Feeding Crows

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Craziness, madness the big crack up is a disease of bad thinking.  My latest drinking escapade has left me with two options in regards to what it says about me and the rest of the world as a whole.  Either I drink too much or the rest of the world is too sober.  I wish it were the latter, but at night when there are no distractions and I am stuck with only myself to consort with, it’s then that the line of insomnia creeps ever closer towards lunacy.  In the shadows of a 3:00 am quarter moon, there is no backtracking, no sidestepping, no skipping through the spotlight of truth.  At this hour, when the music stops and there is no chair to be found, I find that there is no place to go but inward. The voices in my head mock my foolishness, they scoff at my big plans, calling them nothing more than pipe-dreams, they let the air escape from my inflated thoughts of becoming a better person.  To have flaws is to be human, to be flawed is to be broken.  Isn’t it strange—-that the things you think may save you, may very well kill you, and those things that you think will kill you, may very well save you.  I appreciate the words written by Bukowski, “Find what you love and let it kill you.”  I’d rather die of fatigue chasing my loves, than blindly sleepwalk into oblivion.

My heart flexes with a contraction and then spasms outward like the legs of a startled bullfrog.  Am I having a heart attack, is this how a massive aneurysm feels as it bursts within my chest?  My body is suddenly glazed over in a cold sweat.  My mood flips from a sullen depression where nothing seems to matter, to an all-encompassing sense of dire anxiety and a fear of losing my foot hold on the slippery rocks of consciousness.  God please absolve me of all my sins, save me, don’t take me now, not here, not all alone in these loveless sweat soaked bed sheets.  Where does that piteous sun go when I need it most?

Sometimes I just get plain sick and tired of everybody and everything; myself included.  I swear—-nothing is ever good enough for anyone anyways, especially for someone with such a ruptured sense of wellbeing as me.   I’m forever over-thinking things, over-feeling things and over-analyzing everything. People say, think like a buddhist and live in the present moment, but that’s so fucking clichéd and trite.  I can’t keep pinching myself saying, “Now is now—-Now is now”.  I need my past as an anchor to prevent me from being set adrift and left at the mercy of the currents.  And, I need the future as my lighthouse to guide me through the fog keeping me clear of the treacherous rocks.  I pop in and out of the present moment as it suits me. I prefer to fondle that illusive “now” in-between my daydreams and fantasies.  Occasionally I catch a fleeting glimpses of that camouflaged illusion ironically known as reality.  I prefer to say, “What is, is.” That way I can choose to surrender to it, or to do battle with it.  “What is, is”, can be expressed as a statement or a question.  The seeds of wisdom or madness always germinate within a question.

I’m better off alone.  That way I don’t piss people off, or more honestly, they don’t piss me off.  How is it, that everyone is so fucking calm, boring and self-assured.  They plod along through life as if they’re going to live forever, as if the planet isn’t dying due to their own personal selfish excesses and abuses. They idly stare at the T.V. news as if they’re somehow exempt from all the calamity and misfortune that descends upon “those other poor souls”.

Life is not tidy, clean or simple—-it’s a madhouse, an asylum filled with desperate people running around seeking some form of refuge.   Refuge means different things to different people.  It might be a religious creed, a bottle of whiskey, a cause to defend, a love to possess, a dream to fulfill, a profit to be made——these concessions make up the tiny pieces of hope and faith strewn behind us, a trail of stale breadcrumbs to guide us back home.  Beware of those thieving black-crows of time—as they steal away our paths, leaving each of us standing alone in the wilderness asking “What is—is???”

Performing Without A Net

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Tonight I’m drinking with Fitzgerald, Bukowski and Kerouac, those fuckers sure could spin a tale and drink like a school of drowning fish.  I invited Hemingway to drop by, but he was busy playing nursemaid to a typewriter and polishing his guns.  It’s just as well he couldn’t make it, as guns and alcohol make dangerous bedfellows.  Although, spilling ink can be equally as painful as spilling blood.

These fellas had so many foibles and bad habits that it would be hypocritical for them to say a bad word about anybody else, that’s why I hangout with them, cause they don’t come at me sideways with their God-speak, patriotic-mumbo jumbo or self-righteous, sanctimonious finger wagging. The whole lot of them are serial liars and dexterous sinners. Ya see, writers don’t really lie, they just kind of bend the truth a bit—-and as for being sinners, a life without sin possesses no sustaining storyline.  If ya don’t believe me, just ask God about his favorite protagonist—the devil. We all need our devils and our Gods to test our balance as we wobble across life’s tightrope.  One misstep and you could end up in jail, or worse yet, a Mormon or a new-age vegan.

In the corner of the dark dank bar Waits meanders about the piano keys playing a melancholy jazz riff on an old battered upright piano.  His whisker stubbled face is silhouetted in a smokey blue light, the derby on his head cocked forward and a cigarette dangles from his perturbing lips.  A cat named Bird stares blankly into space as he lifts a shiny alto to his mouth.  His improvisations are a soured marriage between black blues and leftover notes that fumble their way into dissonance—more or less a drunken lullaby.  Vincent sits at a table near the musicians. He makes his childlike sketches and occasionally looks up at the band to lend them his ear (so to speak). The duo plays forlorn melodies that we slowly get sauced to, as we indulge our miseries, such is the sad yet beautiful futility of recounting a long-lost love-affair or friendships now withered and gone by the wayside.  Most love affairs are doomed from the get-go, but friendships are all we really have to sustain us, someone to catch us should we fall.  I miss my friends.

I only see my old pals now at weddings or funerals. I once unsuccessfully attempted to organize a Mens Retreat. I called a few of the old gang and emailed a couple of others.  Most of them never got back to me and those that did offered up some slipshod excuses about how they were predisposed.  They awkwardly mumbled on about work responsibilities, family responsibilities, money responsibilities and other middle-age obligations.   This may sound crazy, but I miss my once young irresponsible friends—what they lacked in maturity they more than made up for in temerity.

