spending, made travel more costly and difficult for all citizens, and funnelled all that money into killing more people - while they, the "noble survivors of the tragedy" have lived not knowing what will come next from the government, the legal wranglers all around them, or even from the media (yeah, I just wanted to work in a special FUCK YOU to Ann Coulter), and now there's the ever-increasing commercialization of the anniversary of the most tragic day in their lives. And the military machine moves on, and the body count (that the administration say it isn't concerned with) keeps rising - and the hatred is not in the least abated - what do terrorists do on five year anniversaries?

9/11 taught me that I need to put my hope in the right place - not blindly in a bunch of power-addicted people who make money by having other people killed.

I will leave the dead in peace today - I will, however, wear black to mourn the hopeless living.

Will these people ever learn the simple lesson that war ends nothing but life?

Moving

2006-09-10T14:57:00.000-06:00

"You can never go back home again."
-Tom Wolfe

Moving is a pain in the ass - there is so much that needs to be done in order to say that one has 'moved' that no amount of planning will ever encompass the actual experience. I know this, because as a child we moved a lot, as an adult I have moved even more than a lot- and, if my children were blogging here, they could tell you that they have moved way the fuck too much.

Moving, planning helps, sure, but there are odds and ends that do not fit into plans - things that are so fragile and bulky so as not to fit into the the tight-packed moving van, forgotten things, things that should really have been discarded but were packed anyway, people who will be left, people who will not accept change in their lives, even if they don't really have the control over that change. There are things that end up being moved because they still might be fixed someday, and things that are abandoned because they just won't fit the new place. Many people not only end up having a moving sale before they move, but one after they move, too. I have done this more than once.

I am a good planner - when I decide to move, I get out a notebook and start making lists - I have even designed a PERT chart and supporting task lists as a tool to expedite the resolution of potential confusion and conflict and thereby facilitate a smooth move - it sort of worked, kind of, well, the idea was good...

Virtual moves are similar - as a writer, and a person with a need to express my ideas coherently, I have spent the last several months considering the move of ideas and efforts to a more manageable space (this one, silly), and started thinking about customizing the weblog to fit my needs and tastes - and didn't do anything until the last minute. So, yeah, this sounds a bit anal retentive - just slap a template into place and start writing, yes? No.

I have other writing scattered around, and thought that it would be good, for a change to keep my work together - ordered so as to be (hopefully) helpful to anyone who should either want to know me better, or who should happen, through soem twist of dharma, luck, or drunken blogdiving to come in and wallow for awhile.

Getting things ordered is not brain surgery - but, you try re-coding pieces from text, BBcode, HTML that blogspot doesn't like, making sure graphics don't overfloat the sidebar to the bottom of the page, and you'll understand why I (a) almost gave up on the idea, and (b) feel so damned good now that the proces - the hard part, anyway, is complete.

Even a virtual move is frought with unforseen struggle and frustration - I'm just thankful that I didn't have to face mashed fingers, toes, or the other physical injustices that one endures while getting from one place to the next.

Now that the virtual move is over, I'll go back to thinking about...

Moving

Moving stranger, does it really matter?
As long as you're not afraid to feel
Touch me, hold me, how my open arms ache
Try to fall for me

How I'm moved, how you move me
With your beauty's potency
You give me life, please don't let me go
You crush the lilly in my soul
Moving liquid, yes, you are just water
You flow around all that comes in your way
Don't think it over, it always takes you over
And sets your spirit dancing
-Kate Bush

New blog

2006-09-08T13:53:00.000-06:00

I have started a new blog on Intimate Partner Violence. If you wish to go there, just click on the the title of this entry.

I will be tinkering with the format over the next couple of weeks - so, expect changes.

Wander Away

2006-09-07T08:29:00.000-06:00

I can't change you,
I won't be anyone
but me, and I won't
pretend to enjoy
your need for pain

I won't bang my head
against your wall
of complacency
So, I'll just shake it off
and wander away

The (Passionate) Cursed Taco Song

2006-08-24T09:21:00.000-06:00

MP3 Download

Cursed Tacos are cursed because, once you eat one, you must eat them forever.

this should really be called "[b]The Passionate Taco Song[/b]" - but, in one of those 'Cheese on Wry' kinds of twisted-logic moments, Cursed Taco stuck.

Mike W. - guitar
Matt X. - drums
Me - vocals

recorded on the fly (August 20, 2006)

Thanks to esnips.com

Last Child, First Day

2006-08-14T20:14:00.000-06:00

Today is K's first day of Kindergarten - for those of you who do not know me, she's the youngest of six.

Here she is, a bit nervous, ready for school - (yes, she picked the outfit, and was insistent.)

...and here she is after school - tired and happy.

Pondering Cantos

2006-07-21T09:46:00.000-06:00

One - Ghost Box

When I was a child of four
there were ghosts in a box
in the corner of my room;
deep pigment red top painted
over whitewashed white pine,
crisp as Christmas morning.

Shut tight as a warm window
on a cold night; the ghosts there
trod and pondered my dreams,
amid moonshadow, and the sough
of breeze through seasonal trees.

I dreamt of a great tree then;
winged children, and some,
grown into distant adults-
and an old man, who spoke to animals
that came and went, and sometimes just sat.

When I knew I could fly
I would; step, step, leap up
to the top of some familliar structure,
sensing the world as the woven texture
of a stormy spring green day…

And leap, again up, to the sky
and up the spiral stair of air
to where clouds met mountains,
heaving with and into this ocean of wind
thick enough to grip and slide through.

Far, and long, and surely lost-
bright sun on clouds;
mountains lit, enshrouded in mist,
alive within their fierce beauty,
mere steps ahead across air.

I chose to turn, not back
but aside, and flew not to
but along the front of living thought;
and saw faces as pieces of memory
time-etched into the mighty spine.

Then, down to moors and sunken hills,
to scrub and scree and beach,
then tideline; the border of the shore
came and was and went,
and the sea took me into her country.

And I heard a voice somewhere;
the old man, some animal, or a star;
laughing, cajoling, wondering
something beyond my simple ken;
drawing me like a sketch toward…

The ghosts murmering and clambering
amongst the blocks and viscera quieted
as I spoke; mom; talisman of
identity to all who know one, and
gave up my struggle against waking.

Birthday Best Missed

2006-07-20T02:00:00.000-06:00

I don't usually count my 'birthdays', until tonight I forgot that I had one go by - which, in and of itself, is a very nice thing for me.

After abusing prescription narcotics for more than 10 years, about 1/2 of those years, using every day, I have been clean since July 9, 2001.

I remember the first AA meeting I went to, (there was no NA meeting in the area at that time that met daily), and the Serenity House above the bar in downtown Ypsilanti, MI was crammed full of alcoholics, crackheads, heroin addicts, every color of skin and flavor of culture I could imagine. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I went to my first meeting on July 8, 2001 - the day my then wife told me that our marriage was most definitely over, adn should couldn't care less whether I lived or died. I did everything I could to convince her that I really needed help, that I was going to get help, blah blah blah... Anybody who has sat at tables knows all of the negotiations that addicts go trhough.

I got to the Serenity House about 30 minutes before the meeting, I didn't know anyone, the place was a dump; the walls were tobacco and coffe-fume stained, it smelled like an ashtray, and was full of homeless and poor people - I was wearing more than $1000 worth of almost brand new clothing, and they eyed me like I was an edible alien. I wanted to leave, needed to, and I sat there, held down to the chair by my hands gripping the arms so tight my knuckles were popping and my fingers were bloodless - I had taken a couple of vicodin earlier that day, which was nothing, and i wanted to bounce all over the walls and run out the door. But I sat and ground my teeth and didn't even smoke until I went into the big room with all the tables.

That first meeting taught me three things that I am very grateful for.

First, that the people in that room knew me - that they were like me, they would steal, lie, cheat, degrade themselves, their families, and use whoever came near them to score whatever it was they needed. And I knew, somehow, that I could not lie to them because they knew The Real Me. I realized that I could not even think of them as they, because they knew me, and I knew them - they became we at that first meeting. All I could do was stand up and say "My name is Brandon, and I am a drug addict, and I don't want to die like this." It took me almost an hour by bus, each way to get to and from the meetings I went to for the first three weeks of my sobriety, and I usually shook all the way there, and wept all the way home.

Second, I learned that there were three types of people (in terms of addiction) in that room; the ones who fought getting sober - these people don't relapse they retreat, and they don't care, the ones who feared getting sober - these are the ones who see their peril, but relapse and usually lie about it until they're almost (or completely) dead, and the ones who would die trying to live sober, if that's what it took. As I listened to the people at the tables speak about themselves, their pasts, their present situations; some would speak on their step-work, or lack thereof, weep and shake with fear and withdrawal becasue they didn't believe they could make it another hour, much less another day, some would admit errors they had committed that day, and offer their thankfulness to their Higher Power for their lives and their ability to stay sober after the shit hit the fan. One guy would only say "The f*ckin' judge made me come here, and when I get my paper signed, I'm leaving and I'm giong to go home and drink." That's all I ever heard that man say, for three weeks, every night he was there, he boldly said the same thing - and I was grateful for him, because he reminded me where I could be.

The third thing I learned at that first meeting was that I had a choice which group I wanted to belong to, and that, if I was going to get sober and (so I thought), (save my marriage, my kids', the shame of divorce - see? I didn't know anything about living sober, I wanted to have my 'old life' back the way it was, and if I had to give up the drugs, well, I'd figure out a way to do it.)

But I knew I had to choose anger, fear, or acceptance - and I knew, from that first meeting that it was a process that I could only choose if I stopped using narcotics - there was no other way.

On July 9, 2001 I woke up in what would become my last bout with withdrawal. I knew withdrawal very well, had gone through it hundreds of times, and I knew how long I'd gone, how much I had taken, and how sick I would get. The last episode only lasted three instead of the usual five days - I knew I could handle it. I dragged myself to meetings during the process, cranked up on caffeine and chainsmoking Marlboros to keep my brain from snap-crackle-popping right through my skull. I went to meetings and babbled and cried and raged, and they jus sat and listened and told me I was a f*ck-up and that I should shut up and listen to the old-timers. But, I couldn't - I had to let it out, and it came in floods of emotion that I had supressed for years - and it all meant the same thing - "I will not die like this!"

