Goodbye Blue Monday

 

that universe was the cranium (mine – the one that was shattered on january 22nd, 1962 by a 1953 chevy) that bore it in 1984 and has been whirring, clicking and sizzling ever since.
the store, which hasn’t been mine for some years now, is closing sunday, november 30th and this website will spring back to life as i return to write stuff, sorta-like what’s happening this very moment.

in good company….

May 7th, 2014

the little junk store that could was mentioned in a story about where to find the next big thing.
that’s what Goodbye Blue Monday was ten years ago, before it sold coffee, beer and had live performance.
but we digress….
OK, Qantas airlines targets a demographic about 13,000 miles away, bit still….
i’ve flown there in one of those big, giant planes that are eight-stories tall (at their highest point) and loved perth and sydney and actually had dinner with “the voice of qantas,” who welcomes you onboard and tells you how wonderful everything’s gonna be.
i would later find out that she’s in the new “mad max” series of films.
imagine that!
so read about us here, in their magazine!.
this is why we fought to keep GBM’s doors open and if we said thanks and you didn’t hear it, we’re saying it again.
thanks.
and thanks Qantas Airlines!
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posting this on january 22nd in some odd way, makes perfect sense.
you see, i was run over by a car 51 years ago on this date.
i was supposed to either be dead, a vegetable or paralyzed from the neck down (i guess this covers about everything).
just by chance, the first black U.S.neurosurgeon was visiting coney island hospital that day and changed the odds, markedly.
probably, because of this man – doctor thomas matthew – i survived quite extraordinarily.
there have also been examples of luck spun in an entirely different direction.

with this in mind, please read;

a few days ago, i was walking on broadway, here in bushwick, bk.
it was around 3:30 in the afternoon.
approaching, about twenty-five feet in front of me, was a man walking with who i assumed was his daughter.
she looked to be about four or five years old. like most kids, she was filled with “kid energy,” or sugar, chattering away, looking up at her father who was slowing his “dad” steps to even up with his daughter’s little-kid steps, while engaged in conversation with her.
i heard none of the words but assumed it was what dads and daughters must speak about after the school day.
the sprightly girl’s steps were switching between walking normally, then sideways, sliding her feet side-to-side, then returning to stepping forward.
this was what? three? five seconds?
somewhere, as i watched them draw closer, then pass by, i remember asking myself – almost out loud – “how could he do it? how do you shoot one of those little things? these kids?”
it was almost as if i forgot that a child is a human being.
i couldn’t connect a person with a gun even aiming a gun at a child.
i did my best to conjure up a mental picture of a little kid being blown away by a guy with an assault rifle and couldn’t do it.
by the time we passed each other, i was a wreck.
i opened the door to my loftspace and ran upstairs.

the photo that circulated in the press, the one of those policemen huddled together weeping, appeared behind my eyes.
i can’t imagine walking into a room like this. a room of slaughtered little kids.
those poor guys; what a day’s work.
i do not envy their gig.
a wave of horror caused a shiver to run up my back. i had to shake it off, literally.
“a room of slaughtered little kids” – that should be carved in stone somewhere, preferably nearby the NRA’s main office.

with the newtown slaughter over a week old, the well-worn procedure followed by the likes of the NRA, now burrowing out of their nickle-plated corporate trenches, began their defense of guns argument, this time pointing at everything and everyone except the item itself – guns.
it pitched the need for more guns, as if we didn’t see that coming.
it pitched the need for more cops with more guns, everywhere.

you know what guns are; they kill firemen battling blazes set by monsters who want to play arcade games, like what happened a few days later, on christmas eve.

i can’t recall what their (the NRA’s) approach was in defending themselves after the colorado movie theater slaughter, the wisconsin temple slaughter or the gabby giffords assassination attempt and massacre.
they said either the same thing or nothing at all.
i could almost see them sitting at a table somewhere, speaking in hushed tones, “maybe we should lay low on this one, right wayne?”
that’s about what you get with the likes of these people.
add to that, how the press cycle winds down the horror with replacement fodder after selling the crime, the tragedy, the memorial services and the future.
the press walks on eggs after trumpeting bombastic headline news waiting for the signal from either side that it’s safe to lurch forward.
it’s a well-worn dance. it, like so much of america’s politics, is a brain-numbing exercise in circular behavior that relies on memory lapses, other drama, more memory lapses, the marketing of panic, political spin and bullshit.
more of the latter than the former.
dial up the other noise – any other noise, quick.
there IS no future here.