To much time alone can cause a man to substitute regret for nostalgia.  What is, “is”—- what ain’t—- “ain’t”—-and what never-was— “ain’t never gonna be”.   Everybody changes, some for the better, others for the worse.  Shockingly, some of my old buddies have even thrown their lot in with the right-wing conservatives—-go figure?  I do my best to remember the good-times—And I’m fortunate to have absorbed so many fond memories.

I’m reminded of one of my old favorite tunes by Simon and Garfunkel, “Bookends”.

Time it was and what a time it was it was,
A time of innocence a time of confidences.

Long ago it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you

Unexpectedly, Twain, Steinbeck, Armstrong and Columbus drop by. They’re all excited about heading out west to explore some uncharted territories. They claim to have some rough draft maps and charts they got from a couple of fellas named Lewis and Clark. They came by to ask if we might like to throw in with them. We all looked at one another with that singular writers eye. Most stories don’t come to you, on the contrary, you have to seek them out.  Ah yes, only through adventure do we discover new worlds and in the process come to better know what we’re made of.  The decision is unanimous, we’ll all head out west come first dawn.

To often adventure is perceived as a young man’s game.  But I say, attitude will always trump age.  Adventure demands an odd mixture of risk, courage, stamina and as some might see it—-a shit load of irresponsibility.   George Mallory expressed it so concisely when asked, “Why climb Everest?” George responded, “Because it’s there.”  Now isn’t that a Goddamn foolish and irresponsible reason for doing anything—-”Because it’s there?”  But as for me, those three words sparkle with a stark and eloquent truth, to evolve and grow the heart must be pierced with a curiosity to see what’s over that next horizon.

What I love about adventurers, artists and writers is how they peer at the world through the eyes of a child.  They never seem to lose that youthful sense of wonder and imagination.   They may come off as brash, irresponsible and even a bit mad, but perhaps that’s why they aren’t afraid to perform without a net—–.  So Adios mi amigos, I’m off to see what lies out west.  Hey, why don’t you saddle up and come on along as well.

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This piece is dedicated to my life long brothers—Steve, Django, Mike, Chris, Pat, Danny and Norm.

Satellite Wishes (I Wish I May, I Wish I Might)

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03 Runaway Train

From a God’s eye view it all must seem so silly.  Lines drawn separating one person or place from another, borders, boundaries, the yours and mine of desire and regret—the willing, the wasted, the reluctant and those forgetting that we all end up old, ugly and woeful, but hey, ugly ain’t so bad once you accept that at best we’re all sideshow attractions in a traveling freak-show in this two-bit carnival life.  Oddballs, freaks and outcasts have always been my companions of choice—-so if you’re still my pal, buddy or sweetheart, then yeah, I’m talking bout you buster.  We all have our own personal measure of beauty, but baby you give me that sweetest ache deep in my chest, just like that feeling I get when I awake to a clear snow-covered mountain morning.  You make growing old not such a bad prospect when I know I have you as my mirrored companion—-you pump collagen into this weary heart of mine.  I’ll always follow you down.

Everybody’s scuttling about to secure their share of food and shelter, maybe even love scraps or its ghostly shadow locked within ones own pleading soul.  Down here, it’s a macro playhouse of clogged freeways, early morning skyscrapers blooming above the yellowish haze, the broken, the woebegone, those lucky few with the taste of a new kiss still on their damp lips, old creepy guys in shiny new cars, commuters waiting on meaningless buses taking them to meaningless jobs, lonely guys on desolate Nevada desert roads seeking something just over that next ridge, plain Jane looking girls clutching romance novels with their ragged dog-eared dreams, a dog pissing on someones perfectly manicured rose garden, mountain thunderstorms, salty sea scented beaches, coconut smelling  sun tanned bitches, grimy unshaven bums on skid row, blue birds on telephone wires joyfully singing above a gated community, breached levee’s drowning someones hard-earned promise land, someones first breath, another’s last—-uh-hum?  Mister, most are gonna lie to ya, but not me—no sir!

All the wise ones, like the giggling Dali Lama, chubby Buddha, rabble rousing Jesus wear that same smug lil grin.   They’re like a pack of good ole boys sharing some private inside joke.  They know the jokes on us as we do our twisted dance with Maya.  I feel my time slipping away, what will you do with your time here.  I do know this, that regardless of my foolish carrying on’s, I’m a lucky guy, to be chosen, to be alive, to be wandering this blue spinning sphere—-a temporary oasis for those trapped by space and time, a far-flung and forgotten Eden set against a backdrop of flickering lights and mumbled prayers.    I try not to forget this within each dissolving moment.  I stare up at the night sky and I can’t tell the satellites from twinkling stars, but they’re all oh so pretty—and I wonder what becomes of my satellite wishes?

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Cages, Walls and Prisons

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A good friend of mine recently went to prison.  I hate to say it, but this news came as no huge surprise.  You see, he had always lived his life behind one wall or another—–a wall of alcohol and drugs (until he got help and quit) a wall of pretension and success (until he lost his business and money) a wall of arrogance and deceit (until his fraud was exposed) a wall of emotional insulation (until he was filleted and spiritually gutted).  In jail there are no walls between you and yourself, the only walls there are the ones keeping the rest of the world out. The prisoner and his keeper are forced to coexist—-hope—like pardons, float just out of reach.

