The Patience of Privacy

I miss Rachel and Rhys. They have been gone for a week now. It's too long to go without seeing the boy. Divorce must be horrible. I don't see how people do it. Staying together must reach a point where it just isn't worth it any more. Nothing can be done, nothing can be saved.

Every now and then something will happen that will make you realize that you are only fooling yourself, that you are barely skimming past something dangerous, as usual, anything can become your undoing, the smallest flinch, blinking at the wrong moment, anything.

I had a really bad day at work yesterday. I have no idea why. Everything just seemed to go wrong for me all at once. It was as if I could do nothing right. It has spilled over into the weekend for me. I woke up and checked my email, more bad news, as if yesterday's wasn't enough. Everything pointing towards me with red flashing arrows. 

On the brighter side, I'm getting a biopsy. I went to the dermatologist. There was a spot that had a dark center and had been changing rather fast. The doc took it off right away, sent it to a lab. He tried to get it all without leaving too much of a scar. It was about three inches from my one functioning teste. He said that he didn't like the looks of it, at all, and now he has to make sure that it's not what he thinks it might be.  

So, there's that to comfort me.

If the news comes back bad then I have some new things to look forward to: even more flesh removal, recurring blood tests, possibly chemotherapy, radiation, all of that.

If the news comes back good then we'll put all of that off until a later date.

I wonder how difficult it is to make the decision to die, rather than to "fight bravely." My mother did it. She started chemotherapy and then just said, nope, that she wasn't going to do that, she wasn't going to die that way. If she was going to die then she was going to do so without chemotherapy and radiation. I remember her telling me. Strange news to deliver, strange news to receive. There was lots of morphine instead. Most those who die opt for the morphine. I'm allergic to it, so there's that to one day look forward to. I won't even get to die with the opium palliative. I'll get some cheap imitation instead. Something they do in trailers nowadays. They wouldn't want me to die having an allergic reaction.

There are other opiates that can be administered, even stronger ones: diamorphine, palladone and dilaudid; fentanyl and oxymorphone among the synthetics, claimed to be even stronger than morphine sulfate, though not as pleasant. There is very little that is as pleasing as morphine when it comes to relieving pain, recreationally or otherwise. My body struggles with diamorphine. I would sniff little doses of it in "squishy" bottles, for occasional kicks, another lifetime ago.

There was that old commercial that showed the monkey that would press the little button to get more cocaine to the point where he denied himself food and sex until he eventually dies. The heroin button makes most people deny the cocaine button, though only about 1 in 10 become addicted.

The mind is the most erogenous organ, they say. Heroin speaks to this like nothing else, but I advise against it, of course. Addiction is problematic, if you still have life left to live.

I once had a dentist tell me that it is highly unlikely that I'm actually allergic to morphine, that it's probably something else. I think he was wanting to try it and see. He was a twisted old queen that spent far too much time looking at my lips. But, that's what I paid him for, so.....

You will hear some claim a love for demerol, and it works, certainly, but they love it mainly because of how fast acting it is. Fucking degenerates. There is no substitute for morphine sulfate. Well, there is one substitute, but they keep it mainly unavailable to dying patients until the very end. They wouldn't want you to form a heroin habit in your last few days of life. The only thing worse than an opiate-derivative addiction would be dying, right?

Imagine how many parents of a certain generation withstood the pain rather than have their kids see them accepting drugs. The immense suffering must seem worth it, rather than the alternative, sending the message that drugs are ever an option. Ever.

If the time comes, I will be sending a very different message to anybody willing to listen, and watch. 

Fuck, to give you an idea: I was going to get an epidural today, just for fun, but they can't seem to figure out a way of paralyzing me only from the waist up.

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Insert Rock Star's Name Here

Isamu Noguchi with Undine (Nadja)

Friday.

Yesterday's post was a hit. I've struck upon the magic formula: use an image of a rock star and include the word "pussy" in the post title. Today I'll experiment with its opposite, a picture of some pussy and the name of a rock star.

Pussy, what a funny word... Muff. 

A friend who reads here regularly was particularly pleased with the phrase "Thunder Muff" one day. 

So, there's always that.

... that which we call a tulip by any other name would still be an orchid...

Fuck, I've been writing emails instead of writing here. I thought the whole point of this site was so that I wouldn't have to write emails any more. Oh well. 

The morning has escaped me again. I should rush to the gym, but I don't feel like rushing, especially to the gym.

When I say that I awake each day with some new horror, I do not kid. I've been sick for more than a week. I just blew my nose and the remains of burst blood vessels came out of each side. Sacks of fresh blood and snot that looked as if they contained the embryo of the Ridley Scott "Alien" monster.

No wait, that doesn't make sense. The Aliens came from eggs, right? Or, they started out in eggs, then there is some face-sex thing that happens, then they gestate within a human's abdomen for about a day or two, just awaiting the next happy group meal.

That's what came out of my nose just now, I think. It had claws. 

You think you get embarrassed when a dog humps your leg at a party... just imagine an Alien jumping out of the egg carton in the refrigerator and taking you on the kitchen floor in front of your girlfriend and all her friends, just pumping away on your face, all the way down your throat with its angry, undersexed alien self. 

Just imagine that.....

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"Get some pussy now!"

Each morning some new infirmity awaits me upon awakening; sinuses, sore throat, coughing up phlegm, eye crusties, soreness and general misery... When will it cease, oh dear and precious Lord? Doesn't your victory on the cross have any practical benefits?

The coffee functions as antidote to the cherry NyQuil. 

Ah yes, I almost forgot. In all of my advocacy for NyQuil I should have mentioned to just get the "Cough" version of it, not the "Cold and Flu" (unless you need it). The Cold and Flu version has acetaminophen in it, which is rather taxing on your liver. Only use that if you really need it. Never, ever combine that with other medicines that contain acetaminophen, it is very dangerous, says Dr. Cusick.

I prefer the mild sedative properties that allow me to sleep peacefully, of which the "Cough" version more than suffices. It seems to have a lesser half-life.

