Wait

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven't they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become interesting.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again;
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need for the new love
is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don't go too early.
You're tired. But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a little and listen:
music of hair,
music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows,
play itself into total exhaustion.

-Galway Kinnel

Happy Hollow-days

The day after. Thank god for Prevacid. I actually did okay, although I did get to the "mint" stage at around midnight last night. Another bite and I would have wallpapered my friend Jorge's house with my remains. I want to wish all of you a very very happy holidays. Stay connected to your truth. Keep calm. Enjoy.
God, here comes the hiatal hernia.

Financial security-an oxymoron.

Just driving around this morning, early. Had "the big breakfast" at Le Denny's on Sunset (which one?). As I was driving back I had a recollection of yesterday. As I recollected, I had a vision. In it I was granted the key to understanding something really strange. How does information become inspiration? When you're not cogitating the answer of course. The sun hit me and I realized that no matter how much money I have (or imagine to have) it will never have anything to do with financial security. Do we honestly assume that money has anything at all to do with even our most basic needs being met? In my darkest hours I have been taken care of. This is a fact. When I have had not a pot to piss in, I have been extraordinarily OK in spite of my belief that I'm not. Alternately, when I actually amass "wealth" in the form of material things, I find that I am not OK. Oh sure, I can write up a list of the problems of the world and have a good case for it being real. But the absolute truth is that my concepts of satisfaction as related to having enough are completely out of whack. I know this to be true today. The only lack is fear. The only plenty is faith. Depending on which one I choose, I represent the extension of that energy. If from fear I see the world, there is simply never security, either with too little or too much. If from faith I see the world, then destitute or satiated I have an endless supply of life. But, it is my belief, that the facts of my life implicate fear as an imposter, therefore only faith is real. (With apologies to "Course in Miracles" and Gerald Jampolsky's "Love is letting go of fear"). Most days I simply cannot BE in this state of understanding because I go to my mind for the information. I have learned that the truth does not reside in my going to my mind for the answers to my dilemma. The eternal truth lies in going WITHIN my mind for the truth. This is a kind of grace. It requires letting go, trusting the universe's plan for me (even though I don't really see it at all), and a residence in the present moment. Faith is the transcendental currency, the substance of things unseen. Peace dwells here. Let go now. Don't comply. Surrender. You will see riches beyond your wildest imaginings. You're bank account notwithstanding.

How do any of us go on?

Notice that I asked "how" do any of us go on? Not "why". There is quite a distinction. To ask "why" to such a huge question defeats the purpose of the question. "Why" is a pandora's box. It is Ouroboros, the snake that eats it's own tail. But "how" is a practical question. It can be answered with applicable data. Whether one decides to hear and implement such utilitarian information is really the purview of each individual. But I have always felt that knowledge is never the domain of thinking. Frankly, are we really searching for knowledge anyway? Aren't we really seeking peace, contentment. We each have a different relationship to the world and our own view of it. Some of us really, truly do not suffer the slings and arrow of outrageous fortune on a daily basis as some of us, no matter how much dosage of Wellbutrin and Seroquel we take. Some of us can't really help the way we are. We seem to be committed to this identity, this deep sense of loss and emptiness that nothing can fill. These essences of myself are most prominent in my dreams, for certain. Images of loss are everywhere in the dream world. Non ending elements of loss. It is unbearable and sadness can't even begin to touch the surface of the grief. I know that I can only play it out, here in this place where I have arrived. This place I have been sent to but I'm told can change with me. I know of nothing else that can take away this endless river of sadness than some concept of a loving entity within and without me. An entity that can save me from myself, that can bring me a sense that the absurdity that is life has some noble cause. But what if it doesnt? What if there is really no purpose at all? What if it is random? And the randomness is the ultimate message. What if the great mind is so inconceivable to us that merely the attempt to know it brings us to humility and all we are left with is blind faith?
I just don't want to lose everything in my life. But I will. That's certain.
It is said that when I lose all I gain eternity. Oblivion seems preferable at the moment. This is my prayer. I am in need of leading.
Bless this place and god save us all.