if presidents and five year olds are in the bullseye for fifty years, nothing will change.
that’s a guarantee.
take it from “a kennedy.”
if common-sense gun owners agree that assault rifles, insanely large gun clips and magazines aren’t a good idea, yet the NRA and the gun lobby stymie any change to this insanity, rest assured that whatever deal that’s made will be cosmetic at best.

all we have is faith in our collective jesuses, buddhas, krishnas, flying spaghetti monsters and a rabbit’s foot to protect us.
oh, or a gun if all other options won’t work.

in march, 1990, i got a remarkable phone call informing me that my brother was murdered.
he was executed with a bullet to the brain, just as i so vividly remembered november 22nd, 1963.
i became “a kennedy,” that moment.
the next morning, we headed across the country to claim my brother’s body.
triple murder-suicide in cody, wyoming.
the killer was a convicted felon who was able to procure a gun from a pawnshop in town without a background check;
a simple background check would have made his purchase impossible, but i understood – we were in the wild west, the land of mountain men, cowboys and rugged individualism.
while in town, as we made arrangements for the memorial, i ate enough valium and drank enough beer to float through the ordeal.
besides, when a murderer turns the gun on himself, it becomes a package deal; his suicide being the bright, red bow that ties it all together.
no muss, no fuss. no judge, no jury.
in-between the tears, i thought about how lucky we were. another kind of luck – a winding-double-gainer kind of luck.

unfortunately, this luck did not work well for my mother.
on march 3rd, 1990, i lost not only my brother, but the person who bore and raised me.
i mean, she was on this planet for another sixteen years, but the glaze was in the eyes till she made her way to halleluja boulevard and eternity avenue about six years ago.
one day, she confided to my sister that she starts her day – everyday – making a promise to not commit suicide.
every day.
for her, a successful day is a day you can fall asleep with the possibility of waking up seven hours later and rest assured the paxil and valium became the math for a couple of thousand days and nights.
plus, the no-suicide pledge was so she won’t be condemned to the firey depths of hell promised to her by the catholic church that glowered over her like a gangster, making sure she did the “right thing” while dangling the “heaven carrot.”
that, like so many other subjects that spring-up here, is a discussion for another time.

a couple of days before she traveled to the eight-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension, my mom asked, “would you be upset if i told you that every night before i close my eyes to sleep, i pray for god to take me?”
“upset? me? if that’s what you want, i’ll pray for that, too,” was my reply.
i prayed and prayed.
she died a few days later.
it wasn’t my prayers that freed her. maybe it was god. maybe it was her broken heart, but regardless – i was the happiest guy at the wake.
imagine that.
“so sorry for your loss.”
“don’t be – there was no loss, just a glorious release to the great beyond. i’ve never been happier for my mother.”

a note to all you smart men out there;
no man on this planet will ever know what it is to lose a child.
no way, no how.
for this reason, more than anything, men need to shut the hell up about “women things,” but that’s another story.
men haven’t got a clue.
that, too, is another conversation for another time.

when the connecticut massacre occurred, my heart sank.
the feeling of helplessness assaulted me on so many levels, but most particularly on the “mother level.”
i see twenty mothers who will stare blankly for moments at a time at a point beyond everything, for the rest of their lives;
an awkward, minute-clumsiness will possess the air around these women at molecular levels in ways i can’t even imagine.
i won’t pretend that i’d know what these mothers are thinking.
i didn’t pretend to know what my own mother was thinking, but when i saw her standing alone, looking beyond, i knew she swam alone in a pool of atomic-level confusion and i knew that i’d never comprehend her moment.
i can only guess.
i could assume it was something like how i felt sitting in the back seat of the jeep as it brought my family from the airport in billings, montana to cody, wyoming. we were driven there by my brother’s best friend who had to identify the body after the crime was discovered.
kind greetings and minimal conversation melded with engine sounds and the hum of tire to blacktop.
i sat huddled in a wordless questionmark inside a dark void.
my only guess would be that a mother’s questionmark would be a lot bigger in an ever-darkening void.
so, in thinking about connecticut, i multiplied my mother’s sadness by twenty.
and after i did that, i factored moms all over this country and all over the world who had to (and will have to) summon the strength to bury who they had to push through their birth canal and into the light and air, into a world of promise and betrayal; joy and disappointment, winning and losing, famine and thirst, abundance and fortune…..and drones.
can’t forget the drones.
i had to mention the drones.
apparently mothers the world over feel like the mothers of newtown about the loss of their child.

