My soul has grown to frayed and warn to carry me comfortably—-pieces of me seep from its cracked walls and leak onto the floor, I’d need a soul-horn to squeeze back into that old life—time moves us on—. With corpses come flowers, freshly cut and ready to die—. For some, love becomes only a word, four letters, uttered with the sincerity of a grocery clerks “have a nice day”. What a trite and meaningless salutation, What’s my other option?—Have a bad day? In-spite of my failing words and their treacherous rabbit holes, I do still love you—I have no other option====
I think the two of us should take the day off, walk around in faded wrinkled pajamas, sitting face to face, two miss matched coffee cups, all sheepish grins and tousled bed-heads, two unclaimed valentines, no return addresses, awkwardly belonging to one another, hearts locked on spin cycle, outcasts in a world consumed by trends and fads, our kind of love never pales or goes out of style, sitting beside one another watching the sky snow, taking it all in–holding hands in silence, best friends communicating with drowsy morning eyes-
We’ll watch “Harold and Maude” and dig Cat Stevens, we can bake hot gooey brownies and wiggle our toes as we wash-em down with ice cold milk, and then take a vanilla scented bubble bath—candles flicker, bubbles burst—-we’re the lucky ones—–knowing that nothing, or no one, can take these moments from us—all else is broken glass, flashing in the sun, glimmering and shattered, inconsequential-
My music and spoken work projects are available at cdbaby.com, Artist Victor Uriz My novel and book of prose are available at amazon.com, Author Victor Uriz
(This piece is intended to be read while listening to the attached song “Lessons in Love” by Level 42)
The doctor traipses through the door wearing a somber expression. It’s the face he saves for moments such as these. He looks to be in his late sixties with gray thinning hair, wearing a white lab jacket over a dress shirt and blue Dockers. A pair of silver rimmed bifocals are resting towards the end of his nose. He thumbs through my medical report and shakes his head in confirmation of what he’s reading. Without looking up from the final page he sighs “I’m truly sorry, but, well—-there nothing more we can do—-”. He’s a picture of detached professionalism, he might as well be telling me that my car transmission is shot. I squirm on the crinkly sounding paper that covers the exam table “What do you mean, there’s nothing more you can do?” He puts his hand on my shoulder and wistfully responds “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it’s terminal.”
A fight or flight response kicks in and I feel a jolt of adrenaline shoot through my veins. I instinctively jump to my feet escaping the examining table with its protective paper that clings to my sweat glazed skin. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. There’s gotta be other alternatives, other options—-experimental treatments—-.” He offers me a weary nod that expresses a sense of futility. “I’ll change my diet, join a gym—-become a vegan? I’ll quit the beer. I’ll fast. I’ll drink vitamin shakes!” I’m not schooled in all the stages of death and dying, but I was obviously in the bargaining phase. “I’m still young, I feel better than ever.” The Doc rubs his wrinkled forehead and then removes his glasses “This is very common, one day you’re running a marathon and making future plans and the next, well—-” his voice trails off as he grimly shrugs his rounded shoulders.
Feeling emotionally and physically exposed, I self-consciously fuss with my hospital gown in an attempt to better cover my backside. I mumble under my breath, “You’d think with all the advances in modern medicine they’d come up with a better way to cover your ass than one of these flimsy butt curtains. I swear, you’ll see more ass in a hospital corridor than a strip-club.”
