Musefinder.org

Summer Epic P.1

2011-07-23T05:45:00.000-07:00

JUNE
2.
Those isles are like pictures, each dotted with ink
To prescribe meaning and value for every object.
Let’s just work on nothing for nothing’s sake.
That’s just what they’ve done in this store.

Those blue lights told us that there was a promise.
Emergency like, we soared over even the eldest drones.
A deal is a deal is a deal is ideal in this sweltering space
And we never say thank you. Because it’s past that.

3.
There is thunder in the market. Lights that see you
Before you’ve even seen yourself. You’re too tangible
To remember something like that. Those windows are
Mirrors that reflect the time and state of mind. Kindling.

There is pasta, there is soda, there is everything you don’t
Have and tell yourself you don’t need or want to have. There
Is embarrassment in the basement, you are told by the signs of
Restriction. Nothing for you here, everything’s out there. Welcome!

The tiles are made of broken shell, and only one lane is open.
In your hands are freshly slain fruits which you will devour as a win.
On a whim, stop. Some things have words. Menus with delicate
Shapes long for your choosing. I am your product.

4.
So much has been had already. There is no need
Anymore. Symphonies of non-specifics holler for
You to take charge, with your charge card, and step
Out of line. These moments are a calling you somewhere.

There are those who love you, with you. Holding your hand
And praying with each breath that the decision to do so is
Right. Languid as you may be, you just may pray the same.
There is no more music, though there is plenty of sound.

It might have been something once. Now, just a smile. Just
A smile and a wave from the other side of the glass. Signs
Outside say to come again, and thanks, but it all falls
On deaf eyes. Like a wolf at a parade of kids, you survey.

Each and every lane of traffic spills out the same, but each
Feels different. Behind the handicapped your mouth gets dry;
You think of not driving and almost lose control of machine
And mind; behind the window your face condenses.

5.
All you need is medicine. All you need is rest. All your needs
Are all you need. All of everything is eternally internal. It is
Summertime and you’re freezing. Let it all play out and fall,
For fall will bring respite. There’s a razor on the bedside table.

For ever and ever, she said, and that was the way of things.
Like the holy hand of belief sweeps across the desert of denial,
We came to the place not knowing the price of admission.
All of these stars were once wishes are now just burning cold.

Looking at screens, always at screens makes the mind cold.
Like paying to go see life on screen, and spending days inside.
Inside is always where you’re entertained; it’s remedial and
Lacks any tinge of flavor. It’s not ice, it’s sand, and it wont…

We’ll do away with favors one day. And then we’ll be truly
Broke and in need of something more. It’s all about needing.
You can run away, and I can stay and stay; as long as the plants
Get watered. It’s of no consequence to our flora or fawning.

You did leave. It’s ok. I’ll stay. Just as I knew I would have to.
You do need time, as do I; but yes, I’ll look after the dog.
I know it was implied. Maybe he can join the circus.
We can all run off and pretend that nothing happened.

6.
This blister is getting old, but I still wouldn’t call it
A callous affair. There’s still work to be done.
It might rip off and become a petal; made and
Remade again as a giant fleck of dust unborn.

Agitation makes for little reasoning to be had.
Problems are gone over once more, and there
Is still no resolve. Just keep waiting for the door
To fly open and hit you in the teeth. I know.

Who’s on the staircase tonight? Trying to sleep
Past a crooked spine and twinning legs, desperate
For more reasonable cushions, and aching to
Meditate. Not me, not you, but parts of us.

Her name was Madeline. She was quite sweet.
Saccharine even. We never touched, and for this
I do not regret. If you ever met her you’d know.
There might still be questions, and the answers are yes.

This suit is becoming restrictive. More so than before.
The dog is whining again, this time, conversationally.
“Where are my vittles?” How does he know that word?
He just does, and he wants them. We both want more.

I’d take a pet on the head as encouragement
Any day. It’d get the rain off my shoulders.
Or maybe just the dandruff in my soup.
Those aren’t crackers, they’re troubles.

7.
Don’t even try. Don’t command. Don’t breathe.
Bellow through the un-breathed declensions.
You made it and broke it; time to deal with it.
Get in the floor. Get in the floor. You say. You say.

One time it was a joke, as we are jokers beyond words.
But that’s really all we have left. Save for autographs
From people we’ve never really met. Mine was Didion.
Yours was one or other of the Millers; too scratchy.

I’ll never read anything again. Just keep feeding me hops.
I’m too old for water, but that’s all there is. I want to cry
But that’s water too. Yet, water from me is better than water
For me. She said she’d never do this; she wasn’t like that.

One night on the bridge another Christian told me the same.
She was warm and we were experiencing the cold together.
I was not warm. I was evil, past the pheromones. We pretended
That everything was more than fine, so good.

Youth is but a stupid forest. We dig and plant seeds
And come back to see our trees. Sometimes, they suck.
Not too tall, not very berry laden, just bristly and un-Homeric.
There are seldom politics involved. More, polemics abounding.

Natural is the state which nurtures the debate.
“I cannot stand to live this way,” rings true.
Doubtless, calls are sent into the day and confusion
Contuses my brain. This is just how it works now and then.

We called them bumblebees. Those who sting and die.
In the end they are harmless. Not like all of those hornets
At the bar. Those girls spread poison, and lies. The hardest
Part is that they too keep their stingers. It’s lifelong.

8.
Let’s not be so obvious. So, throw me a veil.
I will not triumph here. But nor will I fail.
It’s a poison which takes poise to inflict.
It’s a porno on repeat. It’s maddening sick.

What are we going to do with this information?
We’ve made diner of it, and had dreams about it.
Already, we’re showing our ageist roots.
This is not a movement, just a distraction.

We started reading books together,
Before you got robbed, and robbed again.
Those were kind of good times. I still have your
Twain, and you my Minis. I want it back.

Here’s a picture: it is grey out, and there is no sky.
She is holding him, and I’m nowhere to be found.
Her parents are happy, and no one knows why
Though they show and tell the world about the past.

Let’s network. Let’s sit at tables together and do it
Online from devices. We can use them to call
Each other when we’re done networking, socially.
It’s the cold cold future baby, and we’re living well.

Don’t ask about certain things. As vague as that may be,
Just listen to that one request. You aren’t going to know
Which ‘things’ they are, or who they’re about. Just know
That some things are holy in this home called a head.

What table have we been drunk under? I thought this
Was a boat. Apparently we have been lied to again.
It’s nothing more than a field afloat on broken
Shores. It is the shore, but I’m still swimming.

The need for everything to be clean is exhausting.
There’s dirt in every pore and ants on every pole.
Grime does not discriminate. It multiplies with
Every facet; every decision gone awry.

9.
That air is pretty dry. Too dry almost.
You said after finishing your cigarette
That smoke is too dense, and I can’t do rings.
You said upon the porch; your hair up in a tail.

Let’s just swing today. All day, on the swing,
Bring the dog. No, I don’t care if he comes.
Anything to stop the howling. He’s probably
Got vertigo up there. We’re all too little.

Such huge ideas; too hip even for us.
I wrote ‘statement’ across my blanket.
It looked ugly and I had to scrub it in the sun.
It was like burning a barn I’d just won

At auction, where we lost our minds,
I’d asked for something un-ironic
To be played. No games. No rhetoric.
No music. Just a dollar-store prompt.