That's my concerned "dad advice" for you.

Yesterday a package arrived and I tore at the box, thinking that my camera arrived early. But it turned out to be a book - a very generous gift from a friend - the book from The Victoria and Albert Museum's David Bowie exhibit. Pretty cool. I only had a few minutes to look through it last night but since Rachel's out of town I'm probably going to get dressed up in drag tonight and joyfully lament over each delicious page. I'll put on my favorite albums from the "gay years" by Bowie. 

I'm not sure if I've mentioned this story here before: When I was a kid I used to hear Bowie on the radio and I thought he was more interesting than so much southern rock that would get played (This was in Florida in the late 70's/early 80's). So, I went to the mall to search Chamelot and Musicland (This was before Peaches opened) to find some Bowie. At Musicland there didn't seem to be any. That seemed strange. I knew his name and had previously memorized the alphabet, but there was nothing under D or B. I asked at the counter and the guy said, "Oh sure, we've got it. It's in the 'Gay Rock' section."

This is no joke. There it was. I had never even noticed that they had a section called "Gay Rock" before. Being only about 11 or 12 years old I passed on buying Bowie, at least for another few years, when it wasn't such a taboo word for me any more. The stigma of "gayness" was a favorite among adolescent taunts, etc.

I don't like Tilda Swinton very much. I don't hate her, I just don't gravitate towards her. Several of my friends have seemed surprised when I've said this in the past. One of them even going so far as to suggest, "But she looks just like a mid-70's Bowie!"

Let me try to be more clear about my appreciation of David Bowie: It's his music.  I appreciate that he did what he did with a flare for the visual aspects of his show, the fashion, and design; it added a sense of the theatrical... and certainly that added to his rock mystique. But if his music sucked then I wouldn't have really noticed or cared. Whose cock he does or does not suck is entirely inconsequential to me, as is who may or may not be sucking his, etc.

That's all. I wouldn't like Tilda Swinton because she looks like David Bowie, or like her any more or any less than if I found out she was gay. I never wanted to fuck Bowie. I only liked his albums. People assume that if you like an androgynous or bi-sexual performer then you must have some secret desire to engage personally in that charged ambiguity. But not everything about a person's sexual preferences can be presumed or deduced from their taste in music. 

I have a friend who is an ardent fan of The Pet Shop Boys, and by most accounts he's a heterosexual.

It's a total mystery.

The friend who bought the book pointed out something to me about one of my favorite Bowie songs that last time he was here visiting. At the very end of "Lady Stardust" I had always heard Bowie's voice whispering something but I never took the time to discern what he was actually saying.

He sneaks in the line "Get some pussy now!"

So, there's that, I guess. Does that convince any of my many detractors? Perhaps not.

But I can't believe I never heard it before, from an album that I have listened to thousands of times, Ziggy Stardust. It's always interesting to hear with fresh ears a thing you have ceased really listening to. Long ago I had memorized a voice happening in that spot of the song, but entirely detached from meaning.

Speaking of meaning, I have been meaning to mention that Bowie's new album is his best in many years, decades even. I've only listened to it a few times but I think it's equal at least to his mid-eighties stuff, maybe even better. It doesn't quite compare to anything before "Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)" but it's still very good. He relies on several of his favorite leitmotifs: titillation with stardom, alienation, mocking love (he's never written a convincing love song, that I know of), fear of small-towns, and fear of Americans, dressing in drag, etc.

But even more than being a good new album it seems to evoke the greatness of past albums without devolving into self-imitation. If you had never heard of David Bowie before you might not think very much of it. But, as with many artists, there is an interplay with his personal musical history and overarching thematic development therein that really seems to work.

Bowie invented The Talking Heads, Bauhaus and even Radiohead without trying. I'd be happy to support that assertion, one at which many of my friends will want to argue, but not this morning. It is too late and the day has already begun without me.

The "Gay Rock" is already off and running....

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Agreement of action

(Barkley, when he's hungry)

Last night I slept with all of the windows and sliding glass doors wide open. The winds rushed back and forth through the house, the puppy slept close by. The trees outside my bedroom window danced and whispered and sighed. I was down for just over 9 hours, almost a personal best. 

This morning, I am not allowed to eat. I must have blood drawn. It is that time in life again. If something is going terribly wrong my doctor wants to know about it, then he'll want to tell me about it. We will have to have that talk where he encourages me to change.

Feeding the dog seems unfair. He should have to go hungry with me, like two trees united in the winds. Solidarity, and all of that.

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The taste of chlorine

Everything I do in my 40's makes me feel as if I stayed in the pool too long. I'm tired and sunburned, out of breath, shivering in the shade, cautious of the diving board, bored of diving, occasionally shrieked with joy, wrinkled, racing the perimeter, near dead and drowned from grasping death; in fear of submersion; with a waning, lost, audience; searing; a single shriveled scroti, peeing in the pool. Life, barely a breath.

It should be said: the water really is cold, as am I. I hate the one weak testicle. Its soft, fruitless ways.

Everything once felt like summer now; hearing the winter, being often far from home most of all; I close the openings down, there are chills along the night and days, biting along the window; an aging man's body howling, a ghost attic, a whore's loft - a blind man's clearing of an empty house. 

With this direction steering, I'd make an okay artist, or a last blind's date.

Something dark and soft and ripe, and late.

The satisfaction of faith

(photo by Rachel Cusick)

Fuck, this virus has moved through most of the systems of my body. Last night it finally reached my tear ducts. Enormous amounts of crusty nonsense is making its way out of my eyeballs. When I awoke I could hardly open my eyes, they had been sealed shut with the remains. I noticed this happening to Rhys also but had assumed that it was just from him being young, a strange by-product of a miniature body and the sickness having nowhere else to go. But no, the eyelash scabs have attacked. 

The dreaded invaders have not entirely retreated from my lungs yet, either.

I am so sick of being sick. It has been almost a week now, with little sign of relief. Vitamin C is useless against it. Their viral grip is unpersuaded by its chewable orange healing reach.