Sometimes when I consider this life, I see each of its participants living out their existence where “they need to be”—-please don’t misinterpret this as meaning “where they may want themselves to be”.  Perhaps its arrogant of me to say such a thing, who am I to know what another may or may not want or need?  I am arrogant.  Arrogance comes with the territory of being a writer.  A writer is the last unwitting peddler of authenticity for all crumbling cultures.  To be a good writer, you need to have something to offer, something new and interesting to say, a revelation to shine a light upon.   As for me and my writings, I intend to confound the smart asses, frustrate the conventionalist and piss off the righteous. Cause, if I mix the colors just right, I might create a picture that becomes a window for another to peer through.  I always wonder the same thing about others, “Tell me what you see—what you feel?”

I loved a girl once.  And maybe she loved me back, these things are illusive and subjective—or more than likely, I’m just plain hard to love.  Love melts in your mouth not your hands, and it’s very difficult to see whats going on inside another’s mouth, let alone within their heart.  M&Ms lie, they all look different, but they all taste the same.  She took me to her home, a place where she kept her clothes, slept, stocked her cupboards and fridge, where she dreamt her dreams, hid her tears, bathed, put on her make up and stored her smiles.  I tried once to live with her, but my stuff cluttered up her neat organizational scheme of things.  I left before the walls she was constructing became to high for me to scale.

There’s a place in the High Sierra’s known as Desolation Wilderness, what a mystic and daunting land. A place of stark granite walls, gnarled pines and hidden alpine lakes, a place where one can either lose themselves or become re-aquatinted with what was meant to be.  It is here that I sort out my devils from my angels and decide who is the lion and whom is the lion tamer.   The lion cage is where I go to discover what comprises the alchemy of my soul.  And I will tell you this, it takes a lot of courage to put my head inside that lions mouth.

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Casting Spells

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Lets share a cigarette baby, there is something sexy about having you partake in my bad habits, why?  I don’t know, does it matter?  Lets drink a couple bottles of wine and we can say things that we make up along the way, just little thoughts about this or that, it doesn’t really matter.  We can stumble down some dark small town streets or take our clothes off and stand in the sun on some vacant summer beach, like the one that runs across from the railroad tracks out highway one north between SF and Santa Cruz.  But maybe you got better things to do these day, I sure as hell don’t.  Do you got any new tunes on your iPod that you can turn me on to?   We always like the same artists, the odd ones no one else has ever heard of.  Pass me that cigarette again baby—-where’s that cork screw? I don’t want to feel like shit tomorrow, but fuck it, tomorrow is another fabled world away, put your coat on and I’ll tie these unruly shoes of mine and we’ll go outside and walk around, stumble about and I’ll tackle you and bring you down to the earth next to me.   And we’ll laugh at this life with its promised death and we’ll pretend today is our last day, maybe it is, who knows, who cares, cause sweetness, right now it don’t matter.  Why do people die, they get taken away from us, I don’t like that, I hate that.  But you’re alive today with me.  Lets go get high and then eat cinnamon graham crackers with sweet Nutella chocolate spread all over them.  And then, I’ll make you-up stories as we lay in one another’s arms staring up at the ceiling and we’ll see all these undreamed-of-things tumbling from my mind, hanging right there within the emptiness above us, as if they were real, as if they belonged only to you and me—–cause imagination and fantasy is the spell that once cast, holds love together.  Come on darlin, come on along with me and we’ll just keep goin on like this.  That wouldn’t be so bad now, would it?

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Plane Conversations and God Thoughts

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My lap top indicates I’m flying at 536 miles per hour at a hight of 39,239 feet.  This is over 6 miles above the earth.  Even though I’ve flown many times and the aerodynamics’ of flight has been explained to me in great detail on Wikipedia, I still find it hard to grasp the unrealness of it all.  Animal shaped clouds drift by offering me a grin and a wink, several aisles over a baby wails, experienced flyers snooze, everyone is somewhere between “here and there”—ain’t life funny that way.

To forget how to fly at this altitude, to lose ones faith in formulas and physics would send this metal contraption plummeting nose first towards the brown wrinkled rug looking mountains below.  I feel a sense of powerlessness as a wave of panic serge’s through my sweaty body.  Physics is only numbers, numbers can’t keep a plane from dropping out of the sky like a rock—at this moment, at least for me, it’s magic and faith holding this metal tube in a state of flight.  The fusel-lodge shutters as we pass through another set of turbulent winds and thermals.  The jet engines drone on in the background as I throw back my third ginger-ale and Jack.  I eat my stale pretzels and ask God to have mercy on my undeserving wicked soul—–the fear of impending doom brings out the dormant God in us all.

The air in the cabin is stale and smells and tastes as if it has been inhaled and exhaled by everyone on the plane five times over. I sit squeezed in my chair next to a middle aged guy who has commandeered control of our common armrest forcing me to tuck my elbow uncomfortably into my ribcage. Why am I always seated next to these infidel foreigners who have no appreciation or understanding of the American, Christian, democratic way of life.  I’d love to challenge him to recite the pledge of Allegiance or ask him to spout-off a few bible quotes by heart.  If he failed (which I know he would) I’d take great pleasure in confiscating his “forged” passport.   I’m growing more angry by the moment, his wheezing breath, his mere presence beside me is unbearably annoying. I stare at him out of the corner of my eye to size him up.  “Yeah, I think I could kick his scrawny imperialistic ass.” I fight back the urge to slam my left elbow into his right arm and rightfully claim dominion over my armrest.  Or—-better yet, I could open a magazine and in the process covertly “accidentally” yet firmly nudge his arm out of my territory.  As I consider my available tactics and strategies the stewardess comes by and leans into our hellish tangle of arms, legs, drop-down trays, newspapers and laptops to whisper something in my insurgents—I mean, neighbors ear.

The stewardess gives him a hug and I immediately seize the opportunity to claim the vacated space.  What a freaking idiot to be so easily distracted and in the process expose his vulnerability.  The stewardess isn’t even all that pretty, the poor fool probably never gets laid and is some kind of androgens eunuch. As for that bitch—I mean stewardess, she’s nothing but a glorified snack-bar attendant. I smugly settle back in my chair and relish my hard-won victory.