Surely that’s enough to go on. A tome
Of treats is what’s asked for, and a bag
Of dirt is what’s given. It’ll still go to use.
The crops are ready I think. But how to pull out?

Why’s it so dry inside? There’s no seeds?
I could’ve sworn there shoulda’ been seeds.
Perhaps this is losing your shit. It certainly
Ain’t not that. Maybe I’ll go swim it off a bit.

Estrus, oh Estrus, accompany me down by
The pond. You are in need of washing,
I fear I may have stained you. So, just come
And let us bathe. Yours forever, Detritus.

Limits can’t be forgotten, it’s too sunny
For that to ever happen. At least this month;
I’ll just let the swelter take from my swagger
Take a fake walk and sniff a few lawns for answers.

Yes, answers. Delicious as they may seem.
Are the very conclusions drawn from
That very same dry air. Not one movement
But many to tie to in these unholy aisles.

10.
Swill and strain, sleep and repeat, never
Remember to stretch. Pants rolled high
On able shins, ready to bolt into the blazing
Acidic burning that is well-being. Being well.

Having once been an animal, it is a temptation
That continues to inch into periphery. With eyes
Like a flounder the whole image is often missed,
Even though a new one, the only one, is seen.

Animal objectivity is “give me, it’s mine,
I need it, why can’t you appease?” mostly
Said in screaming. Rationality is above this
Stance. Swill and strain, just drown it away.

It’s always a holiday when those lights get
Left on. Always a party, the life of which
Can never be attained. All that can be done
To satisfy the itch is a ruffling of the fur.

Animal family gets lost in separate woods
The headline should read. With large spreads,
Bearing photos of midnight beasts seen from
Afar, with silly little captions scrawled under each.

Boy bitten by fate, bewildered.
Girl stuck in the shadow of aspirations.
Man forever fleeing acrimonious deed.
Woman resting by the stream in wait.

There’s no more party once that hits
The hands of the interested, not really
So interested after all. Anyway it’s just
News. Not even the truth. Heat trumps all.

It’s all anyone can talk about or tell about.
Common knowledge born of empathy,
Packing the air conditioned aisles, causing
The price of milk to soar to new heights.

The blood of life. The blood of Christ, were
He an animal we would not know. Just put a
Pill in it; let it sink to the bottom and curse
Everything you ever wanted. Still shopping

There is only what can be gained.
Thank you for that, however. Thank
You, is there more to be had? Past
Every disposition, is there more?

1.
Very little. Check yourself out, but
Do as your told or don’t participate.
This place is cold and its patrons hungry.
It is lavish like a gulag with an open door.

Spring to Summer

2011-05-23T12:41:00.000-07:00

Solstice

I.
It is that time for alter-egos
to resurface, and for the air
to swim in our lungs and
cause us to cough and sniff.

Watching smoke dance from
the mouth of a pint can,
writhing in the sunlight, and
wearing sunglasses in your room

knowing that the owls of
the daytime are doing the same.
It spells 'special' for those doing
wrong, and little more than 'usual'

for those doing right in the eyes
of someone, who might be no one
but themselves. Judging nothing.

II.
Fizzier than the head of a poorly poured
beer, you flail into the room, soon
to dissipate; mouth agape and laughing.

Spillage occurs and apologies are
met with pity and little reflection.
This is the evening you'd planned.

You curse about everything and
continue laughing, even after
everyone else has stopped.

Perhaps stomach cancer will
set you straight, or even maybe
cirrhosis. Which you're surprised

that you still know how to spell.
Oh well, what's one more sullied
shirt? It's a bandage on your pride.

You've done whatever it is you came
to do. You've inspired ugliness and
derelict distraction. Good job.

III.
This moment, this tree, this picture
untaken, and underdeveloped--

These things make you whole.
These things make you supple.

Go ahead and batter the world,
make use of its forgiving memories.

Take the time to relish freeness,
this pack of smokes, unsmoked.

Anything can take place when a
phone rings, or a car pulls up.

But no, right now, there's no
emergency. Nothing to pull you

under. This moment is an exercise
in patience, and tolerance of

the very virtue itself. It is blissful
discipline which will get you home safe.

IV.
Despise cold days and mathematical functions.

Forget of longing for the places you aren't.

No longer bemoan syntax or the logistics of home.

Remember that you have no home; rather a place with things.

Beleaguer the urge to bitch about nothing.

Command away the command to produce for free.

Disable all rhymes, and schemes, that may deter your actual sight.

Freely display your intuition as it displays unto you.

Laugh at yourself, and really do get tickled.

Never concede to your regal blood, because yes, you're still just reveling

You Were Worried

You were worried

You'd "fuck it up."
I'm not bothered though.

Fearing for the future,
That inevitable ugliness,
Is admitting you have no control.

And you don't.
Neither does the sky;
All its whims played through
Roughly or serene.

Nor does the dirt
Your bare feet tracked in
At four in the morning,
When sleep wasn't available.
Only smoke and numbness.

Right now, I'm not dreaming
Of tomorrow, sunny days or
Clean floors. Now it's about
What kind of home can be built

Out of momentary glances,
Grins, and the glaze of grace
That is painted on our skins.

We're but hides. Small people
With small lives,

Living, together.

Gymnasium

The church used to be a gymnasium
I'm sure of it. Something about the floors
and missing bolts from the holes in walls.

There was little left to do but scribble
on a small piece of paper and wait for
him to be brought in with floral adornment.

Terribly unfamiliar with the etiquette
of such a situation, making sure not
to cry. Only sweat to make me moist.

*

The procession was grand and oddly
familiar. So much family filling out
the ranks. Odd, but only six of 'em

trailed behind the box. There'd been
no prayers in my house for close to
twelve years. But they all come back.

Every line, every wince, every tentation,
every word beaten in by the parochial
parish of youth. All familiar distractions.

*

I'm glad that casket is closed. I am not glad
that casket is closed. Though I can not bear
the thought of seeing my friend all waxy again.

These prayers do little for me, as I know
it's just a motion that is being gone through.
We all cry together, tears of distant proximity.

We're all in the room. Even the invalids made
it. (perhaps to recognize that this will be them
soon). And all the sudden I'm jealous of them.

*

When the wheel'd box is delivered outside
I stay on the corner, exchanging touches. As
I make off down 2nd street, smoking through

a tearful smile, I see the hearse again and light
another; wondering why I smile at fortune
upended. We'd so many plans to carry out.

Once again, I'm naked and it is starting to rain.
The past week has shown me my worth and
I'm going home. I do not know the etiquette.

Fama's Supermachines

2010-08-27T08:00:00.000-07:00

In Brooklyn, NY there appears to be a flurry of enticing written work that is spreading far and wide. I was recently fortunate to interview one of the borough’s poetic practitioners whose work I greatly enjoy: Ben Fama. In an effort to try and place where the Brooklyn scene stands for the rest of the world, I put forth the following…

DJ: Since Whitman, Brooklyn has always maintained a literary heritage. In your opinion how strong is Brooklyn’s place in world literature?