With all the melodrama carved from a climatic scene of a soap opera (sweeping organ arpeggio not included) I blurt out “How much time do I have left?” The old Doc straightens his starched lab coat and takes a deep breath “When it comes to these sorts of things, well—it’s hard to say. It could be today, or you might have another fifty years.” “What?” I stare at the report in his hand, “Well, what does that fucking report say?” He nods with a sheepish smirk “Oh this, it says you’re perfectly fine. I’m sorry if I’ve confused you, or frightened you.” Folding my arms over my chest I respond “As a matter of fact I am confused, and more pissed than frightened. What the hell are you trying to tell me? Am I well, or am I dying? What the—-” In a gesture of sympathy or perhaps pity, he puts his left arm around my shoulder. “There’s a little secret us doctors keep from our patience.” My voice is becoming louder and more frustrated “Secret, what little secret?” “Son, we’re all terminal. We don’t like to spread this kind of medical diagnoses around.” He squints his eyes displaying a painful grimace, “It’s rather—how should I say—–well it’s—–it’s bad for our professional image—–and it’s really not good for business.”
My sense of anxiety is replaced with a feeling of shock “So I have a reprieve, I’m gonna live?” He slips his hands in the pockets of his spotless lab coat “Why no silly, like I said, you might stroll out of here today and be hit by a Mac-Truck or have a massive aneurism. Or, you could carry on healthy and strong for another fifty years. But make no mistake about it, you are terminal and your days are numbered. And when that day does come, there’s no magic pill or fanciful medical treatment that will extend your life another year, another day or another second.”
He glances down at his watch “Times a wastin, I gotta get down to the commissary, the Women’s’ Auxiliary is having their annual cheese ball sale—Oh my God, they are to die for—-Oops, sorry for the poor choice of words.” He gives me a hand shake and a wink. And with that, he turns and walks out whistling a lose arrangement of “American Pie” by Don McLean.
Later that night I fall asleep and have pastel colored surreal dreams. I’m in a strange cosmic flow between reality and fantasy. I surrender—-I no longer fight against anything—-I desire nothing. I feel no need to assert my will, The “I” in “I am” is gone. There’s a sudden sharpness to the existence of nonexistence, awareness of unawareness, the un-conciseness of conciseness—-I’m at a place where all things intersect—-there’s a nothingness toall that is, and an everything-ness to all that it isn’t. That gibberish is hippy-talk for saying—I feel good,—all is as it should be,—–I’m in the flow—-
I wake up the next morning feeling refreshed and born again—-I finally understand that esoteric term “born again”. I pick up the phone and call my office. The operator connects me to my boss “Hey John, yeah its me, I’m not gonna be able to make it in today. No—I’m fine, in-fact I’m feeling great. I just feel too damn good to spoil it by coming to work.” I snicker to myself “I guess I’m calling in well.”
There’s a long pause “Did you win the lottery or are you drunk?” I laugh “Yeah, I feel like I’ve won the lottery and I feel drunk too, drunk on life—baby.” John’s voice becomes more curt “Now listen here, those quarterly reports are due next week and all those spreadsheets of yours need to be updated and posted. Cut the crap and get your ass down here—-now!” “No I’m sorry John, but like I said, I’m calling in well. I just feel too damn alive to be holed up in a stuffy cubicle all day staring at a computer screen—-it would bum my stone man.”
There’s another long pause. I hear a deep sigh come over the receiver “So, you’re calling in well. Now isn’t that some crazy shit—–. Okay, I’ve gotta hand it to you—-you’ve got balls. And I hate to say this, but at some crazy-ass, luny level, I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt. Why? I don’t know. But I’ll take your lame honesty any day over someone’s phony ass hoarse voice, whimpering to me that they’re sick. I guess ya got to do what ya gotta do.” I think to myself, damn—this honesty is some powerful shit!
I’m not sure if I want to take a shot of Jager or a shot of wheatgrass. I put on my baggy shorts, tank top, flip flops and head off downtown. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the plate-glass store window and damn, I look pretty freakin good. I’ve got my tunes blasting from the speakers in my backpack. I’m diggin on the song “Lessons of Love” by Level 42—I never even use to like that song, damn—where the fuck did the 80’s go? I’m walkin in rhythm, I’m shakin it down like Ellen Degeneres (now, that’s kinda creepy too)—-but who cares, cause baby I’m movin and groovin—I start clapping my hands and laughin out loud like some sort of crazed madman.