It must be fascinating to read about.

I went to the grocery store yesterday. Barkley and I could no longer survive on crusted bread scraps alone. I don't really have a system when shopping for groceries. I just roam and accumulate until I start to feel guilty, or just after. I spent over a hundred dollars and walked away with almost two meal's worth of food. A few bananas and oranges, some lunch meat, a couple cans a soup and bottles of wine, a steak, a pre-cooked chicken.

I have stuck to my diet pretty well, though I am "in the hole" again with my two drink a day limit. I'm floating around -5, which is inconvenient considering that there's wine in the house now. Perhaps it is easier to just stop drinking for a week every now and then (about every other week), rather than trying to hold myself to a two drink daily limit. As long as I maintain a deep and abiding love for the truth then I should have no problems....

What, me worry? 

Just consider old Monte Petersen from above. He could have chosen to smoke pot, but it's just not as satisfying as his "relationship with God." Though god makes no demands that he choose, none that I know of, anyway. I know several that will swear that god's voice was completely lost to them until they started smoking pot, and dmt. Now they can see his handiwork everywhere they look, in nature and elsewhere. 

I've never heard it, myself. It was always me that was talking in my head.

I've been told that the claim of atheism is an arrogant one, that to put your faith in reason is no different than having faith in god. But I've never claimed that the mathematics that describe the universe have ever asked me personally to stop smoking pot, or that they have ever indicated that they are even vaguely aware of my existence. Now that would seem to me to be an enormously arrogant claim. 

No amount of reason ever had to die for my sins. It's been wounded here and there maybe, clipped on a wing from time to time, through neglect. The voice of reason never whispered its aversion to pot.

Not to me, anyway.

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Cock

The infirmity lingers. Today I return to work, which is just there in the next room over, the dining room. The weekend passed far too quickly. I couldn't find an adequate adventure to share with the puppy, so we just bumbled around together, being buddies. He longs for his mommy. Did I mention that they're gone? Colorado and then Florida and then Colorado, sort of.

I slept like a fat vampire last night, under sleep's spell while there was still generous light out. It must be because I am slowly recovering from my malady. I still took an adult dosage of the NyQuil solution, and then filled the little cup with water to get the remainder, just to be sure. I think I might have had a Xanax also. The tincture does a very different thing when you don't really need it. Its sedative properties are astounding. Not only did sleep offer no argument but it seemed to demand and keep my immediate company. We were likewise buddies for the night, without any bickering, cursing, or promises that we couldn't keep.

I long for my camera to arrive.


The house is so quiet without Rachel and Rhys here in the mornings. I can hardly think to write. I've gotten used to the noise and the needs, somehow, now the silences haunt.

Isn't it fun to coax a woman into saying "cock"?

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Pirates

(RLJ)

I have fallen in love with the version of Dylan's "Don't Think Twice" from yesterday. Here it is again. I want that young woman to have a successful life singing songs, to travel widely, but to still say snarky things about Edie Brickell in the press whenever given the chance, maybe get in a fist fight with Suzanne Vega, who knows, have a threesome with Rickie Lee Jones' daughter, or son, if she has either. 

Something, anything.

That's just what I want, other things might happen. It's the hat and haircut that provoke this feeling within me. 

Well, I really like the way she sings the song, anyway. It's done quite spritely. 

And so I wait; to recover from lingering illness; for Rachel and Rhys to return; for my new camera to arrive; for what else, I do not know. I'm committed to having an adventure of some sort today. I have been bed-ridden, or at least house-ridden, for days now. I want to take a drive, maybe a hike, read a book on a hilltop, fall in love with the sky, sing songs out loud to the hills, serenade the puppy.

I put on an all acoustic Rickie Lee Jones album after the indiscretion above. I don't even know if Rickie Lee Jones has any children. Her parents were vaudevillians, a word I have always liked, though one that is challenging to use often. When I was a child the word evoked many things for me. Burlesque eventually replaced it.

I'll admit it, the only reason I listened to Rickie Lee Jones was because she had dated Tom Waits, but she's good, very good, even great at times. 

What's a Burlesquevillain. I want to meet one of those. 

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It's alright

(Lisa Murray)

(The link to listen to this morning is right here)

Don't think twice, It's all right

Well, it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe

If you don't know by now

And it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe

It'll never do, somehow

When your rooster crows at the break of dawn

Look out your window and I'll be gone

You're the reason I'll be traveling on

But don't think twice, it's all right.

And it ain't no use in turning on your light, babe

The light I never knowed

And it ain't no use in turning on your light, babe

I'm on the dark side of the road

But I wish there was somethin' you would do or say

To try and make me change my mind and stay

We never did too much talking anyway

So don't think twice, it's all right.

It ain't no use in calling out my name, gal

Like you never done before

It ain't no use in calling out my name, gal

I can't hear any more

I'm a-thinking and a-wond'rin' walking down the road

I once loved a woman, a child I'm told

I give her my heart but she wanted my soul

Don't think twice, it's all right.

So long honey, babe 

Where I'm bound, I can't tell

Goodbye's too good a word, babe 

So I'll just say fare thee well

I ain't saying you treated me unkind

You could have done better but I don't mind

You just kinda wasted my precious time

But don't think twice, it's all right.

-Bob Dylan

And, of course, this one too...

"Shampood"

Fuck. I called out again. There is no joy in it. I am just sick. Too sick to work. 

I went to the doctor yesterday, only to make an appointment for a physical. It's that time. But since I was sick they cleared room for me right away in the doctor's schedule. 

I sat on the table. 

He came in and said, "There's really nothing we can do for a viral infection, just time and rest, do you need anything else?" 

"You're kidding, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't even want this appointment. Your front desk convinced me to take it because there was an opening and I wasn't feeling well. I came in to make an appointment for a physical. I can never reach anybody on the phone here when I call, so I stopped by. I have the day off today. I'm sick, ya know?"

"Well, I see you do need a prescription refill."