BF: Whitman wrote at a time when everyone was focusing on the violence and injustices that the different social groups in the city were enacting on each other. But he remained open, and refused that cynicism. He saw through the violence to a city of pleasure; probably because he actually was in love with all the different types of people you could see around (and still can).
Right now, its hard to say how Brooklyn is affecting world literature, however, I think it is the best city in the nation for writers. So in that sense, it’s the most important place for American writing. And as much as American writing influences what else is going on, Brooklyn rules; though it seems like we’re taking influence from other places, like Berlin, and the eastern European countries.

DJ: I have heard your work compared to Frank O'Hara’s. He seemed to draw his material from the people and landscape in which he thrived. In your new book, "Aquarius Rising" do you feel that your influences were more celestial or culled from the city around you?

BF: I remember reading that most people don’t read their own work, so I got nervous and then tried to start doing this. I’ve realized that the biggest influences on me are the intimate friendships and relationships I’m a part of, and enduring in the present that we are always trying to make something from. I guess I’m just saying that there are deeper things that have an effect on you whether you accept that or not, and for me that idea is a source for my primary imagination to understand what I think about things. Skeptics will say, there are so many contradictions around us, they mean nothing. Mystics say, there is so much, something has to be true. For me the most fun is to get in there and fuck with that. My influences are private desires, and my poems inevitably voice collective concerns.
About Frank O’Hara: I always thought his biggest lesson was in the way he could turn out a poem without taking it too seriously, even if the poem was thematically serious. I also think that when people talk about “The New York School” they really mean Frank O’Hara. He died 44 years ago, which is 4 years longer than he lived. When I think about the most exciting writing happening right now, I usually look a little outside NYC. For instance some of my neighbors, Christian Hawkey and Uljana Wolf split time between Brooklyn and Berlin. Uljana has just been featured in the Chicago Review as part of a portfolio of Berlin poets. Also my favorite poet, Tomaz Salamun, is Slovenian. I would take him over Ashbery ten times out of ten.

DJ: One of your lines "Try doing something beautiful / it's like wrestling yourself out of an executive headlock" stood out to me. Do you feel that your work is beautiful, and if so, what did you have to break free from?

BF: Sure; the influence of the past, and the limits of my own imagination. Every time I try something new in a poem I suppose it is like breaking out of a headlock.

DJ: The book is out now on Ugly Duckling Presse. They also dedicate a lot of energy to re-discovering and translating foreign poets. As a writer, are these translations of value to your craft, and do you hope to have your work treated with the same consideration elsewhere?

BF: Two of my favorite books by Ugly Duckling are Marina Temkina’s WHAT DO YOU WANT, and Tomaz Salamun’s POKER. Both still in print. Both of these books were formative to the way I think about the architecture and vibe of a poem. They also published a translation of Elena Fanailova’s THE RUSSIAN VERSION and won a big award for that. Genya Turovskaya, one of the best poets writing right now, co-translated that book. She’s one of the editors of the Eastern European Poets Series, along with Matvei Yankelevich, who is sort of the de-facto face of UDP, and quite a good poet too. If my work ever received the same treatment that this team gives to their foreign language translations, I would be getting the best kind of treatment possible.

DJ: Is there any advice you'd impart to those who are interested in translating and discovering new work?

BF: Send Facebook pokes relentlessly to your favorite poets, even if you don’t know them. Eventually they’ll listen.

Ben Fama is the author of the chapbook Sun Come and co-author of the chapbook Girl Boy Girl Boy (Correspondences, 2010). He is the founder of the Brooklyn-based Supermachine Reading Series and poetry journal. His work has appeared in GlitterPony, Pank! and No, Dear Magazine, among others.

The trailer for "Aquarius Rising" can be found here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=McLSGG6ABMQ

EARS OF THE NATION

2010-08-16T17:33:00.000-07:00

SETTING: The Oval Office, Midnight. Early spring.

AT RISE: We see PRESIDENT SMITH pacing around

his office. DAVID TAYLOR, his senior

advisor is sitting quietly. After a

moment, he opens his briefcase and places

a small zip-lock bag on the end table.

TAYLOR
I didn't want to show you this but you've forced my hand.

SMITH
What is that?

TAYLOR
Another dead bat. Yet, another...we're losing them by the gross. At this point we don't know how long they'll last. The mosquitoes are already on the rise, Sir.

SMITH
...One blood sucker for another, Damn. I just don't understand it!

TAYLOR
DAMMIT Mr. President, I've told you! The emissions! This is the result of your decision make alternative fuel with okra instead of--

SMITH
Don't you say it--

TAYLOR
Corn...Corn, Mr. President. It's the only way. Now, I suggest you call Nebraska before it's too late.

SMITH
I can't. I won't. There has to be something else.

TAYLOR
Why can't we use the corn sir?

SMITH
BECAUSE IT'S DELICIOUS! (Pause) It's precious, and as Americans we can't afford to waste it.

TAYLOR
(Pause, deep sigh, rubs face.) They're may be one way. But it's risky and I don't think you'll like it.

SMITH
What, please god, anything. Just don't take my corn. Not for fuel. Anything.

TAYLOR
They call it Churnolium... It's new, but it works. Only it's made of butter sir. We'd need it all, too.

SMITH
(Drops to his knees) NOOOOO!

CURTAIN

Those Using Used Books

2010-08-01T07:47:00.000-07:00

I have been voraciously reading used paperbacks for as long as I can remember. Everything from a torn and tattered copy of “The Crying of Lot 49,” from the initial print run, to modern classics like Joyce and Camus, in French. These small gems of joy have always held a certain air of fascination for me, and only lately am I finding that this is more so based on the fact that in many cases, I am certain that these volumes —my volumes— have already been poured over and studied by others; and I truly believe that the reader's influence still lingers on each and every dog-eared page and underlined sentence.
Recently, I saved a few paperbacks by Graham Greene from the bargain carts outside of the East Village bookstore where I work. At the time, this discovery seemed to me as little more than a coincidence. Given the nature of bargain carts, and their intended disarray, I felt fortunate to find two novels by the same author side-by-side. But it wasn't until I had purchased both, for a total of 50 cents, that I realized the true significance of my finds through the subtle inscription on the title page of each: 'Markson, Mexico '61.' These were the books of our recently deceased bookshop acquaintance, novelist David Markson who passed in early June of this year.
In setting out to place the relevance of these particular works to Markson's career —a man credited by David Foster Wallace as penning “the high point of experimental fiction this century”-- I was glad to find an interview in which Markson explained his time in Mexico and the genesis of his exploration into the possibilities of fiction. And, of course, who better to guide him than the masterly Greene. From this summation, I have become drawn into the idea of all of the questions I would have asked the novelist were he still alive and stopping into the store. I cannot help but feel that I somehow slighted myself from not realizing that this man I looked up to was not some intimidating, distant figure who drank with Dylan Thomas, but just a person who, like any, relied on influence and conversation to fuel his work and get him through the day.
A good friend once told me that “there is no use in competing with the living; only the dead.” and now I believe that I understand his point much more clearly than I ever could have before. Had I taken the time to speak with Markson on a more personal level, perhaps I would find a new sentiment behind the books we've now shared. Instead, I am left with pages of ominously unmarked text. Two books that I am having a hard time finishing, because I want to discuss them with someone who's read them and been influenced by them. As my bibliophilic mania continues on, this episode has served as a strong reminder that those who are living and creating around us, or even trying to create, must be chatted up; must be celebrated for their efforts; and most importantly, must be appreciated in their lifetime and given an honest chance to defend and express themselves without fear of unhealthy competition. This is a lesson I've yet to come across directly in any paperback, but one that I will gladly share with anyone who'll take the time to listen.