I taste the diesel in the air and I suck it in with a smile. I cruz past kids walking home from school and they fall in behind me smiling and dancing,. Birds chirp, horns honk, an alley cat creeps by. A stray dog sniffs the air and then prances in rhythm behind the kids. I drop a dollar in a homeless guys cup—he falls under our spell and joins in, dancing and snapping his fingers at the end of our urban conga-line—. As we pass a Starbucks, a throng of patrons empty out of the patio and find their place at the tail-end of our looney parade. Out of the corner of my eye I see John my boss staring down from his corner office window, he shakes his head and gives me a half hearted thumbs up sign——-all of life is sweet and beautiful—-I’m in it—-we’re all in the flow.
“Because in the end, you won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain.” Jack Kerouac
(This piece is intended to be read while listening to the attached song “Long May You Run).
All those late nights driving in my truck, driving to your place and feeling everything—-, never questioning what the journey might bring, or for that matter, where it may lead. Strange but true, being young allowed me to make mistakes, cause there was plenty of time to make things right again. These days, I choose my mistakes more carefully. That old song kept playing on the tape deck, “I Believe In You”—Or maybe it was “Out On the Weekend” or “Long May You Run” I kinda forget, but it was something by Neil Young. I can still hear that sad harmonica of his wobbling in and out of tune. It rained that whole month of January, a cold dampness permeated my clothes, the cab of my truck and it eventually soaked the roof of my soul, causing it to cave in from the weight of it all. I needed a friend, but I hadn’t yet learned the subtleties of making a friend. I was awkward, odd and shy, skulking about my hometown—aimlessly—-in a state of waiting, not knowing what to make of this life I’d unexplainably been pushed into.
A world of strangers meandered by me, through me—and then back out the other-side—they kept moving somewhere beyond me—without me.
The pretty girls we’re a strange and confusing breed for me to grasp. I stood on the corner leering at them, fascinated yet unsure of what to do—or how to get with one of them? They drew me in with their sweet scent—-my eyes trailed after them as their bodies gracefully and rhythmically moved through space. They nonchalantly carried away little pieces of me—
Before this, my dog was my only friend. He took me just the way I was—like only homeless mongrels and fellow outcast can do—it’s an off-handed world when you’re walking through it alone.
I hurried through the school quad trying to keep a safe distance from the jocks, preppies, motor-heads and the brainy-acts. With my head held down, I glanced over to the senior walk and there you were stretched out on the lawn, tan Dickies, white T shirt with one pocket and your hair pulled pack in a pony tail. You were just sitting there with your head tilted back soaking up the sun on your face. You we’re totally out of place, a fucking dandelion on the fifty yard line at a Home Coming football game—-I somehow knew we were destined to be the best of friends.
I was drawn to your indifference to all the bullshit that coats high school with pretension and posturing. It was totally out of my character but I walked up to you and mumbled, “Hey”. You squinted and tilted your head in the other direction and nodded at me. I’d noticed that your pants had dirt or mud all over them. “How come you’ve got mud all over your pants?” “I’m a potter.” “Ya mean a stoner?” You shook your head and gave me a grin “No, I do ceramic’s, I make pots—-And well—-yeah, I get stoned too.” I grinned back at ya—, the Gods had sent me a friend.
We’d cruise the avenues, boulevards and backroads of our hometown in his 1962 Ford Falcon wagon. It was a faded olive green color with peeling paint that revealed an oxidized rusty orange color beneath—she was weathered and worn—she had character and suited us well. We drank beer in dark deserted parks, made campfires down at the river-bottoms and practiced the art of hanging-out. We carried on long involved conversations about Kerouac, Jesus and Star Trek—Oscar Peterson, Poe and Zap Comic’s—Chinese Food, Luis and Clark, and the yet uncharted territories of love. We were committed to our dreams—carrying on our discussions until late in the night, planning extravagant adventures to foreign lands—-the mountains we’d ski, the rivers we’d raft and the challenges we’d conquer. We we’re on fire for everything and for everybody, talking a million miles a minute—speaking with confidence as we bolstered one another’s courage, or maybe it was just youthful bravado —-no topics were off limits—-honesty and authenticity were the dues paid for membership in our exclusive club. Our talks always led back-around to that same enigmatic topic—Girls, those illusive creatures that mesmerized, mystified and mortified us—-some things never change.