"Sure, but that could have waited. If you want to rape my insurance company I can help you, but not like this, please."

"Well, I'll call in your prescription and we'll see you next week for your physical."

$20.00 copay for office visit

$10.00 for 60 Xanax 

I still win, but I feel like I should be getting a little more out of all of this. 

Am I publicly proposing insurance fraud right now? We'll have to fix all of this in editing.

The best way to rob a bank is to work very closely with them. 

After yesterday's post a nearly anonymous sexist went on and on about how whiny men are, on MY Facebook page. As if..... She must be new to reading this site. That is all that I do, and not just when I'm sick. It is meant to mask those times when I am actually filled with self-pity; to always exude sickness and a need for nurturing. It is a strategy I employ to occasional success and fluctuating disaster. 

An old friend of mine had a girlfriend who was never well. If you ever made the mistake of asking her how she was then she would always unroll a litany of various aches and pains and ailments. It was as if she wheeled her deathbed around with her, wanting you to climb in. There were never any takers. Her whole family was the same. I met all of them. It was incredible. 

I have a legion of devils inside of me and I would provoke them, feigning greater and greater interest in each imaginary infirmity, asking to see various locations on the body from whence the pain emanates. This would drive my girlfriend crazy. She thought that they would detect that I was goading and mocking them. They never did. They loved me. I would offer homespun solutions to their various maladies, confirming that it was wisdom that had come down from my grandparents. The backwater sophistication of the ages could not be held in higher esteem among this crowd (I never knew any of my grandparents, etc.). 

It was quite a rush. I would just make stuff up and throw in plausible sounding ingredients every now and then, along with the word Borax when it felt right. 20 mule team!, I would occasionally exclaim, lightly slapping somebody's ailing knee. Flirtation is the best medicine. 

It was like I was cooking up imaginary crystal meth, and I just a method actor improvising. Every now and then I would show them the speed-blisters that had broken out on my head and neck, hideously gangrenous pustules, and ask them solemnly what they thought I should do. They would nurse me back into the past, a simpler time, before the pharmaceutical companies had taken over with all of their untested science and trickery....

When only my girlfriend could hear me I would claim that I was just "Spreading the Old Wives Tales"...

She thought this was hilarious, at first.

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Flu, fever, or worse

Mother-fucker! I got sick. The last few times that Rachel and Rhys have been sick I've been able to slip by without incident, even with Rhys' fascination of putting his hands in my mouth and wanting me to eat his half slobbered upon crackers. 

Not this time.

Midday yesterday I started feeling weak, with slight chills. I had thought that maybe it actually was a little crisp but then I stepped outside and it was a nice day, the sunshine felt good. Uh-oh, I thought. Later, twice, when I went to stand up my knee sort of let me know that it was prepared to mutiny. Just sudden, unexpected threats, nothing serious. 

Finally, just after lunch I called out from work (I work from home). Best thing I ever did. Isn't it a glorious feeling? The combination sensation that should not be separated, mild guilt and total freedom. 

Calling out of work is a fetishistic act for me. The phone becomes charged with a uniquely sexual energy, magical power, inhabited by sensual ghosts, etc. I worship the feeling. Sick days are glorious, particularly when you're not sick.

I had stayed home for lunch, tried to nap, hoping that a little rest was all I needed. But after I called out I decided I needed some Gatorade. When I stepped outside I realized that it was actually a very nice day out, somewhere in the mid-70's. The chill was all mine. I got in the car and it was hot, like puppy-brain-melting hot. I sat there for a few minutes with the windows up, it felt that good. I wanted to take a nap. It was the best I had felt all morning.

The grocery store was a misery. I forgot to get a basket and then tried to negotiate three Gatorade bottles, a turkey sandwich, and a bottle of NyQuil with just my feverish hands. By the time I got home I had liquid-nitrogen effervescing up and down my spine and into my legs. I could hardly stand, my balls were sore and each step was painful. I had to keep moving to prevent myself from collapsing in icy, crushed defeat. I crawled into bed and started pacing out mini-NyQuil doses, augmented with quadruple hits of Advil. This seemed to help.

Ah, sweet tincture. 

I spent the rest of the day napping off and on, trying to read, squinting and shivering. The mixture of chills, sweats and NyQuil brain bubbles running across me for the remainder of the day put me in a strange mood. I had to double-dose on the stuff for it to take any effect last night. Don't fuck around with anything other than the full strength cherry-flavored version of this magic elixir. I might have slept, nobody knows. I could have been sleep-walking in Cairo for all I cared. 

The good news: I've lost 10 pounds. I went to the gym yesterday morning, before the dreaded virus had gripped me. The scale indicated clear and unconditional surrender: 10.5 lbs. So, there's that. 

Hopefully, by the end of this illness it'll be an even 20. Then there will only be another 20 to go.... I'm sitting here sweating as I'm writing this.

Jesus, what depressing numbers. It's like He was using me to feed the multitudes. This is my body, eat this, and here's this other guy's, enjoy... be careful of his blood...

Do this in remembrance of blah, blah, blah... That's just the brain bubbles talking again.

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Taxes first, death next.

I wake at impossible hours, the approximate time that I used to leave to go out for the night. It makes no sense, but what are the alternatives?

Yesterday's late-written post was titled as a joke. I had meant, "Sonoma, Love it or Leave it!" but I'm not sure how many people got the joke. A few clicked "Like" on Facebook without reading it at all, I'm certain of it. People who have never indicated in any way that they've ever read my site before. Those who insist upon their version of patriotism as being primary, exclusive, and hopefully one day singular.  

Perhaps the slogan means something different to them than it does to me. 

Oh well. Some of you might not remember the bumper stickers. I always found them odd. As if being angry about the Vietnam war and wanting America to live up to its promise is somehow a good reason that you should leave, right away. Not just a reason, practically a commandment. It sounds like one of the enshrined articles of a national 12-step program. The aging slogan seems somehow more apt now, for many, than it did when I was a child. Though that could have everything to do with my age rather than the age of the sentiment, of course. 