The alcohol has filled my bladder causing me extreme discomfort as I fight back the need to relive myself. I’m sure, that as soon as I vacate my seat I will lose the hard-won ground I’d so valiantly conquered.  I decide that the situation is not worth pissing my pants over, so I brashly force my way out to the center aisle (without excusing myself) and head for the lavatory at the tail of the plane.

As I exit the restroom I come face to face with the stewardess who solemnly asks, “Would you mind taking this heating pad and pillow to your neighbor?”  With a knee jerk reflex I respond in a voice of intolerance, “Can’t he get his own Goddamn pillow and hot pad.”  She takes a deep breath and in an even voice responds, “Your neighbor, John—he has a shunt in his right arm.  Once every week he flies to the Denver Medical Center to provide bone marrow treatments to his nine-year old son.  His right arm gets sore, so the heat and pillow is just a small courtesy to try and help him feel more comfortable.  It appears that its too much trouble for you, so just forget it.”  I look down at her name tag and respond, “Ah—oh”—well—–uh-um–Cathy, well of course not, it’s no trouble at all.  Now give me that pillow please.”  My forehead breaks out in beads of sweat, I apologize to her and then turn to make that long trek back to my seat.  The jet jumbles about and I stumble sideways.  I wish this piece of shit plane would fall out of the sky and crash so I wouldn’t have to face this stranger, this guy named John, the person to whom I’ve invested so much hate. . . A sense of shame pulses from my temples, traveling down my throat and settling at the pit of my twisting stomach.

I’ve been trying to become a better person, but so easily and so often, I forget how to do the right thing.  The briefness of being alive, the cruelty of nature, the unexplainable unfairness of life, the uncertainty of losing those closest to us, the inevitability of disease, calamity, misfortune and death, all this should teach us to be kinder to one another—to be accepting and forgiving, but it doesn’t.  We pull and push at each other, we slash and tear at one another—-I have so much to learn and such a long way to go, and so little time to get there.

I take my seat and hand over the pillow and heating pad.  “The stewardess Cathy, she wanted you to have this.”  He shakes his head, “I told her not to make a fuss. She’s ridiculous, but she’s such a great spirit.”  I ask about his arm but he skirts the issue and says its nothing.  I’m tempted to inquire about his son but I get the feeling that this is sacred territory reserved for those who know and understand such a heartache.  We fill our time with such mundane topics as the weather, smart phone apps and our musical tastes.  He pulls up pictures of his family on his laptop.  There is one of his son decked out in a blue and white little league uniform.  He’s on one knee smiling with a bat slung over his shoulder.  I’m a writer and pride myself in being observant and compassionate, but apparently I’m neither. It is only now that I detect the worrisome lines on his face and a sadness hiding deep his eyes.

The captain comes over the intercom telling us that the temperature in Denver is seventy-seven degrees and that the wind is blowing from the northwest at 15 mph.  With the muted enthusiasm of a fast food attendant, he announces that in approximately eighteen minutes we will be touching down in Denver.  To me, these words are proclaiming a miracle, we’re almost there.  We’ve flown one-third of the way across the country without stalling and succumbing to the effects of gravity.

I look out my window at a patch quilt of green parks, subdivisions with backyard pools, golden fields and a skyline on a hazy horizon.  With my finger against the window I trace along the path of a toy-sized road, its purpose and destination is a mystery to me.   Down there, life is forcing itself over roads, across rivers, filling up water-towers, absorbing countryside, suburbs and cities—occupying space, falling through time, desperately moving its way through, over and inside everyone and everything that stands in its way. Down there, thousands of people carry on with their lives, their purpose and destination is a mystery to me—-so many people I’ll never know, so many things I’ll never understand.  Where is god in all this?  God isn’t, knowing.  God isn’t, not knowing. God is in the wonder—ah yes, the enigmatic and elusive wonder of it all.

I want to say something inspirational or encouraging to John, but he doesn’t know that I’m aware of his dire predicament.  I have no words for the secret revelations surfacing in me—so I sit dumbfounded lost in the sorrow of this solemn moment.

The wheels thump down on the runway, everyone lurches forward and there is a loud skidding sound of brakes being applied as the engines make a roaring sound. We taxi our way towards the terminal. Suddenly everyone is on their feet pulling down their carry-on luggage.  John turns around, “Hey can you do me a favor?”  “Sure, anything.  What do ya need?”  He hands me an envelope, “If I try to give this to Cathy I know she’ll refuse it.  She’s a volunteer for the Wounded Warrior Program. They raise funds to help returning Vets.  Ya know, for things like housing, counseling and medical needs. Could ya please give her this card and envelope.”  He hesitates and then leans into me, “Her husbands a Vet.  He was hurt really bad over there and is now confined to a facility where he receives around the clock care.”  I nod to John and offer up a stern grimace to convey my empathy.   Yeah right—-I’m suddenly Mr. Empathetic.

When you come to understand that God uniquely, personally, unequivocally and eternally loves you, that’s when it becomes easier to be compassionate—-and it also becomes less threatening to forgive all and give yourself to others—conversely it becomes more difficult to be selfish and unkind—who wants to disappoint God—–not me. It’s required a huge leap of faith to get to this place, but these divine convictions are what allow planes to defy gravity and mere mortals to let Gods love flow through them—-and then to be passed on to all others.

It’s not important my point of departure or my final destination, it’s the things I do between “here and there” that define me.

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A Short List Of Amazing and Awesome Things That Are Vastly Overrated

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Everything these days is either awesome or amazing—  Ironically, these two terms themselves are vastly overrated and overused.  The truth is, a lot of the things celebrated in our modern culture as awesome and amazing are at best mediocre. Many of the things that now fill our mental and emotional voids are the same things that diminish our humanity and elevate our gullibility.  Pop culture at first glance appears accepting and liberating, but a closer inspection reveals a culture that defaults to a herd like mentality. This state of clone-ly-ness requires its participants to surrender their individuality in exchange for being uniquely trendy (an intentional oxymoron). To illustrate this point I’ve listed 27 things that are overrated.