We fancied ourselves Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty from “On The Road” but by the reactions of the girls we tried to impress, we were perceived more as Beavis and Butt Head—-, to be mocked as Thelma and Louise would have been an improvement.
We had our deep philosophical talks but it was our humor that sustained us, we laughed at ourselves and the state of the world, we were immortal, all things were fixable—-time was on our side (A Rolling Stones reference)…
Some things change and some things stay the same. In many ways I am still that awkward, odd and shy dude from years past—-a pariah to the mainstream. But these days I’m comfortable in my own skin,—beneath my chipped paint and fading color beats a youthful heart–an idealist to some, a fool to most—-but I like it that way—Juck-em—if they can’t take a foke—hahaha!
How are you my old friend, my potter and fellow romantic? I remember it all fondly, as if it were just yesterday—and for a moment I’m ridding shotgun as you drive us down some dirt-road out in the boondocks, we’ve got a six pack of beer and much to discuss—-Neil’s voice sings his high pitched lonesome song in the background—-and once again, you bring a grin to my face.
What’s success—What is a life well spent? When does a dream become so laden by time that it’s easier to set it aside, to just quietly lay it down, to allow it to cease to exist—-to concede that it’s no longer a part of who you are. Is this how we begin to lose our way, to forget who we are—or worse yet, give up on what we were meant to be—
I mostly remember her smile, her laugh, the way she walked next to me, excitedly talking as we made our way across the best part of the morning, moving together, stride for stride, word for word—-heart to heart—-afire with life, fueled by the strongest drug of all—that unexplainable euphoric feeling that comes with knowing you are understood. Love is an elixir that combines understanding with compassion—where there is dharma, there is no separateness.
At night, we’d lay in our bed talking, staring up into the darkness, and when it got real late and the room was totally cloaked in blackness, it was here—yes, here is where the magic would take hold. We weren’t speaking to one another, but instead, we were entering each others thoughts, inhabiting one another’s souls, sharing ideas and feeling telepathically, in a silent confessional—-the conversations were strung together more by the purity of emotion than the imperfection of words. Just like a tightly written poem or a an austere prayer, the words cracked open, and from their insides oozed our soul goo. I know this must sound funny, because it is strange—but oh so beautiful and rare—-all things of beauty are fragile and temporary—but we didn’t know this at the time, so we carried on until another jealous sun rose.
I’ve forgotten the words to that old song we use to sing—I’d find myself half humming and half singing it in a crippled attempt to get through to its end, or maybe it was in the hopes that I might resurrect something left behind within its faded melody—I’ve done my best to stay true to its tune , but the words have grown faint.
I’d call, but numbers change, email accounts close—-but mostly, I keep at a safe distance, because some memories are like impressionistic paintings—-where you can see what you choose, while overlooking all the tiny flaws and betrayed truths.