"Love it or Leave It" was a catch-phrase designed as a response to the anti-war protesters, a sort of anti-anti-message. Its basic idea is obvious: if you don't like America being involved in Vietnam then get the fuck out. It is very pro-war, yet it somehow seems to misunderstand that those leaving for Vietnam might come home loving America even less, and nobody has to leave because they want things to be better. It is a message to all those who might not want to be drafted and fight in the war.

The hidden jingle within it, "Love it, then Leave it..." or "Love it, Or else!!!"

"America, Death or Flight...."

There are plenty that feel the same way now, that the country has been overrun by those who don't and can't possibly grasp its core concepts, those who never loved her blue oceans and white mountains, those who never teared up fighting Reds on Veterans Day, immigrants, etc. That any of those who would even question the traditional American way of life don't deserve to be here and should be shipped off to fight our wars for us along with most of our southerners. You know the ones, those that have never paid their fair share. The ones that have no investment here. The darkies and their ilk. 

As if, somehow, questioning is not just the opposite of patriotic, but that its true purpose might actually be discourse, if not worse: social programs.

Ah well, what can be done? I'm not even really in the mood for politics or patriotism this morning. 

But one last thing, with much uncomfortable effort some Republicans finally seem ready to reach out to Latinos, miraculously just now realizing that without them they've lost the national vote. I find it incredible that the only message they have had for the direct descendants of slaves, or even actual slaves, is that they need to invest in America if they expect to take anything out. Now they want to reach out to Latinos. 

What improved lesson can they possibly have for them, "Hey, fence-hoppers, look over here...We're not as old as we used to be...!!!"

The reasoning would be cynical and craven if it wasn't so pathetic. It is beyond me, but most things usually are.

That's all of the politics and cultural criticism I have for today.

"America is like an insurance company with an army." (often credited to Paul Krugman, though he denies being the originator)

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"America, Love It or Leave It!"

(A loose, wandering cock)

"Because what happens to anybody who gets into any kind of forced/regular writing is that he's bound to make a useless fool of himself now & then . . . and it's hard to set a price on that kind of reality." - Hunter S. Thompson

This will be the new lede to this site (is that the right term?), to each page and every post. It is meant as an umbrella argument: the overarching foolishness and hopeful protection of daily confession. Repeat it to yourselves whenever you read anything here that sounds fantastical, unbelievable, horrific or true. 

There is precious little tolerance for unexpected eccentricity in a small town, and even less patience for mania. They would deny this fact, of course, and point to a few regional oddities that are self-described artists or district personalities. But those few have been institutionalized, having lived here their whole lives if not longer, and their eccentrics are of modest familiarity, a sort of indifferent garden-variety excess. The local concept of deviation boils down to a few people who wear bright clothes, or lightly dance when they walk through the grocery store, humming an inner-symphony to themselves, etc. Nice enough people, I'm sure, but...

Acceptance of eccentricity requires much more mettle, and occasional steel. You have to accept it when you least expect it, when it jumps out from behind a tree in the dark: armed, naked and covered in body-paint, needing to interact, with a sort of pyrotechnic energy.

Embracing the abnormal means always being ready. Semper Fidelis, etc.

To partially wit: I was driving through paradise the other day, listening to an interview with Robert Redford. The announcer came on just before the interview began and gave a brief station "warning" that some listeners might find that the interview contained "objectionable content and language"...

Robert Redford, I thought? How?

I listened to the entire interview, very carefully. When it was over I couldn't find a single thing that might have been objectionable. I don't mean that I heard something and dismissed it as silly or inconsequential. I mean that I couldn't discern what language or content could have possibly been "objectionable" to anybody. I was completely blind and deaf to the claim itself.

I dismissed the experience as being perhaps a warning that they put in front of all interviews to shield themselves against complaint. But, I made sure to keep the station on. The next interview that was broadcast contained no such warning. I thought, Is it possible that Robert Redford himself is so offensive, as a liberal, that they put a warning before any interview with him, to just repress any chance conservative dissent? 

That was the only explanation that made any sense. If you can somehow call that making sense.


In small towns people often reserve the right to offense where none exists - reserve such rights, I mean, not offense. Offense is self-generated and once you start pandering to it there is no end.

This place might just might be quaint to the point of being suffocating. I might have made the mistake of believing that I would grow-up in a place like this. But the question remains as to what one wishes to become. I had hoped to be a farmer, I guess. They not only embrace a proscribed set of limitations here, they insist upon them.

(Editorial note: I do not confuse any actual behavioral problems I may or may not possess with my occasional foibles. I could detect more than just a few bullshit-detectors going off in that last paragraph.)

It's not that these same people don't exist elsewhere, in bigger cities. They move in from small towns everywhere and seek to convert the mentality, to impose their concepts of smallness wherever they go. But they are usually broken by a bigger city. This reason alone is why some never venture. The city is a horror to them, a sea of mixed impulses and lost control. Not a relinquishing of control, but a loss of it. They are people that are only frustrated by the need for malleability in a city.

Here, it is the precise opposite. Any hint of independent action is seen as a threat, particularly from the outside. If they enjoy any excesses at all then they must be of the rather private sort.


I have been meditating deeply on my Elvis experience the other day. Other than me being a bit eccentric and describing the meaning of a 50 year old song with such abjectly offensive language as fucking, I can't really figure out what I did that was that wrong. Perhaps my apologies weren't sincere enough. I have been accused of increasing my problems through insincere, feigned regret.

What am I supposed to do, rehearse it, or actually be sorry for something like that?

I mean it, I didn't do anything that was that wrong. What am I saying? I didn't do anything that was wrong at all. It is a bar, they do serve alcohol in the place, they must expect that every now and again one of their more colorful patrons is going to confuse the place for a crowded karaoke bar.

I'm the victim here.

I should have accused them, on the spot, of having snuck extra alcohol into my beer.


