Prose

The Absolute-Complete-Guide To Becoming The Next Great American Author (spoken boldly in a powerful informercial voice!!!)

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If you are not a New York Best Selling author within 30 days of your purchase, we will refund your money and send you a free #2 pencil with sharpener, a pocket size Thesaurus, a current addition of the Rhyming Tutor and a copy of Punctuation for Dummies.           

 ACT NOW!!!!  And receive your free bonus secret tip—–For centuries this esoteric secret was protected and practiced by the Templar Knights. Finally the sacred seal has been broken—-and now—-for the first time in recorded history—- you too can unlock your hidden potential!!!

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CALL NOW!!!  OPERATORS ARE STANDING BY!!!-–echo, echo, echo—-

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 multisyllabic non-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

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Feel free to substitute your word of choice in place of the word “funny”—depending on your mood—

Defying the Doldrums (Soundtrack “Are You Going With Me” Pat Metheny)

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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

Naked Trees

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It’s mid October and I’ve missed that brief one or two-day period when the Aspen leaves are at the brink of losing their last flash of Autumn’s dying beauty—-even death has its  display of pastel-ed glory, and then the wind sweeps all vanity away.  I am left with only stark branches like the bones of summer to carry me through the skeleton of another season passed.  At my feet the fallen leaves stir as I make my annual hike around Spooner lake.  This is the month of quiet contemplation and a time to face ones marauding ghosts that emerge from the shadows and are carried on falls chilly winds—-

Every season seems to have its emotional and psychological landscape.  I find myself missing spring in autumn and the freshness of winter in the heat of summer, I’m a discontented soul, always wanting what’s just out of my reach.  Here, in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, each of the four seasons have dominion over their portion of the calendar. The seeds have been planted and the harvest is in, the metaphor of reaping what we sow is played out—–the nonbelievers burn off their barren fields.  A big orange moon reigns in the sky reminding me that the masks of Halloween will soon be donned.   I think of all my old friends and how time has changed our appearance, yet I know that their souls are the deep well from which I draw my sustenance.  A good song will always be a good song and the steps of a shared dance will never grow old, nor be forgotten.

I keep my hands warm, carrying them deep in my pockets.  I’m not sure where I am on this leaf strewn path, I’ve always been more lost then found.  A map and compass possess no value when my destination is between each footstep.  A low lying fog fingers its way through the tall pines, the branches sway and I listen to their whispering voices.   I think of my family and friends and mumble a prayer for the goodness of all.  A chicory squirrel stares at me and then giggles as he scurries across my trail—-he knows God’s plan better than I.

I take a seat on a log and plug my earphones into my iPod.  J. D. Souther comes on singing, “Silver Blue”.  The melody is a perfect sound track to this mystical vista of lake, aspens, pines and fog—what a sublime speck in time.

In all the chaos and madness of life, it can feel at times that people and events have no rhyme or reason, but in retrospect (when looking back after the fact) things come into focus and have a purpose and a reason for happening, maybe that’s faith—believing that the future will workout the way it is intended and that the things in the past have occurred for a greater purpose—-this is how I remember my Mom looking at life.  She always saw the positive in all things, even when things were not going as planned—-

I pull a smashed sandwich from my backpack and have a bite.  I take a sip of peach tea and have a  laugh at myself—

Tomorrow I’ll head south to Hope Valley and wander through those stands of Aspens—-all things change at their own pace.

“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.”  Albert Camus

Matthew 7:16—And Mixed Metaphors

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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.

Pocketful of Soul

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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.”

by Mark Twain

Disclaimer: 

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—–

Souvenirs—Personal Ad

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Wanted—A buddy/pal/partner—or a BFFN (best friend for now)

I don’t care about your political views, religious beliefs, tax bracket, sexual orientation, profession, race, gender, visual appearance (picture not required) physical condition (disabilities are a plus) IQ, marital status, your merits or accomplishments, educational background, your favorite sports, interests or nationality——

ONE STRICT REQUIREMENT: YOU MUST BE OLD, VERY OLD, IN-FACT—–THE OLDER THE BETTER!

The following traits, suggestions and activities are not mandatory, but preferred:

  • You must not be computer, iPad or smart phone savvy. Preferably, modern technology leaves you hankering back to the good ole days when shaking hands, looking someone in the eye and sharing time and thoughts were a valued pastime (prior to the advent of multitasking and trying to do a bunch of meaningless bullshit at once).  Please do not confuse emailing, Facebook postings, texting and voice mailing with the art of communication.  Yes, it’s an art, not an exercise in technical maneuvering.  Communication requires a commitment of time, patience and compassion—-as does companionship.
  • I don’t want to have sex with you.  At this stage of the game I don’t even like looking at my own naked body in the mirror.  I don’t mind hugs or holding hands regardless of your gender–tenderness is good.
  • I am attracted to anarchist, recluses, eccentric’s and those possessing a sense of rugged individualism—-in other words, I prefer those who are off the social grid e.g. “I wouldn’t belong to a club that would have me as a member” Will Rodgers.
  • If you express your political and spiritual beliefs by displaying them on bumper-stickers, please do not apply.  If you believe the world is flat and that global warming is a farce, you need not apply (I will not suffer a fool).
  • I don’t care if you are vegan or prefer a super-sized McDonald’s meal, but—being a fan of ice cream and all things sweet is a huge plus.
  • Must enjoy taking slow inconsequential walks while idly commenting about the weather and other such insignificant topics. After all these years, watching the seasons change is still a divine experience worth observing and discussing.
  • Must possess a silly, ridiculous and absurd sense of humor.  This includes busting out in spontaneous giggles (best reserved for solemn occasions such as funerals, medical waiting rooms and fine dinning venues). Immaturity, lack of social etiquette and refusing to act age appropriate is a total bonus—-at this stage of the game, who gives a rats ass what anyone else might think of you.  Must possess the capacity to laugh at oneself and be comfortable in your own wrinkled, saggy, age spotted skin.
  • Must not be afraid of silence.  Especially while watching children play or when enjoying a sunrise or sunset.
  • Preferably you enjoy petting cats, dogs or any other animal that understands unconditional love—-oh yeah, this may include feeding birds.
  • Wearing clothing that is colorful, out of style and mismatched is much approved and appreciated.  This includes, wild hats, large print moo moo’s, suspenders, onesie’s, bow-ties, snuggies, overalls, fancy shaw’s, jumpsuits, afghans, scarfs, sequins, cat-eye glasses, squealing hearing aids and all things comfortable, expressive and fun.
  • Music, music and more music.  Turn off the depressing 24 hr news and all the crap that passes for entertainment on the TV.  Shut out all the clutter and noise that fills this manic modern world.  There is nothing better than spinning an old vinyl record from back in the day. Better yet, breakout the piano and the tambourine and start singing and dancing your ass off.  It’s great exercise and nourishes one’s soul.
  • After a long walk a group nap is always an enjoyable activity of choice—BYOB—Bring your own blanket.
  • Feel the sun on your face, walk in the rain, catch a snowflake on your tongue. No matter the season, there are always new and interesting things to do.  Life is never boring, there are only boring people. 

Aging requires that we all become more Zen like.  God has a funny way of teaching us these simple lessons.  The key tenet of Buddha’s teachings is this “Attachment leads to suffering”.  Aging demands that we let go of everything——when you get old, you need less and less material crap.  A game of dominos with a friend or a Sunday drive to visit family is more treasured than winning the lottery.

No need for fancy cars, boats or planes (can’t operate them anymore and there is no place you really need to go) no reason to own a big house (to much to keep up and no one to share it with) no storage sheds, garages or spare bedrooms full of possessions (just a bunch of crap to dust and worry about losing) no job title or profession (don’t have that to hang your identify on now (it’s just you hiding beneath wrinkled skin and brittle bones) no more vanity (can’t make it on outward appearance, fashion or putting on airs, its all about letting that little inward light shine) no need for pridefulness (age will humble your ass, and force you to realize that you were never as important, smart or pretty as you once thought you were).

You no longer have anything to win or lose, nothing to conceal, to protect, to defend, to covet, to prove, to own, to desire, to lust after, to judge or hate, to atone for, to forgive, to worship, or to define————– and in this state of mind you will discover an all-consuming peace.

You will learn to accept and enjoy living in the present moment.  This is mainly due to the fact that your long term and short-term memory is shot to hell—-your entire past is a blank slate.  The future is at best tenuous, you’re surprised and pleased to have woken up this morning to find yourself currently alive and still breathing—your future is a mirage.  All you have is this precious fleeting moment.

Companionship is based on how you are being treated—right now.  You have no grudges, no obligations or biases; in fact, you have no memory of the faces and names of past friends and lovers.  Every one you meet, even old friends, once again become new friends.  If someone is being kind to you, then you will respond with kindness or visa versa.  And, at some point you won’t even remember your own name, or your own face in mirror.  Finally, with no motives, hidden agendas or selfish intentions, you are now free to love yourself and all others unconditionally.

If this request for friendship connects with you, I would love the opportunity to make your acquaintance.  I can be found most afternoons sitting on a bench at Kiva Beach.  I’ll be the guy wearing plaid shorts, stripe shirt, a white bucket hat (Gilligan style) with black socks and brown sandals—-

I can often be heard whistling a little tune that goes like this——

“Row, row, row your boat—Gently down the stream—Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—–Life is but a dream”.  Ain’t that the truth.

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Gravity-Supposed To Grow Old

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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.

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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.

Cages, Walls and Prisons

18 Track 18  Soundtrack to blog.

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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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