the question whether any of this matters, for me, is answered when i awaken and mistake the sheet and quilt on which i lay for the green-felt, stretched everywhere, beneath everything, something the grifting lizard-guy (who sounds like eduardo ciannelli and looks like omar sharif) may have told me or simply dropped in my feeble little human hard drive.
as much as one might believe in miracles, there are others who might believe that the same amazingness could be attributed to fate, self-will or glorious-diamond-encrusted-tuxedo and tails-wearing luck.
i’m a firm believer in the latter.
i can change this opinion at will, but i’ve noticed that as i move toward my reunion with the oldest atoms in the universe, these notions gain strength.
besides, it’s only tuesday here.

greetings from the perimeter

sometimes, we attach importance to a moment – as it happens – and it becomes the thread we associate with the coming days and weeks and maybe the unfolding history of the world (or part of it) as it moves forward.
thus, the title of this note.
last sunday – i think it was then – i threw on a set of thermals for the first time this “season,” as opposed to the previous long-john season this past winter.
i checked a small box in my head where the question might have been, “does this begin the stretch of days to weeks to months where layers of clothing will be the rule; in particular, thermals?”
to “time-stamp” this, means the last week of october and for purposes of clarification, the thermals have been worn daily since, not that it’s all so important, the only point being, since the last note posted here, the shoreline of the northeast united states, particularly that of ny and nj, has been altered for all future days.
and between you and me, looking at the storm that was no longer “taking shape,” but has become an awfully devastating matter of fact, i still reel a little, more than three weeks later and having made the camera-held assault on fort tilden last year with the landing of hurricane irene, it was a given that i would do it again with “sandy,” though it would be a day or so later and the unfolding horror of this would magnify with each passing day.
“would it be very different this year?” i wondered, as i structured such questions in my mind.
my answer to that was a resounding, “yes.”
(it’s the same voice that tells me i’m smart as a whip or worthless as a wooden nickle.
a wooden nickel, meaning less, “token or coin,” and more, “to lay caution in one’s dealings,” in this case.
but i never knew that, additionally, a “wooden nickel” was also, “a small shit-stain placed on one’s forehead by someone else’s ass.”
really – you can look it up in the urban dictionary. thank you, innernet.
“i learned something new today…,” i muttered to myself. “…but i don’t think i’ll ever want one of those,” could have followed this.
if my self-esteem suffers a diabetic sugar low and has its way, who knows?
a shit-stain from someone’s “brown-eye” might be a mark (heh-heh) of grandiosity and manic, acid-tinged joy.)
bartender-driven sociological and psychological statements are better kept to a minimum in this day and age.
a scatological movement, small and round as it may be, is still shit to me.

obviously, this post is a rudderless schooner floating on a sea of uncertainty.
there are hundreds of these examples found on side streets and main thoroughfares these past weeks; giant, wooden and fiberglass displaced-items thrust landward, courtesy of tidal surges and high winds.
the photos interspersed here are from forty-eight hours after the storm, a week and forty-eight hours after the storm and another week later, after being told i cannot gain access anywhere in or around gateway national park.
with that, i won’t go on and on about what you’ve no doubt been seeing and hearing for days and weeks now.
for example – the photo below is of a sand-less riis park beach, something i never saw before.

turning west, i photographed fort tilden’s sandless beach. the sand as well as the dunes were gone, too.

there’s a whole bunch more photos at our photobucket link, but i think i need to throw in a reminder;
here’s the road that runs between the dunes and the main portion of fort tilden;

and here’s what happened to it –

“amazing,” is an understatement to me.
it’s yet another reminder of the futility of human arrogance and methinks this planet will be holding more classes to drive this message home in the near future.
oh, boy.