I went to Serenity House for three weeks before I found an Alano club within walking distance of my old-west-side Ann Arbor home. By then the physical withdrawal, and (what I thought was) the worst of the psychological withdrawal was over. I went to meetings, sometimes two or three, every day. I read The Big Book (there were NA meetings, but only weekly, so, I stuck with AA), started looking for things to read that talked about getting sober - and I dreamed every night of finding pills hidden everywhere, even in my body cavities, tearing myself open to get the pill that I knew was there - waking up sweating next to my estranged wife.

I went to the Alano club for two weeks, and moved out of town with my kids. My wife moved in with her 'friends' and held me to my promise that she would get the children when she could find a place. I moved 206 miles away to a small town that, when I got there I found had no AA, NA, I was SOL - but, I had the internet, and found EGNA - I spent the next year there, after my wife had come to get the kids, and I was alone - after she started using crack cocaine, and bringing the barflies home for sex and drugs - my kids didn't tell me a lot of this until after I finally managed to get custody in 2004. I'm glad I didn't know - I've never been a violent person - but, I think everyone has limits to what they can rationally deal with when their children are living in an ignorant, dangerous situation. I would visit and talk to my kids, and they were "Fine, dad, wer're fine." I saw them every other weekend - the three hour train rides were nice, I got a lot of reading and writing done.

I moved to the next town over in early 2002 and went to some AA meetings there - staying with EGNA, and doing a lot of writing. I 'remembered' that I had written poetry, I 'remembered' how much I enjoyed playing my guitar... How can you forget things like this? Well, slow death makes you forget life, a little at a time. I then moved back to Ann Arbor because my wife had been charged with negligence and marijuana possession. I moved in with her and the kids, and took care of them - the condo they lived in was destroyed. I couldn't stand the drugs and drinking, and so I found a place of my own; small, quiet, and moved there. It was a few blocks from my kids, and I saw them regularly. It became apparent that this quiet room with a fireplace and my own porch was in a crack house. Check it out.

I still had the dreams, but I didn't miss the drugs - I would wake, write in my journal until I felt better, and then get on with my life, I stopped going to meetings in May of 2002, and started working my own program. I think now that going to AA would have been easier on me. I had to find my own inspirational materials, I had very little support, I worked with a longtime friend proofreading advanced math, physics, and statistics textbooks, and I would go home or to the café and write – alone. I minimized my working hours as much as I could. I became isolated, started meditating for up to 6 hours per day, didn’t eat much, didn’t want to. I had no friends, my $200,000 plus income was gone down to about $20,000 and then half that, then I was selling blood plasma to buy food so I could eat to sell more blood to buy more food. My weight bottomed out at about 125 pounds, and … Something changed. I realized that, through all of this misery and difficulty, I had somehow become happy. I wrote poetry, I read books, I talked to my children, I helped my wife, I started talking to people, found a poetry group, got involved with homeless people who were trying to make it, started playing my guitar on the street for something to do, and realized I could make cigarette money just by doing what I really loved.

I took a job as the night manager at a residence facility, and the joy just kept on building - even when I became very angry, realizing how much time I had wasted being wasted – it was an awesome experience just to experience emotions on such a clear level.

]…
Broken like a window
I see my blindness now

I need love
Not some sentimental prison
I need God
Not the political church
I need fire to melt the frozen sleet inside me
I need love
-Sam Phillips

I felt like I was waking up, sober!

I took a job as night manager of a residence facility populated by people with mental and substance abuse problems – people on the edge of relapse, prison, homelessness, institutionalization. I started holding AA meetings at the desk, all night, whenever someone came in and needed a meeting I’d pull out something to read or share – I did what I could.

The meetings were not formal AA, but the Big Book saw a lot of use – and I had other books that I would take to work – [I]Illusions[/I], [I]The Prophet[/I], the desk had a KJV bible which I’ve been familiar with since my childhood – I had a copy of the Qu’ran, and there were Muslims who wanted to talk Allah – fine – I learned, and enjoyed helping people.

As I said, I quit going to AA, and followed my own road, and still do. I am sober today, AA helped me get there, and I’ll always consider myself a friend of Bill W., if not a follower of his plan – I’m not much of a follower, nor am I really a leader, I just do what I do, and find people who want to that, too. People – family, friends, lovers, my children, have helped me find ways to stay sober, but I am sober by my choice to find inspiration, to use my imagination, and to learn and practice living sober. My X wife and I are not very good friends anymore, even though, after all that has happened, which I won’t go into here, she’s sober now, too. Even though I don’t like her very much, I trust her a lot more than I did when we were sleeping in the same bed and exchanging fluids. Our marriage was based upon ignorance, fed on lies, and is better left in the ground where the Utah courts finally gave me sole custody of my kids in March of 2004, and buried the marriage’s desiccated copse (and gave me full custody of my kids (again)) last August 1st . And now, five years after my marriage ended, the miracle of a [i]soul mate[/i] has touched me - and I cannot even go there right now – but, she is a blessing, a gift, a guru, and a muse.

There are lots of things I have left out – but, I’m exhausted, and they’re just life things, anyway.

I am sober today, not because I followed steps, those steps gave me clues to how to find myself – I am sober today because I found that spark of higher power within me, the one that connects all of us, even those who don’t care, who want their pain, who want to die. I am sober because, I was fortunate enough to be able to clearly see that the choice was mine, and nobody could make it but me.

Five years and 11 days sober, I don’t have a single chip, token, or pin to show for it, but, I have this happy, sometimes difficult, but amazing life. So, I’m just going to quit counting for awhile, and go back to one day at a time – maybe in another five years I’ll do this again.

It’s just a bunch of days, some easy, some difficult, some sad, all wonderful and alive!

Peace / Namaste
-b

To that guy's wife who couldn't get a job at a tanning salon because she didn't look like that Lohan woman.

2006-07-17T15:33:00.000-06:00

It never ceases to amaze me that real people are surprised when they can't get jobs in places where becoming unreal is the bottom line of business.

In the case of tanning, people tan to make themselves look more attractive by pouring radiation into their skin, to look like they really don't look, to appear to take the time to be out in nature, under the sun, having fun, living the 'good life'- which, if they were doing all that, would be really cool, but they don't do that - they slave, and keep themselves planted in non-oudoorsy situations - behind their desks or in front of their television sets, and go fast-tan to provide the illusion of a different lifestyle (to themselves, as much, in not more so, than to others.) Why? Because tan is "good", and pale is "bad." We are taught not to accept ourselves without modification - these modifications have almost nothing to do with health and happiness, but they are a cultural priority. People will risk skin cancer, and FSM knows what all to be accepted - but, generally refuse to take any risks at all to express who they truly are.

I'm not thin & muscly - I'm almost 41 years old, 15 pounds overweight, and have a moderately disproportionate muscle mass because I don't work out. But, I can play a 22 pound guitar for four hours straight - that's me, I could pump iron & fry on a tanning bed, too - but, how many of those folks could trade places with me and be functional at it? What I'm saying is that nobody in their right mind would hire me to be a poof-boy for a tanning salon! If I were offered a job at one of those horrid places, I would only take it if the other choice was at a fast-food restaraunt.

I think you're right - boycott the place, they suck - they all suck - they're all about taking your money and giving you physical, psychological, and emotional poison in return.

Those tanning-bed beauties

will be lining up at clinics to get

Basal Cell Carsinomas and

shit like this cut out of their bodies before all is said and done - screaming and suing and agonizing over the failure of their investment in poison - and who will be the "beautiful people" then?

You show me somebody who is overweight with a good attitude and joy in their life, and someone who is living physically and emotionally ravaged by their own self abuse, and I know who I'm gonna pick for beautiful.

Maybe this has been a good thing - maybe it's an eye-opener for you, your family, and your friends to find a healthier lifestyle, eh wot? I don't know, I'm just offering ideas and opinions here - you can always point at me and say "Hey, you self-righteous motherfucker, you smoke cigarettes and drink beer, and puff the ganja when you have the time and inclination! Who the HELL do you think you are?" Well, I'm me, and I really love my life, even the tough bits, and I'm learning how to treat myself well, even if I'm not perfect at it yet (hah! like, ever.)

And if your wife loves herself, and you love her, and she loves you, and you love you - well, hey, that's what matters.

You wanna tan? Go the beach! If she wants a job, well, maybe choosing something she loves, seeking it out, imagining and manifesting that is, in the long-run, an idea that's so much better, it makes the radiaion-poison business pale by comparison.

So, like I said, take it or leave it - I think you should be proud and happy with who you are - you seem pretty cool to me.

Peace
-b

Imagination, Inspiration, Intent, and Faith

2006-07-13T18:36:00.000-06:00

This thought, covered by others, really inspired me to articulate my opinion concerning it - thanks for the inspirations! Thanks to KMH, Callum, OV, and Barry, very many thanks, indeed.

I've made the statement before that "Imagination supercedes faith", and it tends to be ignored (I think it's perceived as my naivete`), but to me, faith is a subset of imagination, inspiration, and intent - if you can imagine a beautiful life in a balanced universe, clearly, with detailed connections to yourself and others, it manifests through the inspiration that brings clarity, and the intent that creates a reality where faith is the state of being.

"Belief comes from without, knowledge comes from within."
-Marishi Nisargudhat

"There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds."
--Tennyson, "In Memoriam"

"Faith is not belief without proof, but trust without reservation."
--Elton Trueblood

If I, or someone else, develops a set of criteria (dogma), can I have faith in such without processing it through my imagination - visualizing, internalizing, pondering or meditating upon its validity, relevance, and potential? Can I have those unseen things without the inspiration necessary to clarify my desires and to patiently focus my behavior toward "right action"?