Sometimes I force myself to meditate on such things, and I will my thoughts out into a porous sky, focusing all my energy into a small shiny ball. If ever you awake in the middle of a dark night and feel a power moving through your veins, crawling under your skin, breathing on your neck, don’t open your eyes—-don’t speak, don’t even move—-just be still, and in that moment feel yourself open up—
a crazed woman cut my heart out of my chest, she then carelessly disassembled it and put it back together all wrong, it was slippery with blood and hard to handle, so she shoved it back inside me where the organ for caring and giving a shit use to be…..these days I compulsively check my pulse in search of a rhythm, but all I feel is an occasional spastic fluttering within my chest, like a bird beating its wings against hurricane winds—and when it gets dark, it stops all together—
come close and put your ear against my chest—-now be still and listen as I tell you how it is for me, at night those blues come stalking me, they peer through my blinds like some nefarious wide-eyed peeping Tom, leaving foggy predatory breath on the window pane——–the bleakness of it all tramples across the nothingness of another specter ridden midnight—I can feel my heart go still, like an unworn love left hanging in someones dusty closet, an addiction traded against a corrupted souls collateral, broken people warehoused like damaged goods, young kids with no fire in their eyes, an old guy going in circles on the metro for an as-semblance of company, the scent of morning rain on dirty pavement, damp leaves smoldering in the drizzle, the stench of alley piss—time is blurring by like a whirl-wind whooshing past my car window on a Sunday drive to nowhere in-particular—-once again I’m tired of me and how I get things all twisted up, I’m left staring into the futility of a gray weather beaten morning, realizing I’m no longer running from something, nor running to something—-I’m slowly being crushed under the ache that comes with knowing that there’s got to be something better than this—-someplace—–somewhere—-cause this life is way to long to be miserable and far to short to be boring—it’s time I set that lil caged bird free—
say something, I’m giving up on you—-
there’s too much pain in the world to believe I’m immune to it, or can hide from it—–or selfishly fear that I’m the only one being consumed by it—that would be a righteous sadness, the kind of sadness that beckons the lugubrious to replay a heartbreak love-song over and over again. Real sadness has no soundtrack, no words, no explanation—-it’s like tree sap that mysteriously shows up on your hands and can’t be washed off—-
people always ask me the same question “Was that story you told true or made-up?” To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure anymore. Most of the stuff I once thought was true, ends up being a lie or an illusion, and what I thought was fiction (made-up) is just an alternative version of truth or reality that I’ve failed to grasp. I’ve come to believe that what’s true, and what’s made up, is a predilection reserved for the teller of tales.
but I do know this, one day that little bird trapped inside my chest will be set free—-
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TEN AMAZING STEPS TO BECOMING A SWELL WRITER
1.If you are going to be a writer, have something to fucking say. Character development is nice, detail to scene description is beneficial, smart dialogue is helpful, appropriate punctation and grammar a plus, but having a story worth telling is the most important element of storytelling—Start and end your project with that in mind!
2. Not only have something to say, but devise a way to say it that is insightful, interesting and compelling. Forget about beginning, middle and end. Every line must be an integral piece of what contributes to the greater whole. If you’re all in, if you’re writing from a place of authenticity—then every page, every paragraph, every sentence and each word needs to be painfully distilled down to its purest means of expression. Once written, it should sound as if it has always existed, like mosquitos, the moon and a thousand sad truths —
3.Write about what you know, and know about what you write. All good writing is personal, confessional and honest. Be authentic, be original, allow yourself to be shamelessly naked—-you must develop and know the sound of your own voice—-Go to those forbidden places that make you feel uncomfortable and exposed, it is there you will find the keys to the kingdom—this is where your true voice lives.
4. The most important person in your audience will aways be you. If your writing becomes tawdry, trite or boring, then write it again, and again and again—-fill the God Damn Grand-Canyon with wadded up pieces of shitty writing—- never fall so deeply in love with your own writing that you can’t tell the piss from top shelf scotch (I have found that piss is saltier tasting).
5. Don’t leave anything left in the pen, say it all, say it with stark unabashed honestly, don’t hold back—write till your soul bleeds ink.
6. Don’t start with a story outline, format or a preconceived structured layout. Don’t tell the story, let the story tell itself (Zen, baby!)—filling up note pads with secret random notes is a valuable practice—you never know where or when a good thought may bubble to the surface from the depths of your collective sub-consciousness—to know that you don’t know, is to know that you know—-Do you know???