i’m weary from a from a five-year political season with no end in sight even though there’s been an election winner.
one party and the hateful racists who vote with it seem to think that if they’re not happy with the result, the election doesn’t count.
again.
i count from the year before obama won the previous election to now, because of the markedly combative and relentless attacks he’s had to fight off since his inauguration, up to and including all the teadouche-hatespeak, birther crap-assedness and greed-induced bullshit that continually amazes me – how do a bunch of rich white guys convince millions of poorer white guys that it’s in their interest to make the rich guys richer and themselves poorer?
how do you vote against your own best interests?
do you think you’ll get a better seat on the bus? are you stuck in the 1950’s that badly, middle-class white men?
hate makes people do stupid things. incredibly stupid.
but humanity is insane for the most part and it’s done this sort of thing for centuries and as i haven’t said for long-enough, it will never end.
there will always be THAT douchebag or asshat or buzzkill to gum-up whatever “the works,” might be at one time or other, whether it be a utopian dream, civil society or a sunday barbeque.
there will forever be the guy who butts or bullies his or her way into the conversation with, “Listen,” or “let me tell you something,” or “you know what i think?”

thank you, monty python’s “the meaning of life” for your gentle reminder of the exceptional-american point of view.

for weeks, i’ve been sitting before the computer screen unable to speak.
i wander over to facebook where i rail against the convenient stupidity christian conservative republicans and their racist hatespeak spew, making my reactionary replies make me feel like i’m doing something with my graymatter, giving me a sense of purpose.
“look at me! i’m writing; i’m putting pen to paper. i’m saying something meaningful.
it’s too easy.
i come here, a thousand things to speak about, fingers prepared to dance on the keys, thoughts racing with so much to write about – “there’s always something to say, isn’t there?” – but what happens is brainfreeze; large patches of deleted information happening when i scan my thoughts, long moments of staring at fingers, poised motionless, where i can’t even vocalize the long, “….uhhhh…..,” till now, three weeks after starting it.
it’s been happening for almost a year.
the few posts i’ve written were patchworks, things forced to the desktop by frustration, desperation or an “-ation,” i have yet to discover.
i don’t know.
me and motive are not on the best of terms.
…and of course, when faced with the opportunity to stop writing, i do.
gimmee distraction.
anything bright and shiny. anything dark and tragic.
anything….at all.
i retreat to history in order to gather info to support this statement and find that i’ve written seven posts this entire year.
here’s the math;
400 posts in almost five years.
7 posts this year.
that says it all.
and as i type this, my own in-house “douchebag excuse-program,” located in my decaying hard-drive, is attempting to justify this severe lack of output by tying it to my mental state, financial stress, writer’s block, personal assaults, any and all crises – (real or imagined) – and whatever else i can gather to make me not responsible for anything and when this happens, words float up from the depths i attempt to submerge myself under, from my dearest friend who told me this; “a writer writes,” and it’s here that i have to own-up and shut up, causing me to gaze blankly ahead, hoping to quell the voices within, “there, happy now?” –
then, i go….”i’ll chain myself to this desk for three hours a day till i start writing again.”….and other campaign promises, because that’s what i have become, a “rhetoricist,” a word i just made up and googled, only to find out that it has no meaning – not that this ever stopped me – but a blogsite does (linked here) whose current tome has to do with the papacy, an entertaining “something” sure to please anyone who wants to know – in the author’s opinion – who the worst popes of all-time are…
i salute his blog’s name and enjoyed his post.

“but i digress…,” a phrase i may have grown tired of, though i still find comfort in its use.
but yes, the way i manipulate the truth about motive and me, might lie(trans.verb) in the lie(noun).

now’s as good a time as any to consult the glossary of mind and memory.

39. – Visual imagery – The process of forming mental pictures of objects or ideas.

I’ve been relying on visual imagery of one kind or other to excuse me from sitting here, writing this, or anything.
there, i used it in a sentence.
here’s a pic of neural pathways;

here’s a picture of MY (imagined) neural pathways;

this photo, like the others used above, were taken yesterday.
instead of going to my regular gateway national park haunts, something made me go to the very end of the rockaway peninsula, breezy point. i haven’t visited here in over a year, but photographed and wrote here in previous postings.
once, i met a greedhound bond trader who became a meal and a suit and consequently, a grifting-lizard park ranger who, four years ago warned me about letting my dog, maxx, run on the beach during the summer season.
i would learn of this some days later when i returned to fort tilden and chatted with the lizard guy who sounded like eduardo ciannelli and looked like omar sharif.
that was when i found out about their penchant for 1930’s jazz, cab calloway, the unlikely end for ayn rand in 1955 and who the real author of “atlas shrugged” really was.
i miss the lizard guy. he stopped appearing when my dearest friend’s illness became overwhelming for one or both of us.
he told me that there was nothing to read in my head because of all the sadness, or something. i think he was “psychological squeamish,” a condition i made up regarding this particular grifting lizard, due to his inability to get past my love and concern for another human being. they can tear into and burrow through the entire contents of the human skinsack but are stymied by heartache. imagine that.
maybe one day, when i see him parked in the fisherman’s parking lot, he’ll roll down his window and counter this statement because that’s what he does so well.
if you’re new around here, you should know that the grifting lizards from mars can read humanity like a dime-store novel. i love to say “dime-store novel,” so much, i will title my first published novel, poem, song, short-story, essay or op-ed entry, exactly that.