Hebrews 11:1 states "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." It does not say that faith is acceptance of litany, dogma, or ritual as reality.

And

James 2:20 says that "Faith without works is dead", I consider this as a warning that faith is driven first by the creative work of imagination, requires the work of seeking and opening to inspiration, and manifests through actions, which, is the kind of work that most of us consider to be the active side of faith. All three of these require "works" to practice and refine. In stipulating these criteria, I am saying that faith is a result, not a cause. What comes from faith is a deeper realization of potential, connection to Sourse (God, Divine Self, whatever you want to call it), and manifestation (creation) of reality.

In the article "Imagination, Advent, and Christian Faith, Rev. Gil Ott wrote:
Peter Gomes, the minister of Memorial Church at Harvard University speaks of the Christian bible as a book of imagination. A book of imagination. He urges Christians (as well as everyone else) not to see the Bible as a book of rules or regulations, rather to see it as a book meant to speak to, to stoke, to fuel the imagination.

Ah! To fuel the imagination.

From what I can see, imagination is in short supply these days. We modern folk tend to relate more to facts and figures. We’re more into statistics than symbols. We like to keep close to that stuff we call reality. Reality, meaning only that stuff we can see and touch.

And when reality is reduced to only sensory perceptions, I think our expectations tend to shrink, to become scaled down. We become blind to the divine intrusions among us. We become myopic. Our span of vision has become too narrow to comprehend the width and breadth of rich and diverse religious traditions that have shaped our culture.

In his article, The Uses of Imagination in Religious Experience, Dr. F. Thomas Trotter defines imagination as follows:

"My definition of imagination is this: It is the act of making images that convey through their shapes, form, and emotional authority a power of reality that lies at the heart of things. It is, further, the act of apprehending the power of events by way of their shapes, forms, and emotional authority so that the ordinary events of life are held in some accountability to a vision of truth. In a real sense, the principle use of imagination is to inform and vitalize human life. It is to create life itself, certainly to create human communities, probably to create all of the informed gestures of love that we know.

I am positing that faith is the actual state of grace that is sparked by imagination, connects us to our Source through inspiration, and manifests into our universe by our intent; devoid of these other factors, faith is without worth, it is "dead" - as an actiivated and emanated state, then, faith is the balance where miracles become so entwined with the everyday that, for the faithful, there is no real difference.

The Buddha said, "I teach one thing and one thing only: suffering and the end of suffering", If I have faith in this statement, a hope or belief that it's true, how will it save me or the world from suffering any suffering? I can't see how it would at all. However, by finding faith - through the work of imagining that it's [i]potentially true[/i], by seeking inspiration from All That Is Out There And In Here that it is true, and by Intending to make it true by exhibiting the evidence of it's truth, I can then find that point, the balance where it Is True because I Know the process from one end to the other, and the insubstantial becomes 'real' - others may see some change in me and say "It's a miracle, you do not suffer!", and I can simply say "You don't have to, either.", this, to me, is faith.

Reflections on Truly Senseless Violence

2006-07-12T15:14:00.000-06:00

Ah, memories; the reek of tear gas, the adrenaline rush of throwing beer bottles at the heads of riot cops with their armor and big orange sticks. Wading, then running through ankle deep broken glass past piles of burning furniture. Always the tear gas, everywhere - and that guy who would take his moccassin off and use it to pick up the hot tear gas canisters and throw them back into the lines of advancing police with their megaphones and clak-clak-clak marching forward, herding people like animals.

And the copper-sweet tang of blood scent when they drug a naked guy past; burnt, bruised, and bleeding from cuts he recieved from the sliding glass door the pigs shattered to get at him on his balcony - they could have just opened it - but, they had to break down three other doors to get at him, and I suppose the bloodlust was on them - everyone screaming obscenities as they tore the burning flag from his body, and pistol-whipped him into the glass crushed under their boots. The stinking press of bodies in the comandeered city bus, one among many busses lined up as roadblocks and mass cells; people pissing and puking all over themselves and each other, guarded by one cop with his service weapon holstered, but the strap conspicuously undone - talking about how he "loved this" becaue they were paying him double time to be here.

So, while people were being beaten and killed in the Townships of Sueto, and while the talk of the Nation of freedom was of divestiture in Apartheid states, well, this riot was brought to you by the clash of college kids, fighting for their right to party, and The Rule of Law, putting it down - Kalamazoo, MI, 1985.

Talk about senseless violence? Fuck that! Anyone who stood for human rights, who stood against the kind of tyranny that effected 85% of a downtrodden, uneducated population, and it got ugly - well, I salute THAT stand!

I marched for Divestiture, carrying a Mandela sign, playing my drum, and, on one occasion carrying a Coffin with "B I K O" written on it...

But, I know I could have done so much better.

Every Song I Send

2006-07-12T15:12:00.000-06:00

Every song I send;
a collected drop of rain,
a gathered tear;
has nurtured my life,
watered the garden that is me.

Every song I send
has become some piece of me;
has filled me, as wine,
has changed me, with time;
and, in my dreams, has become mine.

Every song I send
will surely not bring
the same taste to your lips;
my only wish, that these gifts
quench your thirst with cool bliss.

poets.com - piss on you

2006-07-11T00:36:00.000-06:00

I wanted to find a place to post my poems where other people, who are poetically inclined, might read and comment on them. I posted one on www.poetry.com, and started receiving an incessant stream of e-mails and postal envelopes lauding me with "awards" which I had to purchase, and "published work" which I had to buy. I was born at night, but not last night. So, I din't post any more poems there.

So then I found www.poets.com. I thought, woohoo, a place where poets are required to post reviews so they can post more poems to be reviewed by others, seems like a great place for me to get some honest feedback on my writing (none of that "YOU ROCK" / "YOU SUCK" stuff that I detest mroe than cat vomit on my bed), but real writers reviewing my stuff! Sweet! And it only cost me $15 for 3 months - OK, I'll try it.

Now, I don't think I'm a great poet, I think I have a knack for getting my thoughts out through moderately good syntax, pretty good language, and fairly good analogy and slightly better metaphor - I can make something sound good, if not always mean exactly what I want it to - I do think in poetry, odd, but true - I also enjoy the process of puzzling the right word into the right spot, so as to deliver an entire psychic package of image and emotion and meaning, squished into a nice tight bundle.

So, I posted 11 poems over the last 7 or weeks. Some of my favorites, and a couple that I put together recently - a bone deep thank you to My Muse! 11 poems that I care about, and there were reviews, good ones, out of a possible 200 points (40 reviews * max 5 points each) I scored 191 points, and the language that was used to describe the impact of my poems made me feel kind of squishy inside - it was beautiful.

I don't get all ego-fruck about my wiritng. I know I'm competent, but I also know that opinion is fickle, and pretty much meaninless when it comes down to working on something new - I could accidentally write a great poem, or blog entry, and spend the rest of my life trying to compete with myself to exceed my maximum ability, a futile scenario, at best. I'm sure Hemmingway would have nodded in agreement before wandering out to blow his brains out.

So, I'm not really concerned, but I feel good that people are noticing my work - something that most of my family, and some of my friends have put up with, or pretended to. I mean, I know who loves me, and tells me the truth - or even sees the truth in what I write, I also know the slack-faced look and the "Yeah, that's really good... ... ... ..." response that really means, "How come you use all those words?" No biggie.

Tonight, I found out it was a lie - the common practice at poets.com is to cut & paste reviews on to as many poems as possible, so as to earn perqs from the site - $25 per day if you post the most reviews - and I am a sucker.

piss on poets.com, and all the commercialized poetry sites out there - I'll let this shit moulder on my blog, whether anyone reads it or not. And, if people come here, read it, and like it, then maybe they'll be a little happier - hey, this lesson only cost me $15 and a small chunk of pride, which I don't really need anyway. Definitely a good lesson in doing something I love to find out how much others love it - I'll just do what I love, and the rest of the world can go piss up a rope if they don't like it.

The Rhino

2006-07-07T19:49:00.000-06:00

I once saw a rhino in a zoo
And they told me that his cage
Had been expanded
His universe was arbitrarily
Grown out past its edges
That options vectored tangentially
To all infinite points
On the circle that
Until yesterday
Defined his parabolic life and
Hyperbolic limb
An augmented reality
A superior potential

I thought to myself
I would sing of running
And roaming
I would ply the wind with my great horn
Sniffing and scratching the ground
Falling through grass and air and time
And I would be large
And banish the smallness
Of belief illuminated by knowledge
Into memory
Raised to a new power
I would see the true dimension of my history
Take it in my hands
And press it between pages
And move into the light
Of presence that
Contains me and so much more

And maybe in my rhino mind
Would flicker a twist
Synaptic “Hallelujah”
A lightning flash
The once occluded path, like a string of pearls
A fractal algorithm
Infinitely recursive
A soup of light and shadow
Each drop a where / when
The spoon mere inches
From my hand

Who’m I kidding?
All see as through a glass darkly
Sift through perceived reality
Laughing or crying or raging
as through a class drunkly
hoping we can pretend it's just a movie
begging some weird ignorant interpretation
of a God that lies outside this twisted perception
to cut some deal that seems like absolution
Believing self and cage to be the same
Just like that poor rhino
Treading a dirt circle
In a wide meadow

Stormchild Listening

2006-07-03T10:19:00.000-06:00

Clouds scud low across the sky
thick enough to completely obscure
the dirty-penny eye of the dying moon
June is gone and the world is burning
the stink of ozone and fried mesquite
hangs in the air; blown debris of
dead trees and scrub seems to want
the solace and moisture in my eyes,
as they watch the weather trap this valley
below it's sinister, portentous weight.

They do not call the wind Moriah or Santa Ana
Tonight, these folks huddle in pre-fab hovels
and call it scourge, for tonight it is so;
alive and angry, knowing nor caring for
respect for the traveler, for the seeker
there is only warning in the wind.
I call this wind the lovers of ancient silences,
a power tryst that bleeds passion and lust for return
to the raw land and the howl of the true native;
she shrieks through the town
he ravages the lawns and gnaws
the effigies of man, they cry together
"Seek shelter from me, my domain
is all tonight, ignore us at your peril!"