  1. Hammocks, They are as comfortable as napping on a tightrope.  Designed more for a cat who lands on its feet rather than a middle aged fat man who is better suited for a stable Lazy-Boy recliner (Disclaimer: You must weigh at least 200 pounds, be over 50 and drowsy and/or drunk to ride this chair).
  2. Cigars, Foul tobacco that smells like rancid rat droppings sprinkled over a burning tire that is then wrapped in rotten seaweed that falls apart in your mouth. Anyone within 100 yards of the smoke will need to burn their clothes because it is impossible to washout the stench.
  3. Partying,  Basically, hanging out with people you don’t know, spending money you don’t have, doing things you won’t remember. The next morning you wake up feeling as stupid as Charlie Sheen (Females may substitute, Lindsay Lohan) and looking as haggard as Keith Richards (Females may substitute Beetle Juice or The Joker) .
  4. Bob Dylan, The only thing worse than his singing voice is his harmonica playing.
  5. Lawns, The process of spending excessive amounts of money and endless hours manicuring a crop that bares no fruit. The only person allowed to walk on it is you, and only when it is being mowed in mid-August when and the thermometer hits triple digits.  Furthermore,  fescue is the one thing your entire family is allergic too, leaving everyone hacking, sneezing and coughing like patients locked away in a TB ward.  Mid September arrives and  you helplessly watch as it turns yellow and goes dormant for the next eight months.
  6. Video Games, No one except your spaz friends, who have no life, give a flip that you’ve reached the 48th level and are now knighted in the game Slayer.  If you’re over fourteen years old and spend the majority of your time living in a virtual world, then you’re a loser! Wake up, leave your bedroom and carpe diem before you end up living in your mothers unfinished basement with a severe case of carpel tunnel syndrome.
  7. Designer Pet Foods, If you are buying dog food that is glutton free or formulated for an animal that is lactose intolerant, then you’re a certified animal kook.  Remember this: a dogs favorite treats include rotten roadkill, cat-shit, puke and garbage.  All that foolish money you’ve wasted on gourmet dog food, would’ve been better spent on meals for starving children in third world countries.
  8. Twenty-Four Hour TV News, Walter Cronkite reported all the daily events that occurred around the world in one hour.  Today misery and mayhem is entertainment, the more grisly the story, the higher the TV ratings.  We incessantly feed our souls a toxic diet of murders, rapes, wars, earthquakes, terrorist plots, bombings, serial killers, corruption, child abuse, kidnapping, famine, mass killings and all things inhumane and horrid.  It’s an industry that breeds fear and apathy while desensitizing us to violence and cruelty.  We’re a culture that grooms its children to accept monsters as normal and consider kindness a weakness.
  9. Award Shows,  Watching famous people congratulate each other, their hairdresser, clothes-designer, publicist, God, and their Mother (Prioritized in that order) for their hard-earned success.
  10. Opera, large girthed men and women screaming (singing) at you in a language you don’t understand, about things you can’t relate to.
  11. Rap music, outlandishly dressed men and women (singing) screaming at you in a language you don’t understand, about things you can’t relate to.
  12. Ballet, Gay men in tights shaking their package in front of bulimic women as they warble about on their toes.
  13. Abstract Art, Shit no one really likes nor understands, but rich people buy for investment purposes and to make them feel cultured.
  14. Things labeled organic, I have one word for that “Tofu”.  I rest my case.
  15. Tattoos, Skin covered in graffiti.  It once was a way that bikers, cons and sailors could assert their stupidity.  But now, it’s a way middle class people can assert their stupidity.  Something is just plain wrong about hordes of people going to a chic tattoo parlor and allowing an “ex-con” looking dude to permanently scrawl drawings on their body. Common themes, snakes, skulls, butterflies and the names of people whom in the future you will no longer love (You can pawn a wedding ring, but a tattoo is truly a lifetime commitment!).
  16. Micro brews,  Over priced beers with fancy labels and clever names that taste like cat piss.
  17. Classic Rock Radio Stations  I have no need to hear songs like “Give me Three Steps” “Play That Funky Music White Boy” or any of the KC and the Sunshine song catalogue ever, ever, ever again!  Its Lawrence Welk for baby boomers.
  18. Drug Commercials, I don’t want to hear an announcer in a calm reassuring voice itemize the side effects of their prescription drugs e.g. “anal leakage”, “suicidal tendencies”,  “erections lasting longer than four hours” (with my daughter in the same room) “rashes”, irritability” and “fits of insanity brought on by false promises of miracle cures from snake oil”.
  19. Insurance Commercials, Any company that uses a duck, lizard, pig or a dingbat named Flow to promote their product cannot be taken seriously or trusted.
  20. The salaries of pro athletes, movie stars and musicians.  They are spoiled assholes that are overpaid and overrated.
  21. Shows about rich people’s problems,  Talk shows dedicated to mindless discussions regarding the hardships of famous people, including such intriguing topics as, addictions, eating disorders, troubled relationships, arrests, rehab treatments, diets, sex lives, political views and spiritual advice etc….  Please see #19 . I DON’T FREAKIN CARE!
  22. The virtues of Social Networking.  The statistical breakdown of internet usage, 60% porn, 8% Facebook postings detailing crap about people’s lives you don’t give a rats ass about, 5% buying crap you don’t need, 5% selling you crap you don’t need, 5% illegally down loading songs and movies, 5% spam, 5% betting on sports, 2% playing Sudoku when you should be working, 2% research, 2% education, 1% advancing the betterment of mankind.
  23. Reality TV  Those two words are an oxymoron.  SORRY, BUT TV IS NOT REALITY!!!
  24. TV, Brief moments of shitty commercials interrupted by briefer moments of shitty-er programing.
  25. Super Churches,  Rock star preachers with big goofy smiles wearing way to much hair gel selling their books, tapes and DVD’s extolling the virtues of giving and servanthood—-tax free.  In God we trust, but if he wants to purchase a “Sharing is Caring” T shirt, he too must provide two forms of ID and have a valid credit card.   His out-of-state check will not be accepted—-City—“Heaven”—Address—“Cloud Nine”—State—“Of Grace” (Yeah right).  Act now, operators and soul scalpers are standing by!
  26. Medical marijuana dispensaries. Marijuana will relieve pain, but so does Jack Daniels.  What do you call a whiskey medical treatment dispensary?  An all night liquor store.
  27. Starbucks, Where else can you spend $4.00 for a bitter coffee after waiting in line for thirty minutes with a bunch of snobs while listening to soulless smooth jazz.  And then having a seat in their pretentious bistro among all the WI FI wired patrons as they silently interact with their iPhones, laptops and other electronic gadgets.