I'm not sure what I expected. Well, that's a lie. I knew what to expect. I just told myself otherwise, as an eccentric often does, and will. Only one thing is certain now: I'll be the one that's expected to change. Who knows, maybe I will... though hopefully not without a fight. I only wish this time for there to be somebody else involved.



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These thoughts are only a scrawl. They seem almost organized when typed out, even to a fault. Perhaps I should scribble them on paper first and then post a picture. The dairy of a madame... 

I wasn't able to write this morning. Maybe I should start waiting until after work to write. I'm too kind and gentle in the mornings, like a napping kitten in the lap of nuns.

But after a full sinister day at work my ire is afire.

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Hip vs. Hip

Rhys is sick. It is torturous to witness. We only get occasional glimpses into what his world might be like, of course, but clearly he's not having as much fun as he once was. Rachel took him to the doctor, he has an ear infection which then turned into a sinus cold. His eyes keep filling with crust and he seems less satisfied with the world. His wails in the night are plaintive and desperate, filled with the misery of snot. I can not get to him fast enough and once there nothing I can do. He wants his mommy, nothing else will satisfy.

This is the first time that he has ever taken antibiotics. Amoxicillin. Now, time must pass, healing must happen. 

Rachel woke up and she is sick this morning. Rhys has recovered ever so slightly. I'm next.

Yesterday, I finally ordered the camera. It is a thing of beauty, a genuine marvel of the technical age. The thing does nothing more than accumulate information. Soon, you'll see the results here. I might not be collecting any more information, but I will be collecting it differently. That's the idea, anyway. It is an article of hipster heaven. 

I wrote a friend about James Salter's new book. She did not care for it, calling it "self-conscious and precious... too stylistic." Qualities that I might enjoy in certain kinds of writing, though I would describe them rather differently. I found myself feeling defensive. A developed style in writing is a basis for criticism among whom, those who do not wish to be bothered with it?

Precious?

Salter is from another time. A different friend once described his writing, and lack of critical attention, as being the result of his approach being a form of high modernism. 

He has had the unlucky circumstance to be writing at a time when his manner is out of favor. Style is not always fashionable.

I tell myself that we live in a world in which fewer and fewer will find things of value from its own past, but I am often found wrong. The entire hipster phenomenon can be understood as a form of historical and cultural mining, made possible (or at least made easier), in this vast information age. Though I have yet to find the hipster that has read Tristram Shandy.

In truth, I haven't really been looking.

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She's mean, and she's evil....

(The power compels me)

Yesterday, at the local pub, I was having a conversation with a fellow about music. Eventually the conversation veered towards Elvis. We became stuck in his gravitational pull. This guy maintained that all of his music is "depressing," that it all is the product of a depressed mind. I requested that the bartender turn up the jukebox, reminding him that I have a hearing disability associated with age, and to not turn it up qualifies as discrimination. Then, I played "Little Sister"...

The place was lit afire with the raw sexual energy of E.

I sang it word for word along with Elvis, even besting him at spots. The crowd seemed to love this. In one of the musical interludes a woman at the bar said something about the song and I responded, "Yeah, it's about him fucking the little sister."

They turned - almost all of them, almost immediately - against me. I tried to explain that I didn't write the song. This seemed to have no effect. Then the woman said, "You were doing great up until that."

"Elvis did this to us!", I pleaded.

After more than 50 years that reprobate still has the dynamic energy to come back and haunt society in this way. I denounced it as the devil's music, offered to burn all his records, prayed for him, called upon the healing power of the holy spirit... nothing worked. They had turned and there was no winning them back. Even my buddy, the bartender, showed obvious signs of disfavor, growing increasingly agitated with each passing moment. 

It made no sense. Certainly these people must have understood that I am not Elvis, that I am not to blame for the sin of his carnality. 

There was no reasoning with them. Now I know how the big E.P. must have felt. 

The truth is a lonely business. 

Here is what caused all the ruckus:

Well, I dated your big sister

And took her to a show

I went for some candy

Along came Jim Dandy

And they snuck right out the door

Little sister, don't you

Little sister, don't you

Little sister, don't you kiss me once or twice

Then say it's very nice

And then you run

Little sister, don't you

Do what your big sister done

Every time I see your sister

Well she's got somebody new

She's mean and she's evil

Like that old boll weevil

Guess I'll try my luck with you

Little sister, don't you

Little sister, don't you

Little sister, don't you kiss me once or twice

Then say it's very nice

And then you run

Little sister, don't you

Do what your big sister done

Well, I used to pull your pigtails

And pinch your turned-up nose

But you been a growin'

And baby, it's been showin'

From your head down to your toes

Little sister, don't you

Little sister, don't you

Little sister, don't you kiss me once or twice

Then say it's very nice

And then you run

Little sister, don't you

Do what your big sister done

Written by: Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman, 1961

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"naked amid unnaked things,"

The Mind Is Its Own Beautiful Prisoner

the mind is its own beautiful prisoner.
Mind looked long at the sticky moon
opening in dusk her new wings

then decently hanged himself, one afternoon.

The last thing he saw was you
naked amid unnaked things,

your flesh, a succinct wandlike animal,
a little strolling with the futile purr
of blood; your sex squeaked like a billiard-cue
chalking itself, as not to make an error,
with twists spontaneously methodical.
He suddenly tasted worms windows and roses

he laughed, and closed his eyes as a girl closes
her left hand upon a mirror.

- ee cummings

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The continuing Panasonic saga

When Rachel got home yesterday I relayed the bad news about the camera getting stolen, explaining that I was going to have to smack a crackhead in the face with a shovel now, and that we don't even own a shovel, we'll have to borrow one, that it's all getting too complicated. 

She said that the camera has been in her car since Monday, she moved it to the glovebox so it would be safe. I ran out to the car as if it was Christmas morning and I a newly awoken child of 5. Sure enough, one of them had snuck out of the city, broken into our car, probably took a nap there, but then planted the camera in the glovebox for me to find. Magical.....