Lightning flashes - brighter than day
but, so far away that the illusion
of distance and streetlight safety
is almost complete. Oily bolts seem to
breathe up from the ground, lick the clouds
taste the water there, and spit disaster
into smouldering, burning,
exploding, disintegrating, vaporizing life;
it dances and laughs as if waving
a wand of smoking wiels or a lash of wrath
to blast the land and sear the air, power
to pry molecules from their mates
and send the reek of grief
to the humans who gawk in awe at the forces
that dance beyond their reach.

The thunder in this land does speak,
loudly, if rarely, it calls to the dead
and wandering spirits who lithely shy away
from the halide and mercurial light;
ancestors of no one now, who flee to, but
mostly fro, in eternal confusion at the sense
of false green, primped and manicured nature,
that, molested, hides something that resembles
nothing of the shape or scent of lands
these souls of badger and crow, eagle and wolf
used to know. The voice cries in short bursts
of bestial frustration, not having words for
betreayal or desecration; it cannot ask the
land or the usurping nation "Where are my children?";
so it wanders away, and does not bother to mutter.

I am a child of storms, raised from the land
of many waters, fed by the creatures who
knew weather and hardship in winter's grip;
flora that hid from rain and reached for sun,
shook in thunder's wrath, and let go the earth
to find a home beyond some impromptu river's run-
I wonder, on nights like this, if I am alone
as I watch nature flailing at the ground,
scratching the belly of the earth as she heaves
in complaint, wretched and painted like some
beautiful, drug-addled whore, shaved and tarred
by machines and driven insane in the throes
of pains that her pimps mistake for stupid passion;
I hear, alone, I fear, this storm moan to me,
its demands groaned through engineered grass
and foreign trees; fed by strange chemicals,
the language is foul and choked
with naked need to be free of this evil disease -
and to me, who can hear, barely, sometimes,
it pleads "Oh please, stormchild, give me peace -
leave!"

Plans are funny little things...

2006-06-24T14:41:00.000-06:00

So, for tonight I had this plan to go to the local bar / bowling alley (for those of you who have read my One and Only Smell post) there's another bar in town now where you can light up - and it has good ventilation.

So, I'm getting ready for my night out, the kids' mom is coming over to manage things, and i'm going to go see the Silent Sevens, have a beer or two, do some skank dancin', and generally have a good time.

I planned to meet my friend Steve and hang out for a couple of hours before the show - so, just before I'm ready to leave the phone rings, and it's Steve asking me if I think we can play for 20 minutes during the Sevens' set break - the scheduled opening band didn't show, and so...

After not having practiced with Steve for more than six months, having less than 2 hours to prepare, and spending much of that time fighting with my old Les Paul, which is having some intonation issues - we showed up and did it.

The two of us - me on a borrowed guitar and piano, and Steve on the band's drums, we played for exactly an hour - I had to do all the talking, because the drummer wasn't mic'd - and we just made it up as we went along - they didn't throw any food or beer bottles at us, and I got a 1$ tip from some drunk guy in the audience who perservered through the crowd, almost wiping out a table, to throw the money on the piano I was playing at the time.

I'm too tired to worry about the pictures - I don't think they turned out well, and I don't really care - I had a completely unplanned BLAST tonight - and just thought I'd tell you all.

Goodnight.

Namaste
-b

Llama Rama

2006-06-23T14:03:00.000-06:00

"Eat the casserole, Tina, you fat lard!!"
-Napolean Dynamite

The llama is a holy, silly beast. It frolics and plays, and is generally a not-too-intelligent nuisance that's so damned cute you just can't get enough of one. If you want to know more than you ever want to know about llamas, check the Wiki entry. There are a couple of rock bands, The Llamas and The Llama Farmers (maybe more) - Wikipedia will probably mention them...

Emperor Kuzco in llama form Emperor's New Groove

Here are a couple of things llama that may interest, entertain, and (not likely, but possiblly) educatie, and even convert you to the impact and mildly twisted love of the llama:

The Llama Song by Tommy Topio
Naked Dancing Llama - advice and more!

Goofy Llamas - bastardized art and altered movie posters.

If you use Winamp - the (IMO) best MP3 player around, you may recognize the logo and Winamp's tagline:

"Winamp, it really whips the llama's ass!"

And finally (I could not find a recording or video of this, so sad) - if anyone can find this, please let me know - it's a rare Sesame Street clip that I would LOVE to acquire:

The Me and My Llama Song
(Sesame Street)

Me And My llama
Me and my llama
Goin' to the dentist today
Seems a little crazy
Guess you're just too lazy
You gotta get your teeth cleaned today

Me and my llama
Jumped out of our pajamas
And ran off to the dentist today
Me and my llama
Me and my llama
We're goin 'to the dentist ooo-eee
Yes, it's just my llama and me

Tell me if you feel afraid
Remember just to whisper softly into my ear
I won't leave and go away
You know I'm gonna be right here
Open up wide now
Let him look inside now
'Cause after this we'll go on our way
I won't let him hurt you
I'll be right there beside you
And I can tell that you'll be okay

Me and my llama
Jumped out of our pajamas
And ran off to the dentist today

Me and my llama
Me and my llama
We're goin' to the dentist oooo-eee
Yes, it's just my llama and me

Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da....
'Cause after this we'll go on out and play...

Me and my llama
Me and my llama
The sun is bright and now we are free
Yes, it's just my llama and me

Burst

2006-06-21T22:36:00.000-06:00

With a burst of speed
from my reeling brain
to the keyes, I push
my need to free
the feelings I get,
when I think of we;
wet, blessed, at rest
and nested against
each other's happy heat.

Words connect and press
through paths that flash
alive behind my eyes;
thoughts masked in hues
of blues, violet, white
yellows, greens, and red,
burst into views of you;
formless, definitive, true;
qualities expressed as neon,
pulsating life; radiant sun,
moon, stars, shining water;
particulate thought wrapped
into geschtaldt harmony.

I want to feel you burst
into my senses; arms, mouth
life, sleep, dreams, home;
the juice of a fuit unknown,
unborne by any tree, but grown
by the power of true love's nurture,
drawn from the well of blissful future
lit from within by spirit nature;
radiating scent; ardor, tempered
and focussed by empathy and humor.

I wish to cover me, inside and through
the pores of my soul, with your words;
and the drops of you that taste of
honey and salt, breathe you; verbs
of warm wine and lilac, your face
swimming in the tears held
in my eyes when I open them,
to look upon forever; a moment,
all years, such lessons embraced;
when age has taken what it will,
and left us to raise our hands in wonder
at how we once were, who we truly are;
childlike in our cares, divine with each other;
and find joy to consider how, drop by drop,
these choices, memories, hopes, and the fire
of our lives have burst, and run together.

Online Dating - does it work? (RFC)

2006-06-16T14:38:00.000-06:00

My friend Chris & I were discussing online relationships the other day.

Chris posited that, because of the large number of peoaple available to meet online, and the various ways of sorting ou and scrutinizing potential partners; dating sites, topical or 'common interest' sites, background checks, etc., the success rate of marriages / long-term relationships based on internet communication would be significantly higher.

We agreed that we have had mixed results with both friendships and romance found on the internet, and so I thought I'd do some searching, and ask for some input.

Mary. Madden and Amanda. Lenhart - PEW wrote:
Americans who are seeking romance use the internet to help them in their search, but there is still widespread public concern about the safety of online dating.

PEW Internet & American Life Project - Online Dating[/size]

More information concerning online pursuits from the PEW organization, including surveys and memes, can be found here.

So, this is a Request For Comments, data, stories, articles, anything that might help clarify the ideas concerning the validity, effectiveness, and potential impact of online dating.

Virgin River Hike

2006-06-14T18:57:00.000-06:00

My friends Chris, Toni, and I took a short hike today near the Virgin River. Here is a slide show.

I'm not in the pictures because I took them...

*edit* A note on the greening of southern UT

The lack of green really makes it difficult for me to stay here - I grew up in Michigan, have lived here for 2 years, and cannot get over 'green withdrawal.' The only reason this place is accessible to the mass growth it has experienced is the terraforming - turn off the water, and the place would shrivel up and revert to desert in a month.

Much of the green I shot on the walk today had a lot to do with seepage from septic leech fields in the houses that have been (and are very quickly being) built along the eastern edge of the river valley.

The Beauty Of a Woman

2006-06-10T12:01:00.000-06:00

The Beauty of a woman is held
like her morning coffee,
in the poise and bend of wrist
and curled fingertips,

the strand of hair that falls and

bisects a cheekbone, unnoticed;

breathed in as the pause

and stretch to reach a lone rose

deep in a side street hedge;

in the flash of calf or glimpse

of thigh as she stops to right

her stockings, or stoops to smile

into the eyes of a child.

The beauty of a woman's heart

shines out; a flash from eyes

that light the way of change;

a wedding smile, a funeral hug,

a second's pause to touch a hand,

to kiss a brow, to run fingers

at the nape of troubled hair, or

to fix a fallen flower.

The beauty of a woman is carried

on shoulders, within encircled arms,

across hips that know pain and give

in blood and scream to bring forth life;

breasts and lips to nurture, to sing health

into the need to grow, to know;

her song, sweet milk of the soul,

her milk, sweet song of the flesh,

love and groomed instinct, Mother;

and the memories of lusty bliss,

and the spark of being

that comes, of the knowledge that loss

of such tender, fragile life is always close;

carried in bones' marrow, the nest, the place

of quiet, the hearth of love-light, glowing,

the promised heat of summer's return

held, ever against winter's bleak night.