this post ends with me and a 95 year old italian woman weeping in the back room of a brooklyn pork store.
her 58-year-old son was diagnosed with cancer and was dead in less than ninety days. i try to comfort her, but as i understood with my own mother’s crushing loss of her son and my brother, this is not going to happen.
i’m her “young man,” a steady customer and friend of the family for six or seven years now. i call her my girlfriend and we always hug and kiss hello, but when i dropped by for a spicy, greasy hero a while ago to see the store’s metal shutters drawn down and the small handwritten sign taped to it that always portends bad news whenever a small business does it, i thought it was she was who had gone and passed. imagine my surprise….
i wouldn’t know for another week or two that i was wrong and it was her son who died.
it was so sad on so many levels, i couldn’t believe how many.

this note;
the result of a lounge chair on a runway, wrestling shoes and maxx.

my morning was spent in a gray shroud.
i will explain;
it engulfed my car and stretched ahead of it onto the BQE, belt parkway and onto the verrazano bridge; across the staten island expressway to the new jersey turnpike, then all the way down to the final exits in south jersey where “the farm” was, but that’s another story.
this was because;
the plan was to look in on a stranger who used to be my “original-equipment father,” a term i use when speaking about my natural father. he did the “going out for groceries” disappearing act when i was three. i would be raised by a stepfather who has been and remains my father for 53 years.
but this is about the other guy. the one who looks, walks and talks just like me and who, up until last week, had lain comfortably in a field of dementia – up and to the left of the field of ambrosia you might find yourself walking through in any dreamscape or afternoon reverie.

about fifteen years ago (when well into my 40’s), he – my “oef” (original equipment father) – contacted me and asked if we could meet. i said yes, but demanded we did this in a neutral city.
was i still a little angry? maybe. it could have been more along the lines of wanting the option of the “quick get away,” if not impressed with what he had to say.
i took amtrak to philadelphia, met him at the station and went to an italian restaurant to begin the task of hashing out a relationship or something.
the last time he tried this (back in the 1980’s), his agenda was to put me into a restaurant and have me make money for him. i played coy and hustled him into co-signing a bank loan (from a bank that might have had questionable banking practices – imagine that!) and burned him on the whole deal, making me a minor hero to my mother and brothers as the only family member who got even with him for stiffing us on child support.
it might also be mentioned that with this money, i would purchase a 1968 candy-apple-red mustang convertible with a white top and a few months later, go to jail in a tuxedo when defending its ownership.
there might be a lesson regarding “ill-gotten gains” in that…or not. luck or karma is a crapshot.
everything’s a crapshot.
i always look for the green-felt that i believe lies under this reality.

so now, here in the 21st century, i visit my “original-equipment-father,” who became my friend, to await his departure from this mortal coil.
he doesn’t know or recognize me anymore.
he spends his time wrapped-up in hallucinations that play out before him like he’s at a drive-in movie.
when i walk up to the bed, he reaches out idly and grabs my hand, holding it or parts thereof; a finger or three, a thumb; fanned-out metacarpals, the flip-side of the palm, his searching fingers reminding me of the ill-fused bone that connects to my left pinky, a victim of a 1970’s barroom brawl….his hands search and feel and grasp like a newborn; an 86 year-old newborn.
this will end as everything does, not for good or ill; just for its end.
he slept, drifting into the analogue TV screen that i always talk about, returning to its atoms, new and old, “hello, how are you?”…, his nametag saying “hello, my name is….gee, it sure used to matter….back when i was more matter than this……not that anything at this point matters at all…,” and so these thoughts might glitt and skitter, vrrrooom and flash, skitch and vvlingg; sounds i make up and others you make up – it’s all ok, it’s all galactically correct beneath the whispered hush, the lovesong just before the death rattle.
my “oef” left quietly. i wished him well.