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God, Sex and Love

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I’m sitting here alone in my room after dark, with only one standing lamp giving off a sunday evening glow.  If you were here and the night became still, I’d have you tell me stories about your childhood.  Your soft warm voice would put my worrisome mind at ease.  I want to know you better, and to have you trust me like old friends do.  Its so strange, I feel as if I’ve always known you, perhaps it was in a different time or place—or maybe a thousand lifetimes ago, your face is so familiar, like those in my dusty old photo-album that stare out at me from yellowed snapshots, leaving me with that sad aching feeling deep inside my chest, a mourning for days lost and moments that have placidly slipped by, unnoticed except for my thread-worn memories and aging keepsakes.  At times the past feels as if it just occurred yesterday and then at other times, it feels like all these random events belong to another person from a different lifetime, do you know what I mean?——Maybe we once wandered down dark rainy streets of some unremarkable small town in the midwest, surrounded by an ocean of corn fields—ducking into smokey old taverns with the jukebox playing the likes of Merle Haggard, pool-balls cracking and the local yahoos giving us that familiar glare that says, “What the fuck are you two outcasts doing in here?”—-do you think this is possible?  I do—but I’m a poet and a dreamer and such dubious notions occur to me all the time——-maybe you don’t know what I am trying to say and perhaps you never will—-but for now, we can share our stories and see where they leads us.

I imagine you cooking us supper, preparing it with those immaculate small hands of yours; hands connected to your arms and then to your body and finally to a heart beating deep inside of you.  And I can see you smiling as you go about adding this and that to your unwritten recipe. Evening closes in and the kitchen is filled with that comforting aroma of seasoned dishes simmering on the stove, it smells like home.  It’s no big deal to you, but as for me, I’m enjoying the tenderness that comes with being fussed over.  I don’t know how you do these things, mixing all those mysterious spices and ingredients together, but I believe that sharing food is an act of love—

I watch you move thru space with an effortless grace; with athleticism and agility—oppressive gravity is envious of your dancers finesse. Unlike me, I trip over my own untied shoelaces. I dance like I cook—horribly.  I lumber, I lurch, and then stumble——as I trample across the crumbling ground of my faltering days.  My refuge has always been found in the eloquence of words, even on those darkest of nights when sleep eludes me, I am able to blend them silently together inside my frenzied head like watercolors that beautifully bleed and melt into one another.  The sharing of words is also an act of love. It’s really all I’ve ever had to offer anyone.

I remember on a whim you and I headed up north on highway 1.   The road traced along the rocky coastline, and everything was as it should be, with you sitting in the passenger seat smiling as the radio played the song Hero. Across bridges and up hill and dale we carried on as the rain fell on our windshield making the world appear blurry and dreamlike.  Back then, we had no plans or outside distractions, we were sorting out this thing called life in real-time—-no past, no future, just you and I naïvely melding into one—and so it went—so on and so forth….forever and a day….and for the time being, that was good enough.

We holed up in a dumpy sea weathered motel and drank cheap wine, ate cheese with sour dough-bread and made love. Outside the world was dreary and gray with a damp fog blowing in off the sea.  We had nothing to do or nowhere to go, so we drank more wine and shared our secrets of God, sex and love.  We took walks on the windy beach until we were soaked and tired and then we went back to our musty old hotel room to talk.  I lit a candle and we stared at our shadows on the wall as the flame flickered, we shared our thoughts in hushed voices, quietly falling in love, with the divine surprise of stone being sculpted into art.

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Mongrel mutts, mixed blessings and a love story for people like you and me

I like marching bands, banjo’s and reggae.  You can’t have the blues and listen to any of those musical styles.  Give me a marching band any-day, all snap, shine and precision, with a thundering drum cadence rumbling and tickling against the walls of my belly.   At the head of it all stands the drum-major in his crisp white uniform with a red stripe running down the seam of each of his pant legs, he blows his whistle and all that sunshiny brass flips into playing position.  Everyone is wearing tall red hats with white feather plums—-black leather oxfords covered with white spats step out in unison.  It’s as if the lines of musicians are a single living entity moving as one.  The sidewalks are lined with little children sitting on their fathers shoulders as moms sit in lounge chairs smiling behind sunglasses. Teenagers stop their horsing around to stop and stare in amazement as the big tubas trail behind with their foghorn “um-pa’s”.  A parade ain’t nothin but a fancy walk put on display for common people like you and me.  I feel the sun on my face—I feel myself being drawn to you——–I wonder what you think of me—we should’ve known better—-