The beauty of a woman

is curved and soft, firm and warm

in word and walk, in touch and slow breath

where in her silence she nurtures thought

of peace and the need to wait, and watch,

to be the turning and bloom of life into more;

transcendent of form, enlightened essence of

eons of continuance, creation;

where the limits of her strength,

the depths of her well of love,

the powers of her knowledge of life itself,

by her grace are ever undefined.

The beauty of a woman is known,

no claim can ever be

layed down upon her body,

no lien staked into her heart;

not age nor grief can corrupt

her sacred power, nor drain her of herself;

for she knows life, cycle, season;

her form the vessel which creates,

her soul the bridge connecting

existence and being;

her essence, an aphorism

through her, we touch eternity.

Weight, weight!

2006-05-18T14:08:00.000-06:00

October 2005 - 207 lbs.

May 2006, 172 lbs.

I feel much better!

Another one bites the dust...

2006-05-08T18:48:00.000-06:00

I lost a 40 GB hard drive tonight - not sure what was on there...

Minor Coffee Disaster

2006-05-04T18:47:00.000-06:00

I spilled about 6 ounces of coffee into my Yamaha CVP-92 (electronic piano) about 5 minutes ago.

I'm going to have to take it apart, there is sticky liquid running from the dual headphone jacks below the keyboard try - this is not a good thing.

I had to do this once before - my cat Sally knocked a vase of roses over and soaked the whole thing once, it took me 2 weeks to break the thing down and clean out the circuitry and key linkage - this one isn't quite so bad, but it's going to be a bear to get this thing apart - the keyboard assembly is, by far, the most difficult part of the job - luckily, I only have to remove and clean about 30 keys, instead of the entire 88.

So, I'm afraid I'm going to have to disassemble the thing- I might not be around for a couple of days.

Wish me patience, I'll need it.

TV TurnOff Week (April 24-30, 2006)

2006-04-25T18:44:00.000-06:00

I am well into the second half of TV TurnOff Decade. Of course, I have 6 kids, so we have a television in the house, and there's a DVD, a VCR, and a PS/2 hooked up to it, but no external signal. So, I guess I'm not quite a "Vegan", as far as the technology goes, but feel good that I don't eat the rancid meat that broadcast TV serves up on several hundred channels 24/7.

Having said this, I have some observations concerning what we're 'missing' at my house.

-We don't have a daily reminder of the murders, treacheries, and the extent of humanity to be evil to each other pumped into our home.
-We do not have between 12 and 60 minutes of commercial broadcasting pounding at our consciousness every hour.
-We do not see over 1,000 re-enacted murders, or roughly twice that number of other violent acts portrayed in front of our faces every year.
-We are not continually reminded of the New Model of car, equipment, or love interest we need to go out and get.
-Our ideas are not influenced (or, at least massaged) by the results of focus groups and demographic studies. We do not use the same cliches, euphemisms, or excuses as TV personalities and characters (even in terms of humor.)
-We are required to search for information and formulate our own opinions. (And I readily admith that some of those opinions are QUITE different.)
-We do not plan our lives in accordance with the Nielsens. We can get movies, shows, whatever either on DVD or from the 'net, we just don't get the new stuff 'right now.'
-We do not subscribe to the '1/2 hour solution' syndrome', or face such high risks of imbalance and mental illness (mainly attention / personality disorders) that have been statistically associated with television.
-We know very little about fashion. So, we can create our own.
-We read literature - the NEA reports that there is a literary national crisis.

I may amend this after talking about it to the kids. But, my basic thought about TV is:

"They don't call it programming for nothing."

Easter Bunny Blues

2006-04-16T23:22:00.000-06:00

We did not have easter baskets, grass, peeps, chocolate, or Cadbury eggs this year. I, with the reluctant, but understanding agreement of my children, have declared this home a candy free zone, ad infinitum (with some exceptions, of course.)

This is a radical shift in this "holiday observance" for my family - I have received, and given easter baskets, candy, toys, and other such paraphenalia since as early as I can remember - say, 1968 or 1969.

As a child, Easter would comsist of getting up early, finding baskets, eating a light breakfast (candy & toast, most often), and going to church. As a child my church attendance was steady - we were Lutheran, then Nazarine, then Methodist, then Church of the United Brethren (pretty much Methodist), at 12 I became a Mormon- and, except for the order and duration fo church meetings, the introduction of a simple sacrament ritual, and a less-than-wholly-tolerant concerning non-members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints, the Easter ritual went on pretty much unchanged.

I grew up, I moved out, I didn't go to any church unless there was a wedding (I will not attend funeral services, IMO they're kind of silly.) The Easter Bunny was honored - the grass was replaced with marijuana (I used to line a basket with pot & add jelly beans), and there was usually a cookout with some irrational and dangerous chocolate / liquor sodden dessert. Times were good, wierd, but good.

Then I found out I was getting married, and awaiting the arrival of a child. Things changed.

In March of 1990 my daughter was born, and, if you think that by Easter the ritual was in full swing - me with the real bunny-grass and jellybeans, my wife with the lovely new dress, hat, and lily - the baby (Nina, you reading this?) with an infant dress that cost me $75 I didn't have - I picked it out, it was the most precious thing I ever saw, with an applique' rose in the center of the lace frills across the chest - with matching hat. We were the poor, and didn't care - the stuffed bunny sat in the crib, we went to church, baked down, and got ready to go see the in-laws for dinner.

Like clockwork, every two years, we had another child. The Easter Bunny got our business, delighted our kids with the badly animated and vioced cartoons, and meant that vast amounts and assortments of candy was to be had by all.

Do I sound bitter, used? If I don't, then I wrote this badly, or you're not paying attention.

The TV, the radio, the newspapers, the schools (and even church!) foretold kowtowed to the mystical arrival of the rabbit from Hell. Every year, a month or so before Easter Sunday, the stores would be filled to overflowing with everything I needed to observe the true modern meaning of every major holiday the west observes - the cunning little candy dispensing machines, Oreos, toilet paper? yeah - even that was festooned with that caricatured rodent that looked like he had kept his head full of ether since before the Son rose.

Year after year, acquiescing to the hype, the profit margin of corporate candy cartels, pumping the poison into the mouths and guts and cardiovascular future-sumps of my children, the memetics of plastic complacency, even as the Sugar Blues (1986) told of the dangers of the white death - I wouldn't read the book because people talked, and I didn't have to trust the gossip. I wish I had read it then. If you think I'm over the top here, check it out and get back to me.

But, the E-B brought ME the THC, and the Jelly Bellys (Thank You Mr. Reagan!) - so, hey, I would light my pipe, shut my mouth, take a hit, and play along. The kids thoguht Peter was cool as hell, and they knew that I knew him. Yeah... Right on...

This year, like I said up front, was different. No more. One of my kids is ADHD, and the rest would eat it straight from the coffee-sugar jar in the morning if I didn't get up to supervise the school prep. I don't smoke pot, watch TV, or succumb to the mediated market hype anymore - My kids and I have spent more time in therapy in the last two years than 95% of the population spends in their entire lives. I need wellness for them, and for me, and I am no longer going to sit idly by while it's coerced out of them by legal drug dealers. I think free, create my opinions out of the air - I don't even know where the box is, anymore, much less do I know whether I'm in it, out of it, or under it.

And the Easter Bunny Blues kick in tomorrow, when the kids I love enough to yank free from the giant moneysucking poison-pumping machine go back to school and get the full-on stare of the indoctrinated. No church ("Luckeeee, we had to go, but you're not Christian, right? Your dad's a Booodist, and your mom goes to college."), no bunny memorabillia ("Check out the SkateBunny I got with the chocolate RocketEggs!"), no candy (:crickets: :stare:) - and the beat goes on...

I am holding back the guilt I feel because I didn't run down to Wal-Mart and get with the program, I am withstanding the desire to keep my kids home tomorrow (I am not nuts, they had a 4 day weekend!), and I am not going to apologize.

I'm sayin', after all this, that the Easter Bunny is an interloper into our culture, a poisonous Pie-eyed Piper - Jesus deserves credit for standing for love and charity throughout western history - the Easter Bunny (and the marketing executives at those candy companies) deserve cells at Guantanamo for spreading poisonous chemicals and dyes and greed and gluttony into the minds and through the veins of our children - the only future we have.

Fuck You Easter Bunny!

Can I get a witness? I sure could use one right now.
-b

Musings On the Edge of Sleep

2006-04-09T00:17:00.000-06:00

Sound soothes,
light draws toward;
the hiss of fans,
that 60HZ subsonic hum;
so slow as to confuse
click and pitch.

The subtle blended refresh,
the flutterflash
of tired eyelids;
the sultry seam
between a serene me
and this bright machine
is soma; a susserating
somnolent sigh,
as bytes fly
from here to where...
from now to when...
To you.

From my now
you're not there
you are here then
and I was there when;
we, our places traded
in this psychic exchange;
the moebius that is time-twined I

Why I'm here;
to taste this tryst of
tangled thought, tempus, and
the transcendent touch-tap of
virtual vertigo that appears
to be now-here in nowhere

Bliss amidst flash and hiss,
all about it
is the I that wishes,
and tickles that you;
on this event-horizon edge
of conscious click-connect
that will-be was my night
and is, to me, an imagining
of your morning.

Got Rolfed (1.5/10)

2006-04-06T13:07:00.000-06:00

Part of the Rolfing process is clearing the lymphatic system - the glands in the knees, groin, elbows, armpits, and neck that are responsible for removing garbage from the body as it is released from cells - this is the first part of the Rolfing process, and is repeated at each session.

My kidneys are SORE - though, they are better today than they were yesterday. I am trying to drink enough water (along with sipping [i]very[/i] hot water with ginger added) to clear the ama, (toxic garbage), from my system, but I'm having some trouble keeping up with it - I expected this, to some extent, and it really isn't pleasant. As the sessions continue, I will have less toxic crap in my body to get rid of.

Also, because this was my first session, my body is arguing with itself- my nex and shoulders are not used to being in their new position, my lower back is still in the place it has always been, my center of gravity has shifted slightly, so I am experiencing some uncomfortable and awkward moments. My internal organs are also, subtly, noticing a difference in the way my body has changed - the kidney issue is the worst of it, and I'm dealing with that as best I can.