Spocks Beard. "Snow". 

Spocks Beard-Solitary Soul

Every day I drive home from Hollywood High up Argyle to Franklin. As I turn right onto Franklin, there is a homeless man living on a bus bench on the South East corner. You've probably seen him. He is there everyday, twenty four seven. He is dying.
This song is for him.

Solitary Soul Lyrics-Spocks Beard-"Snow"


THE HOMELESS:
I've been here since long ago waiting for the end
I don't need to have a home but I could use a friend

So many people they don't give a damn
They look away when they see what I am
I've been like half a man but I could be whole
Won't you befriend this solitary soul

Got a lot of breezes left to blow
Where I'm going I don't know
Got a lot of heartache got a show
What it's like you'll never know
To be the solitary soul

I've been here since long ago buried in my tears
Feels like I've walked alone for a thousand years

So many people they don't give a damn
They look away when they see what I am
I've been like half a man but I could be whole
Won't you befriend this solitary soul

Got a lot of breezes left to blow
Where I'm going I don't know
Got a lot of heartache got a show
What it's like you'll never know

Got a lot of breezes left to blow
Where I'm going I don't know
Got a lot of heartache got a show
What it's like you'll never know
To be the solitary soul

SNOW AND COMPANY:
I see your heart
I know what you've been through
I know you
Come be a part
You know you belong here
So dry your tears because

Love beyond words - Can fill your heart
Love beyond words - You'll feel a part
Love beyond words - You won't be alone anymore

I see your heart
I know what you've been through
I know you
Come be a part
You know you belong here
So dry your tears because

Love beyond words - Can fill your heart
Love beyond words - You'll feel a part
Love beyond words - You won't be alone anymore

A perfect quote of the day

"True heroism is remarkably sober, very undramatic.
It is not the urge to surpass others at whatever cost,
but the urge to serve others at whatever cost".
-Arthur Ashe

fear 

There's nothing to fear. But...

I fear what people think of me. I am terrified of it. I have a greater fear: The FEAR of what people think of me.
Now THAT has weight, eh?
It doesn't matter what people think of me. Remove the fear of what people think of you, understand the insignificance of it, and you arrive, fearless.
Who the heck can do that?
Most of us just stuff it.
The one who walks in freedom walks in recognition of these truths. He holds the hand of this fear,
and runs directly into it.
The faster he runs, the tighter the noose.
Keep running, my friend. You might just run into yourself.

Manifesto against go-getters

1). As I am not a go-getter, I denounce those who are.

2). Since being a go-getter is the socially acceptable ideal of a succesful person,
I represent the unacceptable.

3). The size of a go-getter's wallet is directly opposed to the size of their belly.

4). A go-getter should not be confused with a go-go dancer. One is moving forward,
the other is dancing as fast as they can.

5). Go-getting is not a survival skill. It is an ego trip.

6). Go-getters make good hood ornaments.

7). A go-getter is beautiful to those who go get.

8). Those who do not go get, teach.

9). The opposite of a go-getter is one who has already gotten.

10). Therefore, go-getters never actually GET, they can only go.

11). To go is to get less.

12). Get going.

13). Don't go. Get.

14). Get lost.

What do I do now?