Aleph

2010-07-25T14:40:00.000-07:00

א
Hand held radios on every wall called all eyes closer, beckoning inspection of the personal and public history some of us in the room had lived and others of us had studied. When the room filled, chairs were brought in, a trap set was assembled, and a dusty projector revved. It got quiet and the mumbling died slowly, giving way to the curator who owned the floor. The program was laid out, applause was given, lights faded, and we were in darkness, breathing in the silent, scattered images flashing before us. A cat, a woman, Hebrew letters, spikes in arms, a young boy in fields of pot, more hand held radios adorned with blank faces; a woman dancing, smiling and going closer to a mirror which revealed unkempt teeth. Hands opened, hands closed; a middle distance runner, stilled by image; a brunette danced, wild, naked, exposed to the red aura around her. Men taking tokes, and sax players whose muses were elusive jaunted past the eye. The naked brunette climbed out of bed to light a cigarette and crawl back between the covers; Mick Jagger’s ghost appeared. More dancing, more color, motorcycles moving on super-8 towards cosmic entrancement. We saw a man, in the final moments, making a tie of an old shirt and preparing a shot. We had forgotten about the boy, and for those of us who were ignorant of the story behind all of this, we could do no more than sit, stunned and disarranged, feeling something that we did not know.
*
The lights rose, and the young boy from the film (now old) came before us to read pages about his life and share stories about the images. We granted him attention, seeking to assign meaning to the broken stills; wanting to fix them in our minds. His information provided context, he smiled, and the lights went down once more. The musicians were introduced and the film began again, that time to the crash and clamor of free association. Everything became more raucous and clear. The dancing was personal: the woman was the boy’s mother; the cat once rode on the artist’s shoulders—was even doing so when the dancing woman met him. The radios were the same that hung around us on the walls, and Mick Jagger was still a ghost from the Tami show, though seen from a theater seat. The musicians pounded wildly and the information took shape. In my throat it all welled up, and I wanted to scream at them to stop, but no; it was only 8 minutes, and they were overflowing with life. It was then possible to understand what those inexpressible abstractions meant. Tosh told us that the film was for personal use, and played on the walls of his father’s studio for acquaintances: An ice-breaker which revealed all of the freedom and madness associated with the man and his time. Projected through an unhurried eye: Visions of despair and happiness, blanked, telling the story of the undoing of everyone present; a collage of the mind, telling us all that we need to know; sometimes, even more. We were meant to take these images, sort them, store them and relish in their music.
*
The final note had been blown, and we all began to cheer. A new understanding had been made, and we seemed to have lived as it was seen by the boy and his father. In the light, the poets had found and filled the corners of the gallery; the students were still sitting on the floor, scribbling to record their impressions for class, or for their quarterlies. And in between it all, we were still whirling with a humility bordering sadness. We smiled and said our goodbyes to everyone whose name we’d remembered from before the intimate spectacle; making one more round past all of the hand held radios, and their accompanying images. Off into the night, we walked for blocks through the cold New York streets, aspiring to find strong drinks and the warmth of California. ‘Not this night, but some day soon’ we actually thought aloud. It was all still coming together; the visions melting together and solidifying a purpose unlike the notions that once held fast, after the first visceral viewing, and then again by the second, loud and informed mystical mélange. We filed down avenues looking for familiarity. When we finally found and recognized faces, we treated ourselves like old oak barrels, working hard to un-furrow our brows and whet our pursed lips. In the room of red and black, light was not needed. It was like the images we had just seen. Music was creating a context for our experiences; new personal histories. Us, making our own messy collages of mind and body, meeting in the distance, shown the way by Scotch on the rocks, dancing through the letters we wrote and only understood later. From Aleph to Tav, we had begun to categorize the images; seeking a respective undoing.
ת

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3maJ6b0pBkg

Talkshow

2010-07-25T14:33:00.000-07:00

At the time of the accident, Daniel “Boneface” Baker was only four-years-old; wearing red shorts and suspenders. He was playing on the front lawn. He didn’t know that when he went to pick up the Frisbee he’d just thrown it would cause him to brush up against a man on a ladder. But as he lay in the yard, momentarily catatonic in the early morning sun, his only thought was “I am dead.”
His parents were able to sue the worker who they’d hired to etch the window of their humble clerestory (as a result of his haphazard handling of his hydrochloric acid) but even the lifetime financial freedom did nothing for the bleached and sickening appearance of Daniel’s face.
In time, namely after the passing of his disfigured adolescence and acceptance of his new nick-name, he was resigned to living as an emotionless shell. This was partly in fact because his lack of facial muscles and subsequent stone like demeanor.

On a particular summer day in 1997, Boneface, then 29, was sitting inside his condo watching a locally produced afternoon talk show. The subject was bland and involved fathers. Boneface could have cared less. He was waiting on groceries to arrive, as they had every week since he’d moved into the condo, at 3 o’clock; the ending time of the program. Oh, how he loved TV and groceries.
As the sob stories continued, Boneface stared on. At the show’s conclusion, as the overly-tanned host announced the next day’s topic, Boneface took notice: Modern Day Freaks. He almost let himself get mad about the topic, but then remembered that it was probably just what people wanted to see.
When the groceries arrived, he set about the task of putting them away and deciding what to eat. His mother was still responsible for ordering his groceries. This meant that every time there was sure to be some subtle surprises included. Some weeks it was a new kind of cereal, or yogurt, this week it was a medium-sized bag of apples, a pan, and pie-crust. Thus, Boneface took the cue and called his mother who walked him through the steps of baking a pie.
He waited for a little while until the kitchen began to get hot and the smell of burnt sugar, and when the time came, he took out a mitt and bent down to remove his treat. As had happened so many times before in the past years, he went about this task reflectively; staring into the waves of the open oven and wondering what it would be like if he turned off the pilot and let himself drift. But, as was always the case, he resigned himself to his task, removed the pie, and sat it on the counter.
After a time, he removed a knife from one of the kitchen drawers and scored the pie. He took a slice and returned to his indentation on the couch. With the first bite his naïve excitement faded. The food he so longed for tasted like nothing; again. He finished the pie in silence, and called his mother to thank her. She didn’t know that he couldn’t taste because, while he had no emotions to speak of, he still felt compassion for the few who’d cooked for him.

As the afternoon gave way to the stars from beyond his patio, Boneface stood at the glass door and gazed out, ignoring his reflection. He liked to watch the people come and go from the building. For most, he even made up stories about who they were and where they were going. But tonight was different, and he could only watch.
When it was time to apply his nightly ointment, he pulled a chair to the window. It was the same as usual: the TV humming in the background, and people with appearances to keep up going about their duties. Boneface thought to exhibit jealously over their good fortune, but he realized that this would involve effort, and was not worth the time. “It’s not so bad” he thought. “A nice place. Too many people to bother with. money…this is my work.”