Got Rolfed (1/10)

2006-04-04T11:30:00.000-06:00

Since I'm at the library, I won't have time to document and detail this as closely as I would like.

So, in short...

Yesterday I attended my first Rolfing session. What is Rolfing? Very briefly, it's a technique used to re-sculpt the connective tissue, ease "strain-patterns", and from a skeletal point of view, re-shape the body. Yes, Virginia, it kind of hurts. :)

For a more concise description of Rolfing and Dr. Ida Rolf, the founder of the technique, here is the WIKI entry on Rolfing.

As some of you know, I am planning on (finally, after years of being diverted) starting my education in massage therapy. As a primer I read Robert Claire's very excellent book on Massage called "Bodywork." It outlines the mose widely used techniques, considering eastern / western and integrated points of view.

The section on Rolfing struck a chord, and I decided to intimately check it out.

The session lasted about 2 hours and cost me $125, which is at the low end of the fee scale for a session. The Rolfer (Deb) used no oil, she did use her elbows, wrists, and forearms a lot - first to clear my lymph system, and then to soften and adjust cartilage and connective tissue - yesterday, she concentrated on adjusting my neck and spreading apart my fixed ribs - she moved my freaking ribs! Rubbing, pulling, stretching, and pressing into the insertion points of tendons and ligaments, she 'opened' my shoulders, which have been turned in and forward for years. She lengthened my neck and realigned my chin to such a point that just sitting relaxed feels very (VERY) different today than it did yesterday. I can turn my head further than I have been able to in memory, and I'm having a bit of trouble walking around because I am looking at things from a different angle - it's as if my head position "at-rest" is focussed on a spot a couple of degrees higher than I'm used to - so I look further ahead while I'm walking. Also, my shoulders are so much straighter (across) it feels as if I'm pulling them back, even at rest.

She also worked on my hips and calves, noting the connection between those parts of my body and my neck position - I have never really thought about that before, but while she did it, I could feel those connections.

And, these changes are permanent. Also, the changes cascade - as the body gets used to the adjustments, it begins to "open up" (release strain-patterns) in other areas - I have seen some evidence of this this morning, and, from what I've read in the literature, it's only the beginning.

I will go back for session #2 in about a month.

I am ready, even at this early date, to recommend this technique to anyone who has posture or carriage-related discomfort.

I will post part 2 in about a month.

Bliss Fly

2006-01-15T19:20:00.000-07:00

The message is not mine
I barely understand how
To speak its words.
The language
The symbols
The meaning
Is as diffuse to me
As light through the eyes of a fly.

My ego says I am the fly
Happily crouched
On the wall
Of the universe
My ego says I perceive you rightly,
It readily supplies me with labels
I touch you
And, in my fly-like way,
Spitting and sucking back my emesis
I taste and veriify your essence.
And what do you get?
Why, a label, of course!
A molecule of my saliva!

By the way, you’re welcome.

My ego says you may not disagree. You have been labeled.
Helpless, homeless, hopeless, heartless, feckless, fuckless, liar, cheater, loser, thief;
I will not sully my mouth by speaking my ego’s truth, you put yourself in your own damned place…
I launch into the air, and I feel better already!

My ego says you may not disagree. You have been labeled.
Anarchist, freeman, saint, social butterfly, financial wizard, doctor, lawyer, media face, model citzen, Avatar of something-or-other.
Just another reminder of what I should could would will be.
I won’t take too much, just a taste, or two, or maybe three…

I know who all of you are, I see you through the thousand facets of my fly’s eyes.

The storms of wars and cars and loud guitars,
the bottles and jars and carapace grown from ancient scars.
This practical armor that I polish and display as experiential wisdom,
the cynical intelligence and bravado of beastly bliss that comes
with addiction, delusion and recrimination of
all you other flies with motes in your eyes,
and I remind myself that the beam in my own
is The One constructed of the light of truth,
the architecture of which it is my purpose to defend.

And a question comes to me,
it’s a message and a promise,
and a challenge.
Would I rather be a fly in the eye
of this storm my old pal ego
has defined for me as life?
My oldest friend,
the I of me that gave me my greatest gift;
the end of my childhood, is RIGHT there for me.
I know what will be said,
it’s the staple of ego from time immemorial,
“Ignore that!”

And I do, for a long time.
But the egg has been laid,
and like a bad tooth, it won’t go away.

Whoever said ignorance is bliss
believed himself to be a fly,
believed himself to be living in the thousand-faceted eye,
that if he held to that beam from on high,
there’d be pie in the sky by and by.

And my old pal ego,
is always there to remind me that;
It’s fun to be a hedonist.
Don’t do the math, don’t connect the dots,
don’t bother to try to
articulate, cogitate, assimilate, meditate,
disseminate, or intimate;
not unless it will get you made, paid, or laid.
Otherwise, be very afraid,
or just listen to me, I’ll take care of everything.

Some bliss.
This tepid tryst twists and turns
Sweet ignorance follows a steep curve
of diminishing returns,
I recline along as the ever increasing decline
rockets me into a gravity well that
deposits me not-so-softly into a perfect hell
of my own construction, brick by brick, choice by choice.
A self-built prison of complacent dysfunction.

Bzzzzzzzzzz…
Bzzzzzzzzzz…
Bzzzzzzzzzz…

Munchies!

2006-01-11T00:06:00.000-07:00

A recipe I discovered tonight.

1 packet of instant oatmeal
1 (or 2) chocolate truffles

Make oatmeal with 1/2 cup milk and 1/4 cup water.

Microwave on high for 1:30.

Drop truffle(s) in oatmeal and allow to melt.

Stir and eat - UltraKreemy!

A Bloody Night In the Bushes

2006-01-07T08:51:00.000-07:00

Last night before bed I decided to have a beer, and a smoke, while listening to part of an audiobook on my Walkman...

I smoke outside - no exceptions. I don't want my chidren or company to have to endure the poisonous stink of my bad habit.

So, I went outside with my freshly opened beer (the only one I had last night) and Walkman in one hand, lit up, and leaned against the railing and smoked, and scanned for the moon which I knew was somewhere about- turning my head, and my foot slipped off the top step.

I grabbed for the railing, and it was there, as ever, and my foot twisted as it slipped and I started to fall against the railing which started to give. I heard a weird sound and the railing was gone and I was following it down into the bushes, so I got my other foot into the action and jumped as hard and high as I could up and out, over the fallen iron railing - that saved me from a broken ankle.

And I landed in, and smashed a bunch of, the bushes next to my porch - and the bushes fought back bravely, scatching like they do, and scoring an extra point by punching a hole in my left middle finger. If I flip you off today, you would see that my finger has a wound that looks like a :wink: (proper use here, Abhi? Hah!) - anyway - I stayed in the bushes for a few seconds checking for broken or bloody things, I did not spill my bear, drop my smoke, or disrupt the CD I was listening to... But I'm having trouble typing because of the bandage.

The railing seems OK - but the cement that held it in place is all busted up - it appears to have rotted - so I'll need to learn some masonry or call someone...

I'll Do It Afraid

2006-01-04T21:37:00.000-07:00

First of all, thanks to everyone for the compliments on the "Every Little Bit" piece- I will post another song, an original this time, in a few days.

I'm especially thankful that a couple of people said they would enjoy playing music with me in the future - I intend to help make that happen - however, I do have some misgivings about recording and posting, and I really need to talk about them.

I think I've given an impression of myself that isn't really accurate - :doh: - I've done that kind of thing a lot, and I need to do better. For one thing, I don't really love getting compliments, but I have learned to appreciate them. It took me a long time to get to a point in my life where I was able to accept any kind of compliment for any reason. I can trace that back to passive-aggressive, co-dependent, and sometimes violent parenting... Let's just say I grew up quiet, and I grew up cautious. In the last song post I asked everyone to "Please be kind" because it was my first song post (well, other than Sorry Charlie, which was not a serious piece, though I do really like it - it makes me feel a jagged kind of mirth to listen to it.) What I really mean by this is that I didn't post that piece to get people to pat me on the back and say, "Wow, b, that was great!", although I do feel good when I hear things like that.

I have worked with a few bands over the years, and, what I found out was that most bands out there just want someone to say "Hey man, yuu Rock!" What most people will say in response to a band is "You Rock!", sometimes they'll even come out and say "You suck!", but it's pretty much the same thing - it's empty of focus and intent - it's like a waitress coming to my table and saying "How's the food?", and I automatically say "It's very good, thank you.", and what I'm thinking is "This spiced sour soup was in the fridge & they nuked it, and then this bitch lied to me and said 'Oh yes, sir, it's fresh from about 15 minutes ago', and the center of my bowl of soup is COLD!", but I don't want to call her a liar, bring her down, or piss her off- and so I just smile a vague smile and let it pass.

One of my kids listened to the Patty Griffin cover piece I posted the other day and said, "Sorry dad, but it sucks - your head sounds all stuffed with cotton." And I think, a lot of the time, that I do sound awful. I have had a lot of problems with this, people telling me I'm "down" on myself, people telling me I'm self-defeating, etc. I've been trying to figure this out, becasue I really do like me - I'm not a POS wannabe human being, I'm a pretty smart guy who's been through and learned a lot over the past few years. So, I've been doing some investigating, and from what I have learned, more than a few well-though-of musicians think that they sound like crap and really sound amazing. I used to chalk it up to self-consciousness, and lack of honesty from my friends, but now I am wondering if it might be my hearing, or something else that I cannot define.

The point is, I really have no idea whether I'm good at making music or not, other than what people tell me - I love making music, and won't ever stop - though, if it turns out that I cannot make music that other people can enjoy, I just won't record it anymore.

I am going to be posting pieces here for the purpose of sending out my own feelings when I play; happy, sad, angry, whatever, and looking for feedback that can help me do better - because, I want to be good enough to take my music somewhere and generate a little more emotion, expression, catharsis, knowledge, power, freedom, and joy in this world.