I checked the pictures, they were all there. There were none of anybody breaking into our house and sticking our toothbrushes up their butts, or brushing their ball hairs with them. There's that to be thankful for. I hear it's a real problem. 

So, the mystery was solved before I had even written up the full report. We can close the case on that one.

No crackheads will die today.

I was going to write about the Sigur Ros show I went to see on Wednesday night but I don't have it in me this morning.


Rachel and I must plan a trip soon. The summer will get away from us otherwise. One of the main reasons we moved to the West coast was all that is offered here in that regard, the beauty of it. The East coast is a great place to put up billboards. The landscape looks almost identical going south from D.C. all the way to Miami, except for the palm trees. North of the capitol it is identical, except for the occasional skyline to break up the industrial waste, at least as it is near the highway.


I was also going to post a picture of a crackhead with this post, thinking that it might be funny, like David Chapelle, but it wasn't. I mean, it really wasn't. The images are just too sad to laugh about.

Do a search, you'll see... not for crack, but for pictures of those who do.

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Stolen: Innocence

Fuck! I got my little camera stolen yesterday. I was wandering around 6th and Market, up to 8th after work, with it in my bag, with only a piece of velcro protecting it. I had been warned. The security team at work took the time to tell us that there are professional thieves wandering up and down Market in that area of SF. That's all they do: look for bags that they can sneak their hands in. 

I'm going to beat the hell out of a random crack-head, for vengeance, maybe a few of 'em. How illegal is it to run them over with your car?

I'm gutted. I feel like a hillbilly that wandered into town. It's not even like I got all of my money taken at the game where you have to guess which cup the fuzzy red or yellow ball is under. That, at least, might have provided some entertainment. All I'll get out of this is the shame of my naivety. 

I loved that little camera. I took it everywhere with us.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...!!!!

I want to smack a thief in the face with a shovel.

 

I want that very badly, to smack a thief in the face, with a shovel.

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Sigur Ros

Tonight, after work, I will go to a concert. I'm not sure if it's considered "rock" or not. It's Icelandic, so it's difficult to say with any certainty. Bjork has taught us not to assume too much.

I listened to  a few pieces on the drive in to work today. I say "a few" because it is an accurate description. Each track is about 40 minutes long. I expect the concert to last a few days, perhaps a week.

No, I kid.

I haven't heard their new album, perhaps it's chock full of scorchers.

I have brought an emergency vial of thorazine in the event that I get too excited.


Okay, I'm already at work and have no time to write.

The internet needs me.

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Fear

We live much of our lives in darkness and confusion, never understanding why we do what we do, or what has happened once it does. 

Love is tougher for some than others, often those that need it the most. 

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The California poppy

The Eschscholzia Californica have bloomed again.

Okay, sometimes I get a little too carried away with my atheism. I have listened to people spout nonsense about their religion all of my life, myself included, and sometimes I just lose my mind at it. 

Then, something will happen and I am quieted, if not humbled:

Yesterday, after posting my screed, making up a few things freely as I went along, just as the writers of the old and new testaments must have been doing, I found myself browsing the internet. A friend had posted a picture of a young boy that I didn't recognize. It would have been his birthday, and she his mother. He passed away a few years ago. I wanted to write something, as many already had. But what can be said, really? What possible contribution can I make in the face of such a thing? It is impossible to imagine, and difficult to stop trying. It forces the mind into a place from which there is no escape, no resolution and no ready-made rationale to assuage the enormous feeling of it, the endless emptiness. There is only the painful mystery of death. It is unfathomable in the truest sense. 

I thought of it all day yesterday, this morning when I awoke. I can not shake it.

I made the mistake of telling Rachel yesterday. Almost immediately came the tears, demanding that I stop, which I did. Later on in the day she would say something that I would think was about the boy, or his mother, and I would continue. She would correct me, Please, no, no... I wasn't talking about that.

Who could possibly deny Christianity for the mother of that boy, if she so chose? If that is how she opted to try and make some sense of it, to answer the mystery with a personal promise clutched from the cosmos with the premise of a loving god, and the defeat of death.

Not me, and I do not mean this in a condescending way, at all. I really mean it. I would argue against religion to most. Of what use is atheism there, of what harm Christianity?

I know what my atheist friends will say to me... If you can justify Christianity here then why not also in your own death. I can't answer that. I know that it makes no sense, but the argument feels suddenly foolish.

There is nothing to attach to it, nothing to justify. There is only nothing, and then more nothing; as far as the mind can stretch and the heart can reach, emptiness.

Nothing happens in a vacuum, but it also happens for all time.

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"And the sabbath rang slowly..."

No more installments of the possibly doomed love affair this morning. I had bored of writing about half forgotten dreams, coffee, and the weather. Perhaps I'll pick up the serialized romance again later this week. Yesterday's post was written months ago, but it fit, so... I stole it. 

It's just practice, though for what I do not know. Being a better storyteller, I guess. A father should be a good storyteller, though not necessarily a fabulist.  My father tried to imbue a morality lesson in all of his stories, usually involving the value of hard work. I could see through it and I hated him. I thought that he was a fool.

Did I ever relay the story here of how he made me throw most of my books away. He claimed that they were a fire hazard. He had forced me to put many of them out in the garage, where they were ruined by the Florida humidity. They all just started falling apart in my hands. The glue could not keep the bindings together any longer. Then, because he wanted more space, he claimed that they were in danger of causing a fire. I tried to reason with him: explaining that books, while flammable, did not automatically burst into flame and consume houses. If this were the case then nobody would allow their children to visit libraries. They all got chucked out anyway, sent to the incinerators. 

Man, I hated him.

Well, I suppose I should learn to let all that stuff go. I wasn't exactly a childhood Locke, or a Rousseau.

How charming and wonderful, a little rhyme...

And perhaps you thought that I was going to write more about the unholy act of penetration this morning. No, you see, it's the Lord's day...

Speaking of Sodom: God did not destroy the city for their love of anal sex. Oh no, it was for insolence, their obsession with wealth, and their refusal to help the poor.