I ain’t waiting for life to happen to me, or for other people to be interesting, cause that can be one long fucking haul, too many people are emotional sloths.  I ain’t waiting for someone to love me either.  I’m gonna love as many people as I can, cause it’ll help me sort out the hungry raw ones from the heart numbed.  I’ll know when I find another to love, cause I won’t have to put up with all the extraneous bullshit that comes with loving most people—-most people don’t want love, they want someone that they can put in their little box and carry around with them so that they don’t feel so lonely.  Its the people who don’t know who they are or what to do with themselves that are the ones who are the most boring, self-absorbed and needy.  They exchange romance for stability and replace adventure with routine, but as far as I’m concerned, life without danger is like love without letting go of yourself and everything that goes along with that—–strange but true, ya gotta to give it all away to find what’s left behind in the ashes, cause that’s where the soul resides, and burns——

They’ll open that little box now and again to see that you’re still in there, never changing, always waiting to support them, when what they really need, is to be told that they stick in your heart like a weathered barbed wire fence post.

They’ll demand that you condone their little version of the world and they’ll expect you to inhabit their soap opera fantasies like a wind-up soldier in some smarmy Harlequin Romance plot—drama exaggerated, a lifetime fabricated out of strategic gamesmanship—-all played out in some empty, echoey theater—–as for me, I prefer silence to bullshit.

Ya see, I got my own world, a place you couldn’t even imagine, cause you never liked parades, reggae or banjo music.  If you haven’t already guessed it, I don’t believe in soul-mates.  As far as I’m concerned, if you can get a good ten year stretch out of a relationship without becoming the perpetrator or the victim of a homicide, then you’re doing pretty damn well.  I’m a realistic romantic (realomanitic) I know that love is real and that love is precious, I just don’t particularly believe it is eternal—-all beauty is evanescent—-fleeting—  Enjoy it when you find it—— and partake in it for as long as it lasts—–cause brother, once its gone, its dead and gone.

People spend way to much time doing things they don’t want to do with people they don’t like. They carry on saying a bunch of useless bullshit that doesn’t amount to anything and then carelessly let opportunities slip by without saying what they really feel. Lots of people are love stingy or too scared to reveal themselves to others, not me, I’m fucking odd-tistic, I always say what I feel, its a great filtering system, if I piss you off, great, I won’t waste my time on you in the future.

Most people want to be unique, but to be unique you have to be different, and to be different you have to be willing to appear stupid, strange or weird—being yourself, being authentic, this takes huge courage.  We’ll seek one another out, the ones who mumble nervous prayers, wringing out sweaty palms, the ones who have suffered and been dangled deep into the dark well of sorrow, hearing the echoes of life’s sad songs, to know such things, to understand such things—–these now, are the only ones for me, the artists, the poets—the fools—-

Much of the time we’re anonymous extra’s passing through in the background of someone else’s unspooling life.  But tonight, I’m out front and in your life, the spark behind that smile, and I love the way your eyes follow me, like they’re the lens to some old black and white cinematic love story.  And everything you say is interesting and connects with me.  I want it to always be this way, cause I’m weird and intense like that—–and only you know how I always go one step to far—-and I wonder—-are you willing, or more importantly, are you still capable of plumbing those mysteries beyond the far reaches?

Don’t fool yourself, someday we’ll all be long gone with only the foggy memories of others tying us haphazardly together.  But if you remember me and I remember you, then we will be eternally bound together, living in that frozen abyss of yesterdays—

If I were to play an instrument in a marching band, I’d choose the trombone.   Its an unpretentious goofy looking instrument that doesn’t have a lot of buttons or holes that my fingers need to fiddle around with.  I’d march right down the middle of the street with the rest of my band members, sliding that long plunger looking thing back and forth until I find a note that fits just right.  I’m out of step with the rest of the band, blowing on that brass contraption as if it were hot carmel drizzled over those swollen lips of yours.  And if we were still in love, and if you were up to an afternoon of madness with me, I’d have you march right beside me playing a big bass drum.

Its a warm Sunday evening, a breeze carries the scent of corn dogs, cotton candy and all things deep fried and sugary.  Hand in hand, like awe struck children, we take that slow neoned stroll down the midway at the county fair.  At the end of the days festivities the streets are swept of its confetti and we sit together in a big deserted bar and sip on our beers, bragging about how we made such beautiful music. We drink Pabst Blue Ribbon all night long cause its the cheapest and I won’t have to stop ordering us beers because I’ve run out of money, and besides, I don’t want this night to never ever end, or at least not until you dream back into me.

“The only people I would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me.”

— Oscar Wilde

“I’ve been the fool.

but still…

I was a good fool—–”

—–Mikel (Mckrazi) Diegel

Three Little Birds (Don’t worry about a thing)

Track 16 2163 birds My first Monday morning after college graduation I laid in bed staring up at the  ceiling—–there was a thundering silence inside my head that exploded and made its way out over the roof tops, across my hometown and then wayward into that great beyond.   For the first time in a long time, I had nowhere to go, no appointments to keep and nothing to do—-I felt myself thawing out.  I was filled with a strange comforting warmth that radiated from deep within my chest.   All those lost and anxious feelings from my past gave way to a giddy simplified sense of being alive.  And, I remember the sound of birds singing outside my window and there was nothing more, or nothing less to consider about this day or any of the others that were to follow.  I was happy for no particular reason.  I propped myself up on my pillows, wiggled my toes and smiled.  It’s funny how such a little thing is remembered and carried across a life time.

A couple of days earlier my folks had arranged a little graduation swaray in my honor.  All the relatives and family friends were there and everyone wanted to know what my plans for the future were to be.  I said I had some possible opportunities working for the government in the city and that I had several resumes accepted by some promising start-up companies——but that was a lie—-I didn’t have a clue as to what I was going to do.  I did my best to assemble an expression of steely confidence on my face.  I sipped my highball as the red-faced old men took turns patting my back or putting a firm hand on my shoulder as they dispensed tips about business, women and how to make the world spin on the tip of my finger.   The combined years of life experiences being offered by these old fella’s totaled over three centuries.  The oral tradition of passing on knowledge from the elders to the next generation filtered through my ears and echoed about in my cocktail drenched brain.  These poor old farts were out of touch with today’s world, hell they knew nothing of computers or today’s technology. I nodded back at them as I struggled to stave off a yawn of boredom.