7. Study many different styles of writing but copy none. The world does not need another Hemingway, Daniel Steele, Fitzgerald or Steven King. Never forget this—learning to be a good writer is like learning to eat soup with chopsticks—-it’s a fatiguing exercise intended to teach patience. A good writer stays hungry.
8. Find inspirational music to listen to while writing. Music requires no words to reach or affect you. Regardless of what you’re meaning to say, strive to replace your imbecilic words with music— if your prose fail to sing—-then do not commit them to a final draft.
9. Good writing doesn’t come to you, it comes through you—let go of your “self”, reject your ego, stop thinking about thinking, stop thinking about writing, and say what needs to be said. Write down the words as you hear them, clean up the details at a later time. Stay open, stay awake, keep your senses at a fevered pitch, listen to all the disembodied voices blathering in your crazy head, but remember that the quiet ones speak the greatest truths—Be still—if nothing happens, then go do your laundry or something productive—Sometimes you have to pull up your line and rebait the hook.
10. A good writer will leave the reader changed or altered after digesting the content of the story. Once the reader sets the book down, they must feel something—-anything—– pissed, flabbergasted, happy, offended, a-gasped, longing, laughing, bamboozled, crying, embarrassed, tickled, horny, hurt, revealed, inspired, filthy, guilty, cocksure, shamed, holy, dumbfounded, excited, exposed, gritty, mortified, rambunctious—but most importantly, the reader should be unexplainably transported to a righteous place where they are allowed to catch a glimpse into their own soulfulness—–and believe me, that ain’t easy to do!
Secret Bonus Tip
Tenacity is the secret to your success. Tenacity will take you further than natural ability, motivation, good connections, good intentions, skill, education, talent, genetics or dumb luck. Never, never, never, never—-ever give up on the hope of reaching your dreams—-Tenacity gives hope wings!!!
Scoring Your Writing Prowess
Points will be deducted from your “wanna be a writer score” If—–
you wear a beatnik beret, you blather on in esoteric multisyllabicnon-sensible rants, sip soy lattes, cosmopolitans or smoke a pipe, chain smoke or have a Marijuana Medical Card, sport a goatee or soul patch, you speak in metaphors no one understands, you’re a vegan, you attend or teach Haiku workshops, you always have a bottled water and smart phone within reach, you have a degree in English, Journalism or Communications, your favorite Beatle is Paul, you play golf, you have a cat named Zen.
Points will be added to your “wanna be a writer score” if—–
you’ve hoboed on a train, you have a receipt for chili beans, beef stew or anything containing spam, you either have no cell phone and if you do, it’s a pay as you go with a cracked face plate and numbers that stick, beer is at the top of your food group pyramid, your car stereo is worth more than you car, you dig jazz (add five points if you can play jazz), your favorite Beatle is John, you know how to shoot pool, you have a dog named Lucky.
The Phases Of Writing (An exercise in self destruction)
1. Fame makes great writers drunks and madmen
2. Fame makes good writers self conscious and reclusive
3. Fame makes okay (commercial) writers rich and predicable
4. Anonymity makes horrible writers drunks and madmen.
Be advised, being a drunk and a madman does not make you a great
writer—but sadly, it often comes with the territory, see rule #1 and #4.—
If you don’t find any of this shit helpful, then go live your life and write about what you hear, see and feel, then have a taco—-
Helpful Hints :
“You don’t write because you want to say something, you write because you have something to say.” F. Scott Fitzgerald
“Talent is helpful in writing, but guts are absolutely necessary.” Jessamyn West
“Try to make the funny stuff sound sad and the sad stuff sound funny—” V Uriz
Feel free to substitute your word of choice in place of the word “funny”—depending on your mood—
When I was a kid we’d buy paper kites, they were relatively resilient but never intended to last—-their flimsy construction gave them the agility to fly but also made them vulnerable to a host of possible mishaps—they were as precious as they were mortal. A poorly tied tether knot and all may be lost, or should an unexpected gust of wind blow her into branches, then she’s snared and marooned, left there forever dangling from the sky like a monument to someones carelessness. I brought myself here, just like you did—-we’re all just holding on by a string, so I refuse to feel sorry for anybody—nobody!—except for maybe one of those kids with bald heads who haven’t been given much of a chance to survive the treatment, let alone the disease—I save my compassion for these cases.
