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
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.
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.
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.”
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Rants, Raves and Random Thoughts 