Many do not know that oral sex also qualifies as sodomy. It is an umbrella term that encompasses any form of sex that dose not include a righteous penis going into a supposedly virginal vagina, sanctioned by the almighty in marriage. Some women do not care for any type of sodomy. The devil hates them most of all, because his evil has no way in. 

Masturbation is not included in the sin of sodomy, though I have tried and tried to elevate the act for possible consideration, if for no other reason than to provoke the mighty wrath of Khan.

That is my sunday school lesson today. The importance of understanding god's beautiful will for you. 

Do not make love in your anus or mouth, particularly in that order. It is an abomination, one that showering does not erase. Your shame is amplified through all the cosmos when the devil hovers over you this way. It's not pleasure that you feel, it's just the beating of his wings above you.

Between every good Christian woman's legs there are also sleeping angels. So, be careful.

You see, God loves you from a mighty distance, like a celestial stalker. He knows the count of hairs on your pubic region, but he will always be separated from you, because of your sin. Eating from the tree of knowledge was like having a universal restraining order issued, and he is understandably angry about it, but desperately loves you and wants you to stop what you're doing right away. Behold, he's crying in a van outside your house.

Now remember, he loves us in an unlimited way, though always from afar. He simply can not be near sin (re: Sodom and Gomorrah actually means "Cease and Desist" in some translations). It is his nature and will.

When you look back and only see one set of footprints on the beach, those were the times when he was about 60-80 yards behind you.

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... they both stop moving

(Ira Bordo)

The key slides into the lock and is turned. Its mechanical release echoes into the hallway. They both enter quickly, her then him. He turns to lock the door from the inside, she walks into the room, flipping the switch, bathing them in soft light. They set their bags down. He asks softly if she wants champagne. 

“The cheap stuff is fine.”

He prepares two glasses from the small bottle in the fridge while she opens the blinds. The night outside is complete. They are above the skyline, facing south. The room’s view is of only sky and distance. He studies her outline against the window, her figure from behind, facing outwards, reaching, drawing the light blinds open. It somehow seems to make the room larger but darker.

She comes to him, they kiss. They each drink. They kiss again, then drink again slowly.

She heads off towards the bathroom, taking her glass with her. He crouches at the stereo and puts on some music. It’s music that the hotel has left in the player, a collection of songs that are meant to be heard. It begins, innocuous as possible, a modest defense against silence. He can hear the water running in the sink. He sits on the edge of the bed and considers their evening. 

She asks for her bag, her voice muffled slightly by the water and the music. He obeys. He brings the smaller of the two bags, knowing. At the door to the bathroom he notices that she has already taken off her shoes and belt, they lie tossed aside and coiled together on the floor. He approaches her from behind and holds her, looking at her in the mirror. She leans forward and laughs, putting her hands face down on the counter, turning her head to look back at him.  

She holds her head in profile for a moment, her mouth open as if she is about to say something for him to consider. She stands up, placing herself against him. He wraps his hands around her and buries his face in her neck, in the hair around her neck. His hands slide to her waist. He steps back and out of the room.

She emerges seconds later, as she was. They each abandon a few more pieces. She playfully leans onto the bed as he drops his belt next to his shoes. Her hair has been let down from the mystery that held it. Each motion she makes leaps forward in time. Their abbreviation of restraint dissolves in front of them.

She moves towards him. Time stops. There is a flurry of motion, then they are united.

They undress quickly, standing closely together, as if they are traveling together through airport security. All the while they are staring at each other, face to face, rushed hands offering to help one another. They move together, naked enough, towards the bed. His hand slips behind her and then moves lower, pulling her into him. They fall onto the space beneath them. Time passes and begins again, though slowly.

Together, underneath the covers, the soft light soaks them in tandem, in shared fever. Beneath this sheath there is just the pungent smell of sweat, of them. He raises up, the light floods in from both sides. In that light a secret between them escapes. The fresh air reminds them. More. He lowers himself towards her, into their shared shadow. A drop of sweat lands on her chest, her neck, and then her chin. She closes her eyes again. Their lips meet over and over.  He moves onto his his elbows. From just above he admires her, relieved to be able stare.  

As they move together again there is a look of determined concentration on her face, almost childlike in its soft intensity. Her jaw tightens.  Sighs burst forth, exasperations in breath. She turns her head towards the bed, her profile to him, the twist of her neck. Her mind constricts around its hidden idea of pleasure, her body follows. He pulls back, adjusting, he holds her legs in the corner of his arms, then leaning far forward in to hang closely above her face, breathing into her. Her eyes open mid-pulse, in fever.

There’s a sound in the hallway, they both stop moving, as if they were just caught stealing.

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Just call her Ms.

Then came lunches, preceded by the exchange of phone numbers, meeting twice for coffee. There were meandering phone calls into the evening, anticipation, suggestions, even whispers; giggling, the unexpected leaping to life. Discussions veered into and away from subjects, to confirm possibility. Dinner, inevitable, then dinners. Better wine than usual.

"Have you ever been married?"

"Once, long ago. I had a little starter marriage. It hardly qualifies."

There were the questions that need asks, the steps to make it seem necessary, the less than formal interviews, answers. Confirmation of where to shop, and why, a casual mentioning of garments still cloaked in mystery. Courtesies piled upon one another, almost crowding conversation. The initial jokes already passing into legend, the badinage giving way to something more serious, though somehow more deeply playful. Before score but somehow still game, hunt, chase, and hide, and find.

"What was her name?"

"Well, it ended in mine, for a while. I forget her given. Everybody just called her Mrs."

The past ceremoniously resurrected, brought to imaginary existence, necessarily denounced. If not yet, then soon. The impulse to be traditional runs high, to send flowers to her office, to stake an unexpected claim amongst unknown rivals. The imagination forms and sometimes fixes on what must have been, might still be. Imagined jealousies spark desire, the unknown in private orgy; something as innocent as curiosity. There will be the requisite confessions, those moments that are as tender to share as they are to lose.

But first there is, of course, one more question.

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