His face twitched, attempting astonishment, at a scene unfolding below as a white town car unloaded its passengers: a ravishing young woman, and the tanned TV talk-show host from the program he’d seen that afternoon. He watched them enter the building, and he pulsed with excitement that the host--his host-- was in the building. He wanted to meet the man who he’d watched for so many years; the man who told him so much about human suffering. He rose again from his chair, and took his medication with a hearty four fingers of port on the side. This made him feel warm, and alone, and in need of something. So many nights in his life he had felt this sensation. This ritual always put him in just the right state of wrong.

Within an hour he’d had a few more drinks, cleaned and concealed his pie knife, and was stumbling through the halls. As he wandered he imagined the things he would say or do if he saw him. By then, he was in a mild rage about tomorrow’s topic and unashamed to be seen by the public. He wasn’t thinking about his looks, he was thinking about finding the host and asking what he thought about “freaks,” really.

To his drunken amazement, he was given this chance earlier than expected. On the third floor, around the first corner, by the elevator, the host stood, lip-locked and disheveled with his companion. He watched on with astonishment as the two gradually took notice of his presence.

“Can we help you with something, buddy?” the host called down the hall.

Boneface stood silently, perhaps star-struck by this acknowledgment and, for some reason, fuming.

“I jus wanen to aks chu abou c’her take on ‘dis freaks.” He said, lacking all eloquence and elocution.

“What? Get the fuck out of here freak.” The host’s face contorted “Go!”

Daniel remembered with his palm why he’d brought the knife. Tonight he was fated to make a difference for everyone like himself. Tonight he would make the host’s next show for him. Then he’d finally try on the oven for size.

Benediction

2010-07-25T14:18:00.000-07:00

I’d seen him around town but we had never really crossed paths. I knew that he liked to drink, and I knew that he liked to talk, but aside from these things I knew little else of Hermes Baker. I did know that he’d burned a friend of mine a few months back though. Not literally, but through the presentation of some information that sent my friend into psychosis. For days (four to be precise) he wandered all over Olympia, a frazzled mess, muttering about the reasons why he would die. When asked about it, he would only reply “Hermes Baker is full of shit.” Two months later, this friend shot himself in the mouth.

Hermes had lived in town since long before my family arrived. He was a tall, lanky man who slinked down the street with a candidly exposed bald head on top, flanked by stringy blonde hair trailing off the sides. He seemed to be ill-accepted in the community, and from my stand- point, he was suspect. My step-mother was a native Olympian, and had been I and my father’s reason for moving from Seattle when I was 16. On our first day in town, she was quick to warn me about him. He’d delivered the mail for many years when she was a little girl, and in all that time had never taken the chance to speak with him. There was a strange, sharp uneasiness in her eyes whenever he walked past our house now. With each smile and nod in our direction, it was as if she’d watched him kick a thousand puppies and cried for each as it happened. I couldn’t bring myself to ask her the full story, I simply accepted her as a good woman, and he an inherent plague.
As he passed store fronts the proprietors didn’t look up, and the parents inside discretely shielded their children. He was a ghost to them; nonexistent, but always around. There was something that emanated from Hermes Baker that people just did not like. There was only one place where he was openly welcomed: Arcadia Bar, the bar he owned. It was an establishment that I presumed had very few customers, but was paid for and open seven days a week: His legacy.

I can not say what it was that made me follow him to the bar that day. Perhaps it was the dry August sun, or perhaps it was the fact that it was my twenty-first birthday and I was spending it alone and sad; but whatever it was that propelled me was exhilarating. I waited and watched from the porch as he walked down Arch Street towards Arcadia, and after he’d turned the corner I hopped from my seat and shadowed him. Down Maple, down Pine, down Spruce, and all the other tree streets, past the storefronts on Main, I watched him from a safe distance.
Outside the bar, I waited for a few moments, breathing and gathering the nerve to enter. I was quite sure that it would just be he and I, and I had nothing to say. ‘Surely anyone else who drank here had encountered the same thing.’ I thought.

Beyond the door my assumption was confirmed. There was near silence, broken only by the light chatter of the television behind the bar which Hermes watched intently. I approached slowly, with caution, fearful that he hadn’t heard me come in and might be startled. Upon choosing a stool in the corner, nearest the door, I sat down and waited for him to turn from the courtroom drama he was already invested in.
A cool minute passed before a commercial interrupted the program and Hermes formally recognized my presence. When he turned to me, my ID was already in hand.

“What’s yur dwink, guy?”

I was slightly dumbfounded by his lack of enthusiasm and speech impediment. Looking directly at me with one eye, and off to the other corner of the bar with his other, lazier, eye. It was the first time I’d seem him so close.

“I’ll…I, um…what do you have?” I said.

He turned, brushing his skullet off of his shoulder, and glanced at the bar as if he’d forgotten his own inventory, before turning back with a crack-toothed smile.

“You can see bettew than I can pwobably. It’s all wight thewe.” He said
“Oh, ah, can I have a beer then?” I replied.

It seemed that he didn’t care for my answer, and after an easy reach below the bar he retrieved a Budweiser, popped the cap, and placed it in front of me. I thanked him, but as the commercial had just ended he returned to the television.

“Can you hewe? I can tun it up, if ya want.” He said in my general direction.
“Ok.”

For the next twenty minutes I watched over his shoulder as the old man on the television took the stand to defend his innocence, only to be shut down by Sam Waterston and later convicted of rape and murder. I couldn’t really hear the dialogue, but I’d seen the episode before and still didn’t care. Afterwards, Hermes turned towards the cash register and put a tape in the sound system which sat below it. A few short moments later “Marrakesh Express” was playing at an uncomfortably loud volume. A smile shot over his face at the first mention of ducks and pigs and chickens.
Suddenly his mood lightened and he began wiping down the bar. I sensed that I’d been his only customer in quite some time; that he was simply paying me a certain amount of distanced attention. And so, in keeping with my original decision, I finished my beer as the song was concluding, and ordered another.

“You know, I’ve nevuh been to India. But, aside fwum that song, it sounds awful.” He said, rag in hand, handing me the beer.
“I haven’t either…Been to India.” I replied.

The tape continued and the dinghy bar windows grew more and more dim. There was little I could do, except pretend to enjoy the first few beers of my adult life, and wonder what would come next. In time, sides A and B had finished, leaving us in peace. I was 4 beers deep, and wanting desperately to ask him what it was that he’d told my dead friend. In stead:

“What else you got?” I said “musically – for music. What else is there?”

Taking his cue, Hermes Baker fumbled through the tapes behind the bar.

“Almon’ bwuthers ok?” he posed.
“I dun know them.” I said.

It wasn’t long before I too was tied to the singer’s proverbial whipping post, learning about the pains of the years to come. The tape continued and another man joined us. He sat at a few stools down, and was greeted by a smiling Hermes offering a beer and a shot. I then realized that the pariah I had set out to find was actually a businessman with a few regulars to entertain now and again; possibly even friends.
The evening wore on and a small crowd assembled. All of us swilled away, and after my second visit to the bathroom I could tell that I was, what I thought of as, drunk. My legs weakened, and my toes pointed every-which-way I didn’t want them to as I walked back to my stool. Once seated, I watched the patrons—all men—tend to their drinks, exchange laughs, and then tend to their drinks again. Between the fraternization (of which I was not included) and the bubbles welling within me, I gradually began to fade; somewhere, wondering why I’d come to this place.