So, my life has come to a grinding halt while I learn the lessons of survival, taking care of myself, acceptance, willingness, honesty, service, the boy scout code and other pertinent lessons relating to the absolute crushing of any ego residue. All of my super stratified ego dreams have come crashing onto the rocks below while I get "right sized". My life is about "suiting up and showing up". That is a rather horrifying image. I have a picture of Albert Brooks in "Modern Romance" putting on a shit brown running suit and headband as he tries to work out to impress his ex-girlfriend Mary. That's the image I have of myself, although more portly. I love that word "Portly" (Remember Zachary All? "Portly, long extra long, extra portly, portly long, portly portly"). I guess it refers to the excessive consumption of port, a rather hearty drink which causes girthening around the apple midsection.
But seriously folks, I am very relieved to have the life I have today. I mean as these things go. But it's not particularly sexy (NOT PARTICULARLY SEXY? THAT'S THE UNDERSTATEMENT OF THE CENTURY! GOTTA HAVE SEX TO BE SEXY!) It's a wholesome kind of "kind of" life. That's a reference to my old roomate Dave Sherman. He was a reserved emotional stuntoid who always prefaced his conversations with the term "kind of", in a Hal the computer kind of way. His face tuning a ruby blush as he said it. Then there's good ol' Robert Pack, from Royal High school in Simi Valley, class of 1977 ( I was class of 78) who, when asked about the state of the universe, would lift his hand up, turn it upside down and waggle his hand towards the ground while saying "oh......meeeediocre". I mean, maybe I'm not seeing all the explosive excitement that my current life has in it. Maybe driving to work everyday and then to the dentist IS excitement and I'm just not able to comprehend what real adrenalin is. But more than likely it is probably exactly as I feel and experience it: a medium, luke warm, slightly cooling cup of instant coffee. I'm not used to carving apple core women and crocheting in my mind. I still crave the salacious, crazy, warped and wrecked, sick and suicidal, five thousand horsepower fear fueled life I used to have. God no! But maybe just a little sex please.

Jacqueline Wright's distrubing comedy "Eat Me". That's me on the right as your friendly neighborhood psychopath. 

Rubber Johnny

I was at my friend Greg Griffith's house last night. He showed me Chris Cunningham's newest video "Rubber Johnny" (photo below). This is one of the darkest most disturbing pieces of film I have seen since David Lynch's "Eraserhead". Google Rubber Johnny and see the trailer or, if the video is availble in it's entirety, download it. You will not be the same after viewing this sardonic, brilliant creation.

Rubber Johnny. 

I pray to god I'm helping

I have been working for three days with two Special Ed. students on writing a MLA paper. This is a jury reviewed piece of writing that is the crux of their senior year and absolutely necessary for graduation. The two 18 year olds have been mainstreamed into a regular writing class. I have enjoyed myself immensely. They are very good natured young ladies, funny and extremely kind. Today I asked them about the subject matter they were working on. They had all the literature and materials available and they were absolutely incapable of communicating to me anything on the subjects that they had chosen to write about. Their thesis statements were concicse and clear, after two prior days of my coddling them. After twenty minutes, I took their papers and asked them to just talk to me about their subjects. One chose "the right way to play tennis", the other "child development." They could not. They could tell me nothing at all. I proded, gently. I tried to see if they remembered anything they had read. They could not. I then made a mistake. I involved the mainstream teacher in the process. You see, these two are from the learning center, a new project at our high school that exists because the Resource program has been downsized. Los Angels is now attempting to follow the leads of New York, San Francisco and other cities to bridge this gap. The teacher, god bless him, wasn't ready. He agressively cross-examined the girls, leaving one of them quietly inconsolable and in tears. She never once complained, as tears streamed down her face. How many times had she been misunderstood by teachers? How many times had she not fit in. And that's the one thing I know about high school especially: the goal is to fit in at all costs. If you don't then you go Goth and wear black or become impotent. I gave her a tissue (unused) and she wiped her mascara off her face. It had run down onto her blouse. What did I do? Why did I talk to this teacher? I didn't do my job. I should have dealt with her and saved her this terrible experience of having to deal with the real world. Oh god! All I could do was tell her it's okay. That it will be allright. I was lying of course. She doesn't really know that it won't be. But I did encourage her to not give up. No, I urged her strongly to not give up. No, I demanded she NOT GIVE UP. AT ALL COSTS! The other girl, now numb from years of this herself, said that she wanted to. I told her to not give up either. I called the psychologist. He wasn't in. The young girl went there I was to find out. I saw her in the learning center earlier. She was practicing writing her cursive. She had a very sweet smile. She seemed okay. She is okay. She will be allright, even though we know she won't be. God.