Those mopey fuckers at the grocery stores asking me for spare change or the young dude with pleading eyes and his cardboard sign perched at the last stoplight before the climb to the freeway onramp, they piss me off—-they don’t seem to realize that we all have to make our own wind, running uphill like hell, never looking back until the string feels taunt, until god decides to lightly blow his breath on you, lifting your body above the ground into the void of space and torched stars, and below spins that beautiful blue ball of water and land—here in the ether, even the coldest of hearts will thaw.
I hand a crinkled dollar to a crumpled man, and for a solemn instance we are connected, we occupy the same moment, share the same world—-then without speaking I turn and walk away and return to my world—-as he returns to his—–
Kindest or cruelty—–which way will the wind blow
The older I get, the less I look into the mirror and the longer I stare at my hands
I was in a bad mood yesterday. I played horrible golf. I don’t know if playing horrible golf is what put me in a bad mood or being in a bad mood is what made me play terrible golf. The secret to playing good golf is course management. The key to success is allowing your good shots to compensate for your not so good shots—-and so it goes for life management.
After golf, we went downtown to the Casino where I drank beer and lost forty bucks (imagine that!). I don’t know if not winning kept me in a bad mood or being in a bad mood is what caused me to lose. Winning at gambling doesn’t depend so much on the cards you’ve drawn, but more so on how you play the hand you’ve been given—-and so it goes for the game of life.
Now I was drunk, broke and in a worse mood—–Another doomed walk on the wild-side—(and the colored girls go)—-doot da doot— da doot—- da doot doo—- doot dat doot—da doot—- da doot doo). Finding one’s way into the wild is always much easier than fighting one’s way back out, just consider the plight of Christopher Johnson and his ill-fated mis-adventure documented in the book—-“Into The Wild”.
When we got back home, I drank more beer>>>>>burp…. I became ornery and picked a fight with my girl—-At this point, I’m holding the entire world in contempt——————what a mess—I’m a mess—-everything’s a mess. The committee of individuals who govern my personality have been overthrown by a kook—a madman, a creep and a weirdo. The nice guys, the polite ones, the peace makers, the ones who give a shit about anything, have been run off and put on hiatus—–I fuckin did it–-again!
I believe that we can’t separate who we are, from what we do——or what we do, from who we are. Jesus once said, “You’ll recognize them by their fruit. Are grapes gathered from thorn-bushes or figs from thistles?” Although, in this metaphor he’s referring to false prophets—–but for me, it’s a truth that speaks to us all.
Sitting on the hard Christian pew in the front row of Saint Joseph’s Church, I idly listen as the pipe organ fills the stained glass chamber with the sound of Ave Maria. The beauty of the melody is occasionally punctuated by the echoes of a cough or a child’s desperate whine. The organ stops and the room is consumed by a ponderous silence; the silence of a funeral is louder than that of any other decibel—it is the deafening sound of stillness.
It’s hard to say how many times any of us may have lived or died, but today, eternity surges through this space like static electricity during a thunderstorm, death teaches us about the impermanence of all things—-a million days or a million years, mortality will never empty my pocketful of soul.
The priest droned on in a thick accent, perhaps Indian or some foreign place from the far east—-his fouled up mispronunciations make the ancient stories from the bible even more esoteric. The messages within these texts I’ve heard hundreds of times. At different stages of my life I’ve interpreted them differently, isn’t that the way of any true art. For me, faith is an art, something that grows and changes as it finds new ways to connect with me in a place beyond my limited five senses. I‘m not a biblical purest or fundamentalist, I am a spiritual personalist—I believe God speaks to us all in his own personal language of love. I hear him in the wilderness, others may feel his presence on a commuter bus, God finds a way to adapt to our idiosyncrasies.