i inventory my current “ends”.
these “ends” happen all the time.
these ends begin here or there or even the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension.

three years ago was the last time i caught one. it’s not that they haven’t been here, but i hadn’t reached out for this manner of celestial assistance, sub-atomic aid, bosonoid beatification….

funny how similar things can be, earth and sky…from small and delicate to galactic and beyond measurement.
(not to mention, what a treat to use the word “boson” with “authority” for the first time in a sentence…)
i also noticed that, since i last googled the word “moneystealer,” the republicans have glommed onto the word, using it to define the democratic agenda.

the above photo is the last gasp of a dying star.
now, it’s seeding the universe.
where was i when this started? probably right there!

but i…never mind…

i was sitting in front of where i live when it – the money stealer – drifted toward me, making me stand to capture it.
it settled in my palm, my fingers, slowly and clumsily, forming a cup over it.
i closed my eyes and wished, but it was for something other than money, making me wonder if i was breaking the rules i remember following half a century ago.
this was because all i could do was think of my special friend who, to the best of my knowledge, still breathes and thinks and feels and loves.
i whispered to the money stealer nestled in my hand, “screw the cash. see if you could cut a deal with the martians,” (who might or might not be the same creatures who dispense the money they take from planet earth when making a feast from their farming exploits).
i wondered, like any articulate fifty-seven year-old, seven-year-old, if they were one and the same people (the money-stealer connection and the grifting lizards from mars) and if they might be able to trim the odds, talk to the galactic pit-boss or maybe run enough plays out there on the green felt that lies beneath the fabric of all universes, along with each and every dimension of every other dimension, that might tip the odds so i can make it to my most important luncheon date, ever.

children, even old geezer-children like me who latch onto a glimmer of hope, even if only for a fleeting milli-of-a-millisecond, understands “the moment” even if it comes and goes before it’s recognized. this is because it happens on a nuclear level. i know this like i know my own name, whatever that is at this moment, in this place at this time.

it’s “the little engine that could” that changes the game on a bosonic-level.
(yes, i’ve grabbed the boson by the horns and i’m gonna ride it as much as i can this first time out)

it’s a good time to go to, “the glossary of mind and memory.”

38 – Verbal mediator – a word or phrase that forms a logical connection or “bridge” between two pieces of information; used as a mnemonic.

when i so-gently cradled that floating seed in my hand, the verbal mediator buzzing and whirring inside my head, connected me not only to a childhood moment on the corner of coney island avenue and avenue S, but to “the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension,” where varied protons and neutrons mingled with millions of presents and pasts, nows and thens, heres and theres.
as always, i used it in a sentence.

if this all seems a tad, “what the fuck?”…i’m sorry.

everything you need to learn is in the previous posts which are right here.
there’s even more stuff in future posts, but you’ll need to learn how to really search if you’re gonna find them.
good luck.
that’s all you’ll need.

last night, in anticipation of the 99-degree temperatures forecast for today, i bought a big bag of “popcorn, indiana” butter-flavored popcorn, flavored with real butter…..

…that might or might not be micro-wave-warmable in its bag.
they’re touting such info on their website but i see no evidence on the bag.
i was going to watch “dr. strangelove” this afternoon and forget the heat.
instead, i fell asleep and woke up ten minutes after the movie ended.
so, i turned to the weather channel for solace (or solarce, what with all this heat) and heard about severe thunderstorms heading into the area.
ok. i will chase a storm and hope for a downpour.
i find peace in such things.
i made it out to floyd bennett field, drove around looking for a suitable place to park, then decided the better show might not be at the bay, but rather the beach, so i exited the airport and crossed the bridge to fort tilden.
the lightning flashes over the open ocean looked impressive, but that was all there was and after a walk along the dunes, we headed back to the car.
it was after 8pm. we drove back into floyd bennett and with the cooling air, i decided “what a perfect time to jog,” so there we were, running along runway 15 for a half-mile. around that time, i remembered that i hate jogging.
a few days earlier, maxx went to the vet for a complete exam and i worried about the ticks that i may have missed after our many visits out here.
as i sat waiting for his bloodwork i shuddered, remembering the pbs documentary i had seen about a year earlier about lyme disease and the medical profession, scaring the bejesus out of me. there’s times when i’d pick the ticks out of maxx’s hair and from his skin, then hours later find others burrowing into my own scalp, leg or chest when showering.

ticks seriously freak me out.
they are the rats of the insect world.
they are the corporate raiders of the human world; machines of single-purpose, devoid of morals or conscience.
yep – this is today’s indictment on humanity or part of it.
my gentle reminder that this planet will be fine or finer without us.
that we’re not so important as we think we are.
that our finer qualities will always be dwarfed by the louder-mouths.
that’s how conservative newspeak works.
that’s how christian-conservative spirituality is marketed.

bullshit mixed with crocodile tears….