There was a man at the end of the bar, staring into his drink, that looked like my dead friend’s dad, but he spoke to no one and wore a crusty ball cap pulled down low. I thought about the way my friend had described his father to me. Perhaps his honesty, and our grievous dads (mine: not fully recovered from his wife’s death, and his: a man who’d seen everything within his small sphere), was what drew us together as friends. That sense that all hope was lost; it was something that we feared and revered, I being new in town, and he being naturally timid. I remembered his father drunk, picking him up from school; later handing my father nails as he worked on building a new shed; the bruises on my friend’s arms that kept him in long sleeves all through high school.
I remembered the last sip of warm beer and then a flash of days past. (Suddenly I was back in high school on the day I realized that my friend was in serious trouble. It was another one of those days in which his father was running late and I stayed behind with him to pass the time. We were sitting outside throwing rocks into the woods across the street. It was getting dark and we walked to my house. Thomas didn’t want to because he said his dad would get mad if he wasn’t there, but it was also getting cold, so we started out. I remember after a while of playing video games he was getting itchy and uncomfortable. He went to the bathroom, and returned asking where the band aids were. When I asked him why, he showed me a series of scratches on his leg that resembled the word help. I was scared for a little while, but he just kept laughing about it; said he “found a nail on the floor.” I never told my dad.)

I woke up on the floor with three of the patrons, and Hermes Baker, watching over me.

“Hey, hey dere guy…You awite?” Hermes said.

My eyes cleared and I tried to figure out what had just happened. The only answers were provided by my surroundings and the tepid pool of puke that laid by my side. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I was at Arcadia. I felt around and became alarmed by the fact that I didn’t know how long I’d been out. Hermes tried to quiet me.

“Now we’wr gonna call you a caw.” He said “But we need to know yuh addwes.”

I couldn’t think clearly enough to recite it, but after fishing in my back pocket, producing my wallet, and finding nothing, I began to frantically search my other pockets. In the hip I found and fumbled my ID out before handing it over to Hermes.

“You’d the Johnson kid, I know you’w mom! And happy biwfday!” he said.
“Youdunknow, my mom’s dead.” I sputtered.
“No, I usedto dewiver her maiwl. Bwonde, right?”
“She’s notmy mom.”

He called a car and got me back to my stool. I no longer cared about my original mission, whatever it had been. The car company said that it would be about 10 minutes. After fifteen had passed, Hermes came around the bar, passed his trusted patrons, and escorted me to the street.
We stood in the cool night, under a dim and flickering light, as I swayed and hiccupped. Hermes told me about life as he knew it, relating it, of course, to my current situation. I tried to listen, but retained little. After a while of waiting, I sat on the sidewalk with my back to the bar and remembered my only question.

“What’d did you tell my-fren?” I said, hazy.
“What?”
“Thomas Aaron, what’d did you tell him to make him die?”
“Tommy Awon?”
“Yesh.”

There was a pronounced pause.

“I knew Tommy’s father. He’s inside wite now…I just towd Tommy the twuth… I told him the twuth and nufing else.”
“And just what do you think was the twuth?” I asked, un-mockingly.
“I told him that his fathew was a dwunk and that, one day, he’d pwobably be just like ‘em.” He stopped and looked at me with an empathic grin. “You, you though. You don’t have anything to wouwy about. You’we gonna wiv longuh than evewybody you know…I just call ‘em as I see ‘em... Maybe pway about it.”

I was done talking and waiting, and tried to stand. (My mother used to talk about prayer.) My stomach was churning curds.

The car pulled up outside the bar and I didn’t want to get in. But after being guided by Hermes I really had no choice. He jimmied me into the backseat, handed the driver $15, and told me Happy Biwfday again. On the short ride back, I watched the night flash by, wondering about why Thomas had done it, and, moreover, why he blamed the surprisingly delicate Hermes. It was true that my friend had started drinking and cutting himself early in life, but it didn’t seem to be a death sentence. It was all just supposed to be fun and release.
I thought about Thomas and I thought about how sad it would be to see everyone around me pass. My mother and my friends’ demises had been enough. I didn’t want to see more caskets or bottle more memories.

I stumbled up the drive and made it to the porch. Sitting where I’d been hours ago, I looked out on the same street I’d looked at for years. It didn’t last long though. It was still early in the night, and my father and stepmother—having not been informed of my impromptu plan—came out onto the porch to find me drunk, bowing my brows to them.
They walked me inside, and I was led past a table containing dinner, and a chocolate cake centerpiece. They led me up the stairs, lovingly, took off my shirt, put me in bed on my side, and placed a trashcan within easy reach. When they left my bedroom door cracked I knew that, despite our personal histories, they both loved me. I couldn’t stand to lose them too.
As I lay in bed watching the wall spin, wishing that I’d stuck around for dinner and stayed away from the bar, the only answer I could come up with was that Hermes may have been a little bit right in Thomas’s case. He already had things to fear. He’d never even had the chance to be taught about redemption.
My outcome would be different though. I’d prove him wrong. Right then, I would have shot him if I could. ‘There is no place in the world for those who can predict the truth.’ I thought. After that, I rolled onto my back, closed my eyes, and thought hard before praying.

The Colonel in Alarm

2010-07-25T13:53:00.001-07:00

There was once a time when everything seemed to make sense. My friends and I were pleased with ourselves, and convinced that we’d live forever. But now, by turns that one can only call natural, reality and the absurdities of that notion of pleasure driven erudition have long-since given way to grief and frustration with the world.
We once thought that we’d make our careers as we imagined them, and that everything would fall into place just like our grandparents had told us in times of strife when we were young and down on everything. But, it has become blazingly clear that we are nothing more than the very beings we wished to avoid becoming. The three of us are now southern “Colonels” living in a single house and wearing nothing but the color white to hide our many years of debauch. At the ages of 84, 85, and 87, we all have grey mustaches, eat chicken on Tuesdays, and drink bourbon until we fall asleep. This is what we’ve become. And many days, I have a hard time with this fact.

*

I met Frank and Jerry in New York City in the summer of 1951. It was the place we’d ignorantly chose to carve out a living doing the things we thought we wanted to do at the time. We were all southern transplants. Frank’s gig was journalism, and he was pretty good. Jerry’s baby was music, and I saw him play some excellent shows (and I don’t just go around throwing out complements like that). My trade was the poetry. And boy what a sham that turned out to be. You can either do it, or you can’t, and I couldn’t, but I did anyway, to spite myself, for many, many years.
It was a good summer though. We all got a lot of things done. We ran in to each other pretty regularly, and usually we made a time of it. But then the days kept going. People stopped flinging and got girlfriends, everyone found routines, read too much or drank too much and just got generally tired and unreliable. But, yeah, up until the end of September, it was a pretty good time.
By the early 60s, we’d all managed to keep in contact. I ended up chasing a girl to Dallas. We didn’t work out, but I had stayed because it was easier that way. The day I reconnected with my old friends I was on the Knoll when Kennedy got shot. (Right before it happened; I’d just got off the phone with Jerry, who was holed up in New Orleans, and only wanting to babble about jazz and life. He and I were going through our respective hard times then.) I think I was happy just before I heard the commotion. Now it’s nothing more than my blurred smile in the Zapruder film to remind me of the time.
Frank, as it turned out, had made a name for himself working for the New York Times, and when Jerry had made it known that I was on the scene, we all had a connection: I was there and they wanted to be too. And just like that, we had a reason to be back together.
For close to three weeks Jerry and I watched and recalled the facts as we knew them; Jerry, provided more inspiration than inquiry, but helpfully. Those three weeks in ‘63 were golden. All around us, things were happening and we were participating whether we liked it or not. Until a few years ago, I thought that those were the best, worst years of my life.
In the end, Frank got a Pulitzer for his Kennedy coverage but continued to drink heavily; Jerry did the same—without the prize—and ended up buying a house in South Carolina from the royalties of a single he’d sold, called Jazzin’ My Baby. I was still in Dallas, writing conspiracy poems, milling about, wearing too much black. But we talked often for the following years and, a decade later (after the war in Nam that we’d all avoided), decided that we needed to take ourselves off the map; reconfigure ourselves, maybe form a commune.