Ironically, things become so twisted when we force God to conform to our personal needs and demands—-oh the horrors perpetrated in his many names. I prefer the belief that we are created in the image of God, rather than God created in our self serving image. Such a subtle yet profound change of outcomes when choosing between these two conflicting points of view. My puny prayers are composed out of a humble desire for there to be less of me and more of God in this broken world.
I’ve never had much of a grasp on God, religion or spirituality, but in the peacefulness of this moment I’m absorbed by a sweet serenity. In the presence of the sacred statues, symbols and the mumblings of holy prayers I’m filled with a sense of communion to all things. I suppose this sublime feeling may also be evoked from Gregorian Chants, Hindu Mantras or Zen Koans, we are all reduced to the simplicity of oneness in the presence of God.
“If Jesus were alive today, the last thing he’d be is a Christian.”
The sentiment communicated in the above quote may be applied to all prophets and spiritual leaders who have been merchandized, propaganda-sized, materialized, cauterized, convicted and tried, dehumanized, demoralized, rectified, deep-fried, electrified, televised, commercialized and apostatized—–
Sometimes being alive is good enough. Breathing, walking, thinking, feeling—–waking to color, to sound, an awareness that I’m unexplainably here, a pulse circulating blood, air filling these lungs—-one more glorious morning—-(I mumble to myself) “how accommodating—-another day tailored to fit”—–I know such a statement must sound arrogant and self centered, but I take this life very personally. Maybe that’s being a success, just knowing that out of thin air we all walk this earth. This thing called gravity stubbornly holding all this shit together, only God could think up something so unimaginable as this. Gravity—like the grace of God holding us together. Planets circling suns, a black-hole in the center of our Milky Way Galaxy swallowing entire solar-systems whole, in one bite—– and then they too, are once again gone, into thin air—-hurled beyond this limited version of time and space—-everything spinning, tumbling, upside-down and caterwauling into eternity—-I feel your smile, and for that moment we’re eternal, twin evanescent souls dipped in heavens ebony well.
Come with me down to that old cemetery where on September nights we use to walk your dog, as this was the closest thing we had to a park beneath those tired Denver skies. After all, cemeteries are nothing more than parks for the un-living being re-remembered—no street lamps burning here, just the spine of the Milky Way bending over us. I’d watch your dog as he stared intensely into the blackness. I swear that he could see them frolicking and dancing about—free from the gravity of these earthly woes. The neighborhood is windy and dark—-the tree limbs moan and creek—- a damp fog crawls its way across the pointlessness of this American suburb—- there must be a God, cause even the stanchest atheist needs something to fill this landscape of loneliness. The bland rows of stucco track homes suck the life out of everyone and everything. There is no staving off Autumn now, even the hell-hounds in the distance howl in defiance of September’s grievous demands. The moon tags along, watching over my shoulder, reminding me that he too is a child of gravity.
I wish I were back home in California where the sound of waves pounding against the rocky Pacific coastline would put my jangly nerves at ease.
Life is a living thing that moves through us, from us and back into us, it’s everywhere yet inappreciable—-imperceptible. Hold on to it with all your might as it will roll over you, past you—– and then leave you in the park with the rest of the un-living, dancing to a choir whose voices only they can hear. No drug or drink can compare to being awake and walking out into the thin air. It is sustained by wonder, blind-faith and the gravity of grace. Everything collapses and then folds in on itself, where it leads from here, no-one knows for sure. So for now, we’re supposed to grow old.
One last time let’s hold hands and walk together under those big ole cemetery tress. We’ll kick a path through the dead dry leaves as the branches maliciously sway against the change of seasons.
Rants, Raves and Random Thoughts 