…is just muddy shit.

i had a long talk with my friend a night or two ago.
i sat in my car as the engine idled and the a/c churned coolness on maxx’s thick coat while we spoke about everything we hadn’t spoken about in months.
she and i go back about thirty years.
we had been involved, uninvolved, reinvolved, disinvolved, postinvolved – all these words that get a little red-squiggly line underneath them the moment the cursor spaces past them, immediately letting me know that this computer’s “spell-check” is not pleased with the choice of words or near-words i choose to employ.
i mentioned this once or twice before over the years.
i will no doubt mention it again. it’s what i do.

the heat of the past days sequestered buddy and maxx in my room at the back of the loft i call home, where a small a/c unit makes life bearable for their fur-covered personages.
they lie motionless, letting the cool air dropping from above lay upon them like a blanket….or something.

i’ve avoided speaking about politics lately.
i realize that right now, i hate politics almost as much as i hate the samsung intensity II cellphone i spoke of in the previous posting.
i had been listening with a piqued-ear about news regarding the democracy movement in egypt and how it’s being played in certain news cycles, mostly in the american media.
without being much of an expert in “political fartery,” a phrase i just made up and googled, leaving me to describe as my own, the entire “arab spring” has become a gaseous stank of silence, mis-direction and lies, taking over the bloom of hope and freedom.
i remember muttering something to that effect the week it happened. the egyptians who were filled with joy were about to trade-off oppressors.
why?
the egyptian military that rules (and will continue to rule) the land of the pharaohs was created and trained by the american government back before and during hosni mubarak’s rise to power.
what this means is that everyone in the military over there are “old-guard-american,” and have strong connections to the pentagon who are not in a rush to hand much of anything over to anyone, but would have sooner given it to mubarak’s errand boy than anybody connected to the muslim brotherhood, but it didn’t work out that way.
the guy from the brotherhood won and all eyes will be on him every day.
so, either way, the population of that country continues to live in a vice.

those guys – the brotherhood – were nazi stooges and regional enforcers during world war two. they were also hardcore religious zealots.
i read about them a decade ago, long before they started appearing in the headlines again. if you want to learn about this, don’t just google their name and read what’s on top of the list – there’s a huge amount of selective bias covering both sides of the story.
dave emory is a brilliant researcher and his work in this field looms large in my non-professional estimation.
i think you can still listen to his work on WFMU.

…but back to political fartery;
the google notified me that i am the creator of this phrase, as the innernet has never seen these two words strung together.
as a result, i will now give my/the definitive definition, making me feel like king of a very small hill – or maybe just a methane-filled cloud – but what the hell, it’s great to be king of something for a sec, huh?

political fartery;
the act of exploding a “gaseous fuff” of nebulous explanation about what any-who says about any-what at any-time in full view of at least one member of an equally cloudy press.

but i digress….
the fartery i wanted to initially discuss was about the affordable care act – obama care – and how it’s been generating gas since day-one and it shows how hollering by means of money and righteous indignation tilts opinion in the world of the emotionally-explosive, yet totally uninformed and keeps stupidity not only in the game, but provides it with brass knuckles and shoulderpads, as if such a lack of knowledge is something you gain in playing or watching rollerball.

most of the opponents of obama care don’t even know what’s in it.
they hate it because of the guy whose name is on it.
they hate it because they were told to.
just how STUPID is that?
it’s just that simple. the teabag party is a pile of old white trash organized by hateful conservative money.
there’s a few uncle-toms (i gotta call’em like i see’em) and self-hating opportunists of various races that give this pack of creeps an air of legitimacy as a “grassroots, big-tent movement,” as well as some bible-thumping liars who know the lyrics to “yes, jesus loves me,” harkening to the days when black people sang that shit in their own goddamed chapels and kept to their own damned selves.
that’s what “we want our country back,” means.
don’t get me wrong – there’ve been great leaps forward regarding social change because of the civil rights movement – millions of southerners had grown weary of the george wallace state of mind – but the republicans did employ “the southern strategy” for a reason – hate lives and breeds quite well where envy and ignorance has a firm foothold. the democratic party lost the white south the day president johnson signed the civil rights bill, forty-eight years ago today.
sweet home alabama, arkansas, mississippi, georgia…etc.
yeah, right. as long as you keep the coloreds in line.
and oh yeah – keep the women stupid, barefoot and pregnant and make all their decisions for them.
…and while you’re at it, shove the gays back in the closet and
teach the children who can afford it and fuck the rest.
america, just like you want it, you fascist douchebags.