*

Now, here I am, sitting on a porch in South Carolina; old. I am bored, and I am overly expectant of the dark (I go to bed at 8:30 usually to ensure my safety and sanity). This morning I watched Jerry, drunk, kill a chicken with his bare hands. He laughed for several moments, in sheer delight that he’d accomplished the feat—and won the bet between me and Frank. The whole bargain was: Was he, at 87, still spry enough to catch a bird? Ten dollars said no.
After it was completed we all laughed, set the chicken to roast, and settled back with our Juleps, it was pristine. But when I’d laughed my due and noticed that I and Frank’s white shirts stood apart from Jerry’s bloodstained v-neck, things became much worse for me. I had to admit it. I was sad, and had been for many years.
I looked at the blood on his shirt, and I hated him for it. Sure, I’d paid my five dollars of the bet, but I was feeling as if I were just another old Colonel wearing white on a porch and slurring out my last speeches and recitations. A permanent fixture of the Deep South, echoing the sadness and strife of my days throughout the swamps and willows; I knew that this was not me, but then again, it was.
I was once proud of my home life:

November 8, 1978

-For my first wife

Time and a half,
I’ll take it!

For the money I burn
Is like bacon—

And boy, do I love
That scent from above

When I’ve brought it
Home, and we’re makin’ it!

That was when everything was going well. But now, now things are just pathetic. It’s almost funny how terribly odd life has turned out. I’d never imagined in a million years that I’d end up an old frail alcoholic who’d taken up a false, but honorary rank in a society in which I didn’t participate anyway.
Tonight, the night of the chicken murder, I can’t sleep. It’s well past nine o’clock and I’m terribly perturbed. All those happy years spent; put away on paper. I suppose that’s all I can do to chase a smile these days. Just write it down and stow it away.

Home is where the...er...your stuff is?

2008-04-24T20:42:00.000-07:00

Muse of the day: Pabst, Lost locations, babies

For years now I have been riddled by the meaning of the word home. On one end this word may represent the place that you grew up, yet on the other end, I know many who have grown accustomed to refering to the place which they currently reside as home. When I'm not thinking about it too hard, I am of the later catagory.Though, at times like the present, I am once again begging the question: Where is home?

Today is day 2 of my first sojourn of the year--if you can call it that--to the place of my birth and schooling, etc...Little Rock, Arkansas. While on previous occasions this has always been a celebration of sorts, this time around something is very different. Well, many things. To begin with: in previous visits back "home" I was always careful to give my old friends the 'heads up', and in turn have someone waiting for me at the airport, and from that point on the following days were filled with friends and drinks and picking up where I had left off...This is not so this time around. This time around, I arrived at the airport and sat outside for half of an hour waiting for my father to pick me up and drop me off at my mother's house, where I was to wait until she got done with church. Needless to say, this Tuesday proper, I spoke with only my father in person. Not that it's a bad thing...just strange.
At around 10:30 my mother arrived at the house and we chit-chatted for about an hour, until she went to bed. This was my homecoming, and also the cause for a confusing bout of self-reflection.

Now while the above is certainly nothing to 'write home about' (haha) I feel that it was indeed the very essence of lackluster, and therefore worth noting. Today, was especially more of the same, only with many more twists of oddness...In the interest of keeping readers I will just hit a few highlights and leave the rest to the imagination...Curtain up at 7:50 a.m. at which time I was awakened by my mother for the first time in several years. This was actually pleasent, and as a reward for the early rousing I was granted access to her car for the day. After driving her to work and coming back home, coffee and smokes in posession, I proceeded to bask in the satelite television for serveral hours. While it was relaxing enough, I found myself dropping all of the cycnicysm that I had accumulated over the past few months (i.e.-"How can one glue themselves to the tube and watch advertisement after advertisement and feel good about it?" and so on...). This lengthy stint prompted the consumption of breakfast and a couple of beers before I was finally ready to take a nap, which was already on the agenda. This was no problem; eventually I was awake, showered, and ready to make use of the borrowed wheels before it was time to go back downtown to pick up mom. Over the course of my relaxing drive I decided that the best thing to do was to visit the old spots. But...Saver's Thrift Store; closed. University Mall; a freshly demolished hole. Lorenzen's Bookshop; available for lease...The list continues. Though one good thing did come of the excursion: a phone call from an old friend with a new baby. Granted, I have know about the baby and been meaning to come down to see her, this was to be the first formal opportunity to do so, and thus the invitation was gladly accepted.
I returned home, mildly dejected, and killed the rest of the afternoon with popsicles and tv shows about ghost-hunters, before it was time to get back behind the wheel and pick up ma.
I did so, dropped her off, and then set back out--at this point nearly two hours late--for my friend's home where there was promise of fresh empenadas.
Alas, the baby was asleep, so I was shown the crib and pictures, fed, entertained by my friend and his new wife, and sent on my way by 9 p.m. It was a great visit, and gave a me a new perspective on what it means to be 'domesticated', as it were, and I got to play wii bowling for the first time. But, through the course of our visit I learned about a party going on up the street. A party where people I know/knew would be en masse. I thought about going. And I though about how for the first time in many years, I had not told anyone that I was coming into town. And I thought about what it might be like to just show up, and smile and catch-up, and drink beers, and then try to drive the twenty-minutes home without incident...just like the old times. It seems however that all of that thinking just landed me back at mom's place and once again in-front of the television. Something was wrong perhaps...but then again maybe it wasn't. The party would have been the chance to just pop in out of the blue and kill many birds with one stone of visitation. But, here it is 11:39p.m. and I have no intention of going.

As I said before, this visit is much unlike the others, and I am still trying to figure out why. Why part of me keeps saying that "this is supposed to be down-time; just take it easy" and another part says "you're young bro-bro get out there and embrace the spring lovliness", I can not help but feel like I have consciously done something to allienate myself from these people and this scene. I'm not sure why, but I've certainly noticed myself doing it before back home...Home in Brooklyn. Where I have spent the last five years sorting through everything and establishing a happy, albeit often solitary, life.