I have had to work with people (as a small studio engineer), who were so ungodly awful at what they did that I could barely keep from grinding my teeth while going over their tracks - these people were paying me to record them, so I recorded their music and took their money, burned their music, and wiped their tracks from my machines forever. .I don't ever want to end up on the wrong side of the board like that.

Then there's the memory of the really pretty, really sweet girl I knew in middle and high school who could peel paint with her voice, and everyone loved her so much (and lusted after her so much) that none of us could bear to tell her how awful her voice was. And the woman who worked as a stripper and thought she could sing just like Madonna because nobody would tell her she sounded like a cracked plastic horn... I know, I'm not telling anybody anything they don't already know; I'm just sayin' I don't want to face that kind of fate - it scares me very badly to think that I could really, deep down, be a deluded fool.

Please, oh please, when I post my music- don't be kind to me, be honest. These honest, non-positive comments might sting or worse, but the honesty is what I really, really need.
A woman I used to know told me that if I was afraid of something I want to do then I should "do it afraid", and do it again, until I either didn't want to do it anymore, or until I wasn't afraid any more, and then I could just keep on doing it - we were talking about rollerblading at the time, but it applies here, for me, much more.

I have invested a lot of time in learning what music is, developing ability at communicating through music, and now I want to spend some time putting these years of learning toward something that is vivid and beautiful, and I am so afraid.

Every Little Bit

2005-12-31T20:16:00.000-07:00

I recorded this tonight - it's not great, but it's getting better - I love this song.

Content removed

Words and Music by Patty Griffin

Yes, Brownies

2005-12-28T17:53:00.000-07:00

...or...

The Album That Cost Me The Proper Use Of The Joint Between The Metacarpal And First Philange Segment Of the Pinky Finger Of My Right Hand:

Yes - Tormatos

It was a dark and stormy night, and I had spent the last two days making Kief butter and then nummy hash brownies. I was living in a mobile home about 5 miles outside of Buchanan, Michigan; just across Redbud Trail from the Bear Cave campground. When I say it was dark, I mean no visible light- no sodium or mercury lamps, no car lights on the road, no house lights, no moon for its utter obscuration by dense cloud cover. When I say it was stormy, I mean it wasn't storming, yet.

The brownies were delish and the night wore on... My friend Scottopotomus and I ate most of them, we kept forgetting they were dosed.

There was a small problem in my crackerbox utopia - I had left my copy of Tormatos sitting in the front window, and the summer sun had melted it. It niggled at me, this step short of perception, so I asked scott what we should do.

Scott said, "Let us give it burial by sacrifice - it was a good album." I agreed, and went into the kitchen for the fire extinguisher.

We walked out of the house; me with the 50 pound can, Scott carrying the album. We exchanged items, and he emptied the extinguisher in the driveway, swinging it around until it was exhausted. The lack of wind, the chill pre-storm air, all combined with the low barometric pressure to give us a fogbank of portentous density. I then wandered around until I came upon (kicked) a rock about the size of a baseball, picked it up, and strolled back to scott, handed him the album and told him to hold it over his head.

The night was dark, and I'm half blind, the black vinyl swirled in and out of the fog, but I bravely took aim. "Stop!" Scott shouted, sounding scared and a bit shaken "What the Hell am I doing? You're half blind, give me the rock - I mean it! Please?" I realized the error and laughed, gave him the rock and held the album above my head. "Good-bye old friend, I muttered as Scott took aim. "Good-by old friend!" I shouted and scot let loose the stone.

It tore off the back of my pinky finger at the metacarpal / philange joint - it hurt like holy hell, somewhere in my mind, I could feel it, but the brownies made it OK - barely. We went into the house and I cleaned up my messy hand, ate another brownie, and watched the rain come down. The power went out and we sat, ate the rest of the brownies, talked, smoked, and Scott played his guitar. The pieces of the record lay scattered in the weeds, forgotten.

My finger sticks to this day 22 years later - it aches a bit sometimes, and every time I feel a twinge I remember that album, that dark and stormy night, and those brownies.

Frustration Defined

2005-12-23T18:30:00.000-07:00

I started a pot of ham & bean soup yesterday - it smelled really good, just enough grrlic, pepper, onion, I added potatoes and carrots an hour ago, and turned up the soup to stabilize the temperature - got busy, and forgot to turn it back down.

The soup is ruined - it smells like fried wood now. I am very frustrated!

Simple???

2005-12-13T21:28:00.000-07:00

I am having a real problem keeping things simple lately.

I get so busy I forget to take showers
I forget to hug my kids.
I forget not to chainsmoke.
I forget that I can't stay up until 1 AM pouring stress into guitar strings - and get up at 5:45 AM to meditate with my family.
I am not meditating

I'm seriously off-track - just thought I'd mention it.

Goodbye, Julie...

2005-12-01T17:21:00.000-07:00

As I listened to Simon and Garfunkel begin to sing "Bridge Over Troubled Waters" I got the call...

Julie was my friend, and I'll miss her.

Julie said...

“I think that it's really important to have close friends who you can really speak from your heart with, you know, establishing those deep connections.

It's so easy today to be isolated and alone…just going through the motions in this fast-paced society.”

The Ann Arbor News wrote:

Woman fought but lost battle with depression
What appeared to be survival story ends in tragedy

Thursday, December 1, 2005

BY AMALIE NASH
News Staff Reporter

Four years ago, her story was one of a survivor who persevered and had hope for the future.

Today, it is a story of tragedy, of succumbing to the depression she battled for years.

In January 2001, Julie Harrison jumped from the upper levels of a parking structure in downtown Ann Arbor and lived. She was left partially paralyzed and hospitalized for two months, but a year later told a reporter she had turned her life around and wanted to live.

On Wednesday, Harrison made her way in her wheelchair to the top of a different parking structure, and she again jumped. This time she died.

She would have been 30 on Dec. 16.

Ann Arbor Detective Sgt. Richard Kinsey said this morning that it appears Harrison went off her

anti-depression medication in July, and her family had been concerned about her.

"It's so sad," Kinsey said. "People around her said she was always pleasant and good to everyone."

R. Patrick Harrison, Julie's father, said the family would be making funeral arrangements today, but he declined to speak this morning about his daughter's death.

Police said Harrison had just parted ways with her boyfriend before 4:25 p.m. Wednesday when she jumped. She said she was going to the People's Food Co-operative on Fourth Avenue for groceries and would meet him a short time later.

There's much more to this, there always is...

Normality???

2005-11-19T11:03:00.000-07:00

Arthur Dent: "We could talk about normality until the cows come home..."

Ford Prefect: "What's normality?"
Trisha (Trillian) McMillan: "Where's home?"
Zaphod Beeblebrox: "What are cows?"

"Perception is local."
-Ursula K. LeGuin

The break is almost over

2005-11-12T19:45:00.000-07:00

When I came back from the SFM I felt more relaxed than I have in a year-and-a-half. So much so that, apparently, my muse has fled for some R&R. I'm not devoid of ability to express myself, but the spark that burns my ass until I sit down on it and write is, where? I have no idea.

I am beginning to miss it - please stay tuned, I'll be back shortly.

Little Miracles II - My Toilet Overfloweth

2005-10-06T00:07:00.000-06:00

This evening we went to my son's german club dinner. The food was probably what you would get in an authentic German Gymnasium cafeteria, it it were say a government-run Gymnasium for encouragable boys. Needless to say, I am sick to my stomach beyond words. The authentic german "cuisine" (borscht? What the HELL is borscht?) ... Anyway, that's not the real beginning of this part of the tale...

When we got home from Doichland, I found an e-mail tonight from a very happy friend. She was counting down the days until the bunch of us would be able to hang under the moon, tellin’ stories and jiving each other, until such time as sleep must come. But when she said 8 days, I thought, no 15 days – I’ve booked my tickets. They’ll be there in 8 days… I’ll be there in 15 days…

I’VE BOOKED MY TICKETS!!

There was a buzzing noise in my brain – I could hear it all the way through my skull.
Then my daughter said very loudly “Something’s leaking in the bathroom!” I thought the buzzing was trying to tell me something and there was something leaking… in the ….

I envisioned a large group of people sitting around a fire, I could see their faces in light and dancing shadow, and I could not find my face among them. And they all looked right, at, me, and their faces went set sad and their voices went soft and tight– a funerary in tableau…

There was water flowing somewhere behind the buzzing (flies with voices) in my head and I moved somehow, feet touch and then squish carpet – I see the spot but feeling adds true dimension as my foot sinks into the carpet, which instantly becomes the bottom of a puddle. Toilet clogged – float dislodged – Nina was in there for 20 minutes taking a shower. And I’m grateful, because, when I first saw it I thought that the fixture had been cracked .

So, I went next door, borrowed a wet vac, and sucked up what I could in the carpet, started squishing towels into it – and wiping up the tile in the bathroom with more towels. Then I went outside, smoked a cigarette and called my friend who, I figured, was more sane than me – not too high standard that point, and she told me to breathe, and so I decided to.

So, I sat and breathed for a little bit – and things calmed down – in me, and…

I called Travelelocity to ask them for a refund of my ticket. I know my legal rights, and what rights I waive when I e-sign a contract including the purchase of access to a federally regulated (technicalities) commodity, and what rights I don’t waive therein and thereby.

So, while dialing the call I looked at that Travelocity logo in front of my eyes, on the 22 inch monitor, and hugged it.

But, I had no use of any of that - it was great! "I bought the wrong ticket" - "I'll cancel that and refund your money, sir." "Thank you, sir." - and he DIDN'T plug the company at the end of the call – and he was intelligent and cool, a guy I might want to have coffee with and discuss CSR work – philosophy – CSR is the dish-dog of the corporate structure – not the mail room, like many people believe.

I couldn't fathom it as I got off the phone... They said “Sure, no problem, it’s all taken care of, sir.” I now have the proper plane tickets for the proper dates - yay! - Travelocity rocks! Flat out.
but wait, there's more!