A world apart

The world can be divided into two camps: those who have experienced the death of a close loved one and those who haven't. The longer I live I recognize the haunted look, the eternal presence, of an individual who has gone through this earth shattering event. It connects those of us who have never met, who sit beside us on buses and trains, in movie theaters and grocery stores. There are the whispers of what could have been in the hearts of these people and their eyes, oh god those eyes, they always tell the story. Even those who cannot deal with it and remain in hideous denial, they still have the mark etched into their souls, permanently available in that strange look that says to us "what cruel puppetmaster would do this to us". Those who have not had this happen to them in their lives have virtually no idea of the preposterousness, the absurdity and the wretched eternal emptiness that absolutely nothing can ever fill when the lover is removed forever. I envy those people. And I feel sad for them as well. I never truly existed, I found, until I had gone through this human initiation. Not everyone has this brand. I wish them strength and courage when they do. Until then, I recognize my people.

I saw this movie yesterday. Joss Whedon's concept of a future world was originally seen on "Firefly". This is one of the most interesting Science Fiction films I have seen in some time. The look of the film, the screenplay, the original nature of the concept, makes this one of the best genre pictures in sometime, in my humble opinion. See it! 

What women dig in a man/Part II

Being tall
Tallness
Stature
Size
In the clouds
Above the fray
Lots of legs
Standing tall
above it all
a head above the rest
Up there, in the air
Way up there
Taller than me
Tall
Tall and taller
Still tall
Looks down on the rest of us
Mostly tall
hook and ladder
girraffes breath
stilt boy
strain your neck to see me
airplane face
being smaller than taller
not interested in not tall
get next to tall I do
Baskettall
pituitary nice
pituitary sensitive
long of length and tall
holding the head of some small while watching him take a swing
far and away the heighth
more than her

This tooth shall pass

I finally got to work today. I lasted all of two hours. The bony crisping in my mouth began to vibrate rather intensely at around 10:00AM. I couldn't concentrate. I kept swabbing Anbesol down the trough into the exposed bone. It allowed me to eat a partial Braunswheiger sandwich and coffee flavored yougurt. I started to get light headed and nauseous. I have been nervous all morning. Change is terrifying, but I was doing okay. The pain was just too much to bear for four more hours.
I'm home now. Safe and cozy. I need to take poor Inky to the vet to have him checked out as well. My plans are on hold for the rest of the day. When it rains it purrs, as Inky likes to say.

One of the most brilliant comic minds of our time: Christopher Guest 

The great guru, Alan Watts 

Mahavishnu John Mclaughlin, a true guitar legend. 

Jorge Strunz, my other favorite guitarist 

Pain in the tooth

I had a molar extracted Friday. It was at my primary care dentist through my dental HMO. I have the very bottom tier of dental insurance which allows me to see mostly ex-gulag soviet exiles who cut their teeth, as it were, on their Siberian breatheren during the purge of Stalingrad. This particular tovarisch used modern Soviet style calisthenics and isometrics in a hearty attempt to remove my tooth. The balkanized assistant was mortified at my American red blood pouring forth from the recalcitrant stalagmite and the happy Ruskie yanked and wrenched feverishly, while no doubt working on his new novel, a disection of the ancient Bitbittrashevskyzinga circle.

After several hours harnessing extra-sensory perception and electromagnetism, he placed his foot on my chest and yelled out "Pashalsta", sweat pouring forth from his bottle neck glasses. He gave one more vigorous Tashkent tug and finally the tooth shattered into tiny caucases, shooting out at he and his comrade. Unfortunately the jaw bone (of an ass no doubt) shattered too. My gum tissue, diseased from years of underearning, was the consistency of rice paper and only a bottomless pit remained of my once healthy and ego filled trench. What now remained was a hole with two nasty bits of bone sharding inwards, protruding out like some torture chamber. I have now existed with this condition since Friday, it being Tuesday. I saw a former Soviet Polituburo member today, A Dr. Polyakov, who insisted I rinse and see him again in ten days. He could not perform the very nimble Aleovoplasty (cutting the bone, snipping in a kind of pinch) as the area was ulcerated beyond the human condition. Ambesol was his answer, and swabs of any kind, plus rinse and Ibuprofen. Hell I says', The Big "V" is my only hope right now. Tylenol/codeine surprise. Why didn't they give me that for Halloween when I was a lad? Instead of an apple, which is what I am.