If you're still with me at this point and are wondering what all of this is supposed to mean, know that I am questioning this too. There are things that need to be sorted out. Whether or not this happens in the next few days, whose to say? But in any case, I am in awe of the perplexity of what one actually means when they say they are "going home". It irks me and makes me long for someplace else no matter where I am when I say it...Above all else it makes me want to go there, to find that place where everything is just as it was, and where there's nothing to prove to anyone, myself included.

No country for young men

2008-02-24T19:05:00.000-08:00

Muse of the day: Mounting face stubble; Alone time; Hard copy first draft

I'm pleased to report that the road to recovery is slowly showing itself. Despite the occasional un-scratchable itch, and some weird tingling if antibiotics are not taken without food, I'm looking forward to having my forehead back by Wednesday. Although this may mean that I will have to find some other way to look mean/tough; this incident has definitely has if nothing else taught me many lessons about responsibility and vanity.
For instance: until two days ago, I was completely unaware of the myriad perks of candor and a broken face. (I am fairly sure that just as many jokes have been made on my behalf, but I really only give half a shit.) It has served as a conversation piece on everything from bicycle safety to responsible alcohol consumption, and from many fun injury stories to that self-realization of just how lucky we all are to be alive...So in short--and I will try to promise to speak no more of this--it has ironically been an eye-opening experience, despite the reality of my eye being quite swollen.

I wish that there were some other news to report, but then again since I'm not really "reporting" to anyone through this in the first place, at least it's off my mind. Right now the plan is one of my old favorites... laying low for a while and figuring out that all important next move.

Busted face...Prophecies fufilled

2008-02-22T00:37:00.001-08:00

We've all had bad weekends. You know it as well as I do...But then again perhaps you don't. This one might just take the proverbial cake. When it comes to figuring out just how cruddy things can get I think that a proper vent is in order for this weekend's shenanigans. Or to put it more simply, If I don't say something about this right now I may very well break down and have that 'good cry' that I've been meaning to have for the past year...So here's the re-cap, in an abridged as possible form:

In the previous post I identified myself as a career writer. However; as I failed to mention that my day job, in a bookstore,currently grants me a Wednesday/Thursday weekend, I think that is important to include this tidbit now.
Among the activities on the docket for this weekend (finish a short story, socialize, cook food, clean myself and the apartment) I had nor prior intention of ending up in an emergency room. Who does? Yet, nonetheless, this was the ultimate end of my mid-week-weekend.

It all started simply enough on Wednesday. For me this is a day for chilling-out, taking stock of life, and lately, watching either grade-A or grade-F movies. This particular day I was destined to borrow a copy of 'Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle' from a good friend from work who happens to live down the street. This was no problem, as I had never seen the film and had nothing else to do, and seemed like a capital way to waste an evening. Yet, while borrowing the dvd from this friend I was informed about a punk rock show in which two of her roommates would be performing. With the promise of an open bar and friends from work, I could easily mark socializing off of my list. Great. No Problem. Good people, good time; and all at the expense of picking up a crap movie. Awesome...or so one might think.
After picking up the movie, I stopped off at the local grocer, got some tea and supplies to make dinner (hence marking off another item on my list) and came home for a quiet evening of mindless 'enjoyment'. -- I forgot to mention that by this point the house was clean, and in turn marked off of the list as well. -- Minni-pizzas were made(deluxe: with fresh tomatoes, grated cheese& american, chopped garlic, ground oregano, ect...) a stoner movie was watched (apropos) and I was in bed before 2 a.m.
The following morning brought a good call for coffee, a big breakfast (as I am waaay broke yet left with a surplus of potatoes, eggs, and roommate bread) and contemplation of what to do before the big night out. This included a trip to the park, the previous blog post, a little light writing, and the mulling over of some submission opportunities for some of my other work. Once again good stuff, and a seemingly healthy way to spend a day...But then I had to push it too far.
Long and short: I invited a roomie to the show; she asked if I'd be in to riding bikes there; I (feeling vital) said yes; we had a great ride all the way. All the way there, that is.
Upon leaving the Trash Bar though, things seemed to take a decidedly different course.
Not 5 minutes away from the place was I bleeding, profusely, from the face.

Before leaving the house Corey ( another one of my roommates) told me plainly not to "do anything stupid". But alas, tonight saw New York City's most significant snow fall, and I saw a belly-full of tater-tots, pavement (not the band), an ER, and stitches in my forehead.

It is precisely 5 a.m. and George Washington's birthday. I Have already called out of work, and so begins a much unwelcome third day to my weekend.One thing keeps ringing in my mind though, and that's the "don't do anything stupid".

Maybe tomorrow I can finish that short story. And at least I'm getting to see the sunrise in a snow storm. But then again, perhaps it is time after all for that 'good cry'.

Another (not so) Wild Ride!

2008-02-21T11:06:00.001-08:00

So here are my muses for today: A Fake mustache, Prospect Park, Ionesco's The Hermit

Yes, the day has finally come...I, Dylan Jackson, have given in and decided to take up a blog.
"Oh No! Not Him too!" You might be saying to yourself. But it's true, and so now begins another banal glimpse into the mind of another young American. With that being said though; I think that is important to disclose that this page is exactly that and little more. "But what can we learn from that and why should I care?" you may be asking yourself. Well, the answer is simple: this page will serve to inform you about just what level I'm stooping to for inspiration in life (i.e.- cockamamie schemes, dreams, plans, and so forth), new situations and/or developments that --who knows-- may end up effecting you in some way too!

But let me back up a bit, after all this is a first blog, and requires a brief introduction to who I am, what I'm doing, and why I feel that this platform is the least bit pertinent to positive development. So here's that in a paragraph.

I am a twenty-four year old from Little Rock, Arkansas who lives in Brooklyn and writes plays. For as long as I can remember, this has always seemed to me to be what I wanted to do. Now, if one doesn't know all the details, the above statement may carry a tone of triumph; but once again that's only if you don't know all the details. The facts are these: I am passionate about the work that I have chosen-- erg 'been called'-- to do; I have no intention of giving up on my life's-work; I try not to complain much because I do realize that very few people can make those statements at this age; sometimes the ridiculousness of having made up your mind early can wear on you. It's this frustration which eats at me lately. The frustration of constantly repeating to people that you know who you are, and what you're doing, all for the purpose of trying to sell yourself and your work. I have for many years prided myself with the notion that writers and artists must remain true to the notions of self-awareness and maintain a high level of integrity, but then comes the sad truth that here (in New York) in my chosen profession (playwright) it doesn't matter what you have to say or how you shape it. It's about whether or not people can make money off of your work...But then again, we all have bills to pay, so there's no use in getting bent out of shape about it. I am who I am, and hope to be as lucky in ten years as I am now.

My intention for this blog is ultimately tinged with undertones of self-help and discovery (hopefully with lots of jokes). A 'Chicken Soup For My Soul' kind of thing. Don't get me wrong, I would like to stress that I have no intention of using this as a forum for bitching about how hard life is or anything like that, rather this is a distraction. A much needed distraction for friends and family that I wish I was better about making time for, for myself, and any unwitting reader who happened to google the term 'musefinder' because they are trying to find something.

And so now begs the question of what to do with this window of opportunity to the world. Well we'll just have to see if this is going to be something that's worth doing. If it is then I hope to do it well and make somebody think about something that they might not have thought about before. It is a work for the humanities, and oh yes, the thing that your life has been missing for so long.

Feedback is always welcome.