uhhh, where was i?
rollerball?
the message about the corporate state isn’t where i’m going here – it’s plain enough in the film and even more leading in the behavior of the republican/conservative parties the world over.
what’s happening in europe is connected to what’s happening here.
what’s happening in the far east is about what’s going on here.
it’s the same greedy bastards work in concert as they billow the air with stenchous plans and run life-support lines from government to business while severing the same between government and populace. multinational corporations are concerned with nothing more than the bottom line.
can you imagine corporate slavery?
it’s happening incrementally and most of these fine, upstanding americans are just hoping to ride the coattails of the well-to-do.
they’re hoping they’ll be lucky.
again – that’s what it’s really all about out there.
like i said last year – soon, the only message from them will be this – “bring out your dead.”
didn’t mitch mcconnell say as much on fox this weekend?

pffffftt!

about a year and a half ago – give or take a few months – my verizon plan was up and the technology seduction came-a-callin’ with promises of a great *new phone (*i was too poor for an i-phone or one of those droid things) for signing on for another two year hitch with verizon, i got this phone – a samsung intensity II – for five dollars from the verizon store as my two-year upgrade.

within an hour, i hated this phone.
deep and abiding hatred.
every day for months, i would look at the device as it lay in the palm of my hand and state publicly, “i hate this phone.”
i will not list the reasons, as there were too many.
i only know that if you get one, you might understand.
i knew just how much when i went to australia last year and was filled with joy at not having a phone at all.
when i returned, i toyed with the notion of not having a cellphone ever again, but understood that it wouldn’t happen. i know me.
well, it (the samsung intensity I) stopped working a few days back.
the screen grew black with a message “in USB download mode,” in small, white letters at the top of the screen and “verizon bootblock” and a bunch of numbers on the bottom.
i called verizon and somehow got hold of a phone tech-guy who confirmed this – “your phone sounds pretty broken,” he said.
a sigh of relief mingled with a sense of panic regarding phone numbers. this shook me up till i realized that my previous device (that developed a glitch that seems to have disappeared) had most of these contacts.
finding the newer ones wouldn’t be much of a challenge.
after turning on the older phone, i noticed this;
it held 248 photos. it had 51 messages under “INbox” it had 31 messages under “SENT.”
some of them had little, blue padlocks next to them.
they were dated from january, 2011 – back.
some of the ones i had “locked” go back to late 2009 and early 2010.
the locked messages involve my dearest friend on the planet.
i can recall where and when each and every message came to me.

some people remind you of life’s gloriousness.
my dearest friend sits atop this thought for three years now and these rediscovered messages jumpstarted an emotional torrent as i began to read them.
other people are the polar opposite this.
i keep away from them as much as i can.
gratefully, the rest – most of them – fall in the middle; a gray area of laughter, smiles, grimaces and tears, simmering in a broth of daily experience.
i’m all of the above, but try to keep in the gray area as often as i can, though at times, with my history, i’m no doubt a magnet for darkness.
maybe it’s genetic.
maybe it’s something with my math – you know, the numbers out there that scroll silently through every nook and cranny of every universe, here and there, now and then, underscoring the stats that reveal all the luck, unluck and no luck that is the velvet rope we stand behind as we await the eternity theater showing of “everything everyone ever said,” starring everywhoever who ever was.
when you watch films while traveling on the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension, a place i haven’t given much digitime to, but what lingers purposefully whenever i’m enveloped by dreams where my dearest friend glints in and around my consciousness while i stretch out and try to touch assorted nuclei.

the photo above is the nuclei of a butterfly wing.
my first thought was this;
“is it a monarch?”
it might as well be “futureworld of a berrybush.”

it might be a christmas card.
whatever.

whenever i look skyward, for no reason i can pinpoint, my friend comes to mind.

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