As they spoke about their experiences and life lessons, their eyes seemed to peer inwardly as much as they did outwardly.  The sins and follies of youth follow us into old age with the vengeance of unappeased ghosts, “Never buy a car built on a Monday.”  “Get to work before your boss and stay until after he leaves.”  “Invest in your health, not the stock market.”  “Never drink at a company party.”  “Its legal if you don’t get caught.”  “Find something nice to say about your wife’s appearance at least once a day, and mean it”.  There amongst the wrinkled brows, age spots, gin blossomed cheeks and jiggling jowls was a road map of life’s detours and destinations.

The old women with their clown like rouged cheeks gathered around, engulfing me in a cloud of overpowering perfume.  They took turns hugging and kissing me.  They said I was smart and handsome and that I reminded them of my father when he was young.  There eyes twinkled as they schooled me in the matters of love, “Find a nice girl who’ll watch the ballgame with you.  Someone who’ll stand by you even when the home team is getting the hell beat out of them.”  “A woman that knows how to dance will make a good lover.”  “Learn to cook, women these days don’t know how cook.”  “Have children, they’ll keep you young.”  “Remember to make a life, not a living”.  My favorite aunt discreetly slipped my a twenty as we hugged and then gave me a wink “Go show some lucky girl a good time”.

I didn’t know it at that time, but this would be my last opportunity for the next twenty-five years to be off work for six months in a row—-I wish I knew then what I know now.  Life is funny that way,  you get so busy thinking about what you wanna do or what you’re gonna do that you forget about living in the present—-and this is where life exists, on the surface of each eclipsing moment.  That summer after graduation, I walked barefoot and shirtless through the midday deserted city streets, mindlessly whistling melodies to myself.

Everyone was in a hurry to get to work, to get off work, to get home—-to make it through another week—-to the oasis of the next weekend.  I moved in slow motion as the world spun around me.  I sat in the park during the morning rush hour watching the manic faced drivers whizz past me.  My dog and I would go down to the river and I’d spend the afternoon exploring trails, skipping rocks and swimming.  I had no goals, no ambitions, no thoughts about making a difference in the world.  I was a happy underachiever.

One breezy September night I got drunk and fell asleep in a tangle of woods and weeds by the river.  I abruptly awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of dry leaves rustling in the tree’s, crickets chirping, buzzing cicadas and croaking toads. A lone dog howled in the distance and the odor of damp river sediment hung in the air.  The voices of the old men from my past blended into a chorus of babbling nonsense until they reached a crashing crescendo——-and then an unsettling silence—–no bugs chirping or buzzing, no barking dogs, no rustling leaves,  just stillness.  For a moment I wasn’t sure what time it was or how I’d come to fall asleep here.  The chill of autumn wrapped itself around me, September 21st, fall equinox—-the change of season had spoken.

My days as a freeloader had reached a crossroads.  Dad had taken to providing me with a written list of daily chores to complete.  The longer I’d languished living there, the more demeaning the chores became.  I went from doing the basic duties of taking out the garbage and making my bed to more revolting tasks such as digging up the septic tank in the backyard and prying open its tomb like seal. Dad knew that words without action is like choices without consequences—-if you choose to walk in the rain don’t complain about getting wet.  If I was going to live out my fantasy of becoming a carefree Bohemian, I would either have to live under a bridge or find a rich girlfriend—Dad had taken my umbrella.

Success is a tough thing to measure.  Success is like wisdom.  Neither is based on modern technology or the trends of popular culture.   They are the byproducts of making mistakes and having a willingness to change course. They are the personal dividends earned from a life well lived.  I didn’t realize it when I was twenty, but this life goes by pretty damn fast. Every decade of my life has held its own challenges and rewards.  The things I thought were important at twenty changed when I reached my thirties and so it goes for all the following decades and phases of  my life.  Maybe this is why it’s so hard for old men to advise young men.  No one can live your life for you but yourself.

There would be numerous “me’s” that I would try on and play though out this unfolding life.  “To me, or not to me, that is the question.”  As ole Shakespeare the great teacher revealed to us, it is only through adversity that we come to know thy self….

Mistakes are never shy, dreams neglected fade, love can’t be borrowed and time plays no favorites, we’re consumed by the days and years—-it’s only within each fragile moment that we are alive and breathing————awake!

I thought I had life figured out at twenty, but I was a prisoner of youths swaggering bravado.  I was yet to learn that financial gain never triumphs integrity, that perseverance in the face of insurmountable odds is the norm when fighting to make dreams a reality, that personal sacrifice is where self discovery begins, to not allow difficult circumstances or the obstacles placed in my path dictate my faith in a higher power, to invest my energy in changing myself rather than trying to change the world, that there is a difference between being right and being honest, that compromising my aspirations is more important than compromising my principles, to respect my body and treat it as if my life depends on it (cause it does) and to surrender my ego in order to gain compassion. Through humility and servanthood, I learned that family, friends, health, empathy, faith, kindness and love are the greatest treasures in life——-and maybe this is what those old guys had to tried to convey to me all those years ago.

My first Monday morning after retirement and I lay in bed staring up at the  ceiling—–and there is a thundering silence inside my head that explodes and makes its way out over the roof tops, soaring above the mountain peaks as it makes its way to the Pacific ocean.  And right outside my window I can hear birds singing. Isn’t it funny, the little things you remember and take with you throughout a life time.