The entire call through the Travelocity maze of interactive voice recognition and switching functions; the hold time; the CSR contact, discovery, and diagnosis; (Woot!), and the completion of the resolution was 8 minutes 52 seconds.

I've waited at McDonalds longer than that.

Now! Just because you read this far, you also get...

I found replacement tickets for a week earlier for $9 more (total, round trip & fees.)

It changes the childcare situation. I called my X, who is part of the childcare solution - I told her about the one week shift in schedule, and how I found tickets, and that I really wanted to go, but was tired and teetering on adrenaline overload, and my cells were trying to burn fatigue toxins- and I wasn't sure what to do. She said - "I just checked a book out of the library today, I'm just going to tell you the title and that's my answer."

"You'll See It When You Believe It"
-by Dr Wayne W. Dyer

It is a great book - I've read it, and it was just the 7 words I needed hear to free myself from doubt, and get back on the road to the S F M

So, now all I need do is deal with childcare – and keep breathing easy.

My squishy carpet awaits.

Namaste

Little Miracles

2005-10-05T10:20:00.000-06:00

"If miracles are not happening in your life on a daily basis, there's
something wrong."
-A Course In Miracles

I admit it, I've been going kind of bonkers - domestic servant, I - engineer, electrician, doctor, plumber, tutor, sometimes prison guard, philosopher, psychiatrist, psychologist, mentor, provider of a definition for "home" in an almost-homeless world.

I decided that I would focus on taking a vacation - focus in terms of meditation, perception, and intent - thought, emotion, and will, if you prefer. So, I did. And the miracles started happening - the first time I mentioned the possibility that I might go away for a few days, the kids acted like I had won the lotto - they were congratulating me on wanting to go on vacation. The money started doing wierd things so that it would work toward my vacation, and money appeared out of nowhere through the hand of a good friend. My X called me to say she would be in town almost exactly on the days I needed someone to be with the kids, and she wanted to know if she could spend a lot of time with them. "Sure, I said - no problem." I told her of my plans, and the child-care situation is almost completely covered.

Four days from no vacation to vacation - and the flights are booked - and now I have to wait 8 whole days until I can go!!! But, I have plenty to keep me busy.

And the best part is that I get to go to somewhere I've never been and see friends I have have not yet met in person! Today I know I am blessed.

I'm so geeked - wooooohoooo!

Busted Flush

2005-10-02T23:18:00.000-06:00

Emotions busted
like a flush in the face
of five aces
What the fuck? I swear
there were four when I looked there before
I know I'm not lying because I can still
feel the dying of the overwhelming glee that I felt
when I opened my eyes to the hand I was dealt
just a second ago

I need to de-struct something
because there is code being executed here
that I don't like at all
it's running me down and into
the safety of a dark, warm, stoned hole
I can't find you because I can't see anyone
through the mud-brown coating;
nicotine yellow and rust resin,
of my accepted limitations

And it comes out here, a blurt of hurt
fingers and mind driven to
synchronous stacatto bursts
of the best and the worst and the need
to concede to the creed of clarity
that comes like a drug-rush
up from below to flow from me to machine

It scares me, sometimes
when I stop typing and read back through
to find words twined like rapists hooked
around and into the chloroformed truth
and worse, still, the unrelenting draw
to spew this vision onto these keys and find
something in the mess that I swallowed once
because it went down so fast I can't
remember if I tasted it or just dreamed
the flavor of right in a bite of memory
or maybe something even more dangerous

I don't bother to resent or resist it, I can't, anyway
I will admit that I’m glad to have something irresistable
and not resented play it's tunes though my half-baked
waking brain that I can come back to tomorrow
and find this flavor of time and place
that marks my path for me
with a sign that says something like

"You've been this way before, choose again."

A Light Breeze

2005-09-25T17:37:00.000-06:00

I called to talk to you
The phone Gods won’t let me through
They say your bill is way past due
So, I’m blue

So, I’m sitting down
To write you a letter
But, it won’t be long enough
To replace the sound of your voice

The kids are in the kitchen
Cleaning up the breakfast remains
I’ve got Jesus music on the box
And a lonely feeling in my bones

Jesus gives way to Neil Young

“One of these days, I’m going to sit down
and write a long letter
to all the good friends I have known
And I’m going to try
To thank them all for the good times together
Though, so apart we have grtown
…
One of these days
And it won’t be long”

The music goes on and I am in it
Watching scenes from where I’ve been
Sights and scents drift up from months gone
Years gone in a whirlwind of incense and cannabis
Perfume and coffee
The color of blown smoke from cigarettes at night
The constant crackle of deep fryers and punk on the box
The freeform poets that don’t know themselves as such
Speaking into the thick air and pressing themselves
Like lovers
Into the echoes of their own voices
in my mind’s ear

I sit, again, for a moment, on your back step
Looking into the woods, and wondering
What next?
Now I know what is next, and I wonder
What next?

God shuffles my feet

I have no doubt
About where I should be
But, that lack of doubt breeds
Such agony sometimes
Knowing that wishing is futile

I am well fed
My skin is turning brown
I have toys and children surrounding me
There is light and life in my home
Problems abound, but they’re picked up
Like dust-bunnies and dealt and delegated
And solved quickly or not solved yet,
never ignored

“All the years that have come to pass
And all the years that shall be
I see here, right before me
I see here, before me”
-Crash Test Dummies

I get that feeling sometimes
Of being able to hold it all
In one hand
To peer down into everything
All at once
But there is always a veil
Of mystery between what I see
And what I know

“Times when the day is like a play by Sartre
when, it seems, a book-burning is in perfect order
~
Someday I’ll have a disappearing hairline
Someday I’ll wear pajamas in the daytime
Afternoons, will be measured out
Measured with coffee spoons
And T. S. Elliot”
-(also) Crash Test Dummies

How long can this last?
This feeling of being stretched out
Along miles and over a vast chasm
That separates questions and answers
Being on both sides at once
And not being wholly in either place

Bloody Hell! :)

I think I love this life, simply for its apparent dichotomies
So many things seem so two-sided, and yet
Choose again and choose again and on and on
And the shapes of my body change and my mind coalesces about them
I find comfort in discomfort sometimes,
as a means to just be at peace
And I want nothing more than to continue to choose

How can you possibly have read this far?
If I hadn’t written this, I’d have a headache by now
And would be drinking tea and sitting up in bed
Wondering where the hell all that came from
Wondering if I should try to sleep
Or to stay awake to avoid what dreams may come.

OK, well, you are still with me, I guess
Hearing my mind rambling about
Wandering through those woods behind your house
Watching myself, sitting on your back step
Smoking, probably stoned, and smiling

I liked sleeping with you much more
In “my” room than in “yours”
I’m not sure why, but it may have been the view
Out the window
To wake up and see the trees
And you, the yellow walls, your face so close
It seems like so long ago, but also, not so

My guitar is calling
It’s always been the place
Where I go when there’s nowhere else
But crazy

My children are talking
Singing in the kitchen
Playing games, a bit too rough
My life isn’t perfect, but, for now
It’s enough.

I guess I just want you to feel a little of
What I’m feeling now
The feeling of a light breeze, love
From 2,000 miles away

To The Anonymous Flamer

2005-09-20T11:18:00.000-06:00

The following comment to my "From the Graveside Of My Marriage" post came in this morning. I want to make reasonably sure that anyone who reads my blog - either regularly or sporadically sees this becaue I'm willing to accept the possibility that I'm wrong here.

Anonymous said...
I keep reading, "Wow" and you are so strong and bla bla bla.

I'm sorry....Did you leave your 5 kids with a hooker who abused crystal meth?

First off, why 5 kids? If you don't have the ability to take care of 5 kids, you shouldn't be having that many. It isn't fair to the kids.

Second, to toss them to the wind to some coked-up hooker is really disappointing.

My mom took custody of us after my abusive father left us three kids. She had a rough time because he was her income, and he split from her. He went off and had three more kids and ended up abandoning them to some drunken deadbeat. I am so happy my mother took charge and saved us from an existence with such a miserable human being. Sometimes you have to make choices that don't fit your life, but they have to be made because of the choices you made previously. You can't just abandon those mistakes.

Even when life has you on your knees, you have to make the decisions that are right. You leaving your kids to a woman you know was evil was not very smart. You having that many kids with such a woman wasn't intelligent either.

I feel sorry for the children you abandoned. Who knows what happened to them. What man came into her life and possibly abused those kids. You were neglectful. I'm sorry, I just don't agree with the comments made here. It seems to me you made choices that were easiest for you without concern for your children.

I responded with the following comment.

Anaonymous, apparently you did not read, or could not understand the post - you were certainly willing to comment, I like receiving comments about myself and what I write - but, your comment makes no sense. I have an idea that's why you posted it anonymously.

Since I do not believe in censoring anyone's opinion, I'll leave it here - if you would like to expound or modify it, please feel free to do so.

I do however, delete spam.

anyway...

Are you aware that "Nina", who posted the comment before yours, is my oldest daughter?

ADDED NOTE:
C, who has also commented on this piece, is one of my best friends, my brother, and went through a lot of hell with me. Most of the other people who have commmented on this piece have read more than just this piece, and have been friends, acquaintances, and family - to just pop in here and blatantly disregard their opinions or comments, without even bothering to read one entire post, is, to me, a slap in the face against people I hold dear.
END OF ADDED NOTE

This post, for me, is a triumph of years of work - your reaction to your difficult life seems to have culminated in a bitter attitude toward men in general, and me in particular. Maybe some counselling would help you get past your anger.

I'm caring for my 6 children, every day, pretty much by myself - if you want to help me to be a better parent, thank you. If you want to vent your rage at someone who abandoned you, this isn't a good place to do it.

I think it's important, very important that, if you want to rip me a new asshole (and I very vell may deserve it), at least have the decency to read my entire post first - or I'll be calling you on it - because I do not tolerate ignorance in my life, and because that's who I am.