Goodbye Blue Monday

from the end of a ben and gerry’s “pistachio, pistachio” ice cream run (not one of my better ideas since diabetes2 kicked in), but would have kept it going if i could find more product.
friends who live in other parts of the borough brought any they could find.
a supermarket in greenpoint had a container covered in ice.
i knew nothing good would come of this ice cream, but bought it anyway.
i told myself that it would be fine.
in my heart i knew it was freezer-burnt, but you know how we humans are…
we lie to ourselves for the silliest things, cloaking us in comfort and hope like the promise of safety as we walk off a cliff…, at least i do.
“the fall doesn’t look too bad…it’ll be fine…i’ll just tuck and roll….yeah…,” certain such words will buffer and bandage this body and spirit.
or not.

this is utter nonsense, but it’s mine.

these thoughts remind me of a scene from “butch cassidy and the sundance kid,” that speaks to moving forward, regardless of consequence, whether things make a lick of sense or not.
they lead, historically, to decisions made regarding situations and people who entered my life and how this process allows me to make the same mindless miscalculations…”one more time”…but more about that later.

this plays to paths inside my hard drive all the time.

last week, there was a guy on the “facebook” who blurted this phrase in trying to explain himself to either himself or everybody;
“i just do things,” and i knew exactly what he meant and told him so. he was unsure if he was “an artist,” a phrase to some that might be overwhelming or confining.
i find it to be both and i’m sure he’ll carry “i just do things,” forever inside.
hopefully, he’ll keep doing them.

the two appliances (or parts thereof) in the photo below were having a conversation.

i heard murmuring while setting up the shot.
the washer said (or so it seemed), “…but that guy, he’ll never get it.”
who were they talking about?
i looked around. i was alone…or thought i was, then heard the clipped voice of that lizard guy.
you know who i mean – the one that sounds like eduardo ciannelli and looks like omar sharif.
“that was me talking about YOU!” he chimed mockingly.
“i thought it was in my head,” was my weary reply.
i was so off-balance, “where are you?”
“oh…i’m around…and yes, it was in your head. i love dropping files into your hard drive. humans are so entertaining,” he marveled, then followed with, “…as well as utterly delicious if properly seasoned.”
i paused, allowing the horrifying image to recede from my mind before asking, “where are you? what are you doing here? aren’t you more about being on the other side of the bridge?”
(the bridge i was referring to is the marine parkway/gil hodges memorial bridge. it connects a smaller land-mass to a larger land-mass that is actually all the same land-mass called “long island.”)

weeks float by……

where was i?
before this moment…fractiousness in an aging carcass with a hard-drive filled with glitches.
yup, that’s me…
the other side of the bridge and the lizard guy…yes.
he never materialized but stayed in my head long enough mock my clanky humanness, sure he never crossed the bridge and simply plunked that appliance-conversation in my head like he said he did.
an easy mark, that’s me, but to a grifting lizard, humanity is nothing more than a steady diet of honey-coated chumps ripe for the picking.
i’d never make the cut, thank goodness (a phrase i’m googling right now, and yes, it’s what i thought it was…), because of our now-lengthy relationship that didn’t end up with me being a meal and a suit – something that, if you’re new or just a casual traveler here, could be explained at the link.
i’ll add the talking-appliance moment to our history and call him on it in our next meeting.


onward and elseward;

some of you might know the cartoon that is my life;

in the 1980’s, because of my direction (or lack of it), i was granted two books in two years from two women who were handing me my walking papers.
i’m sure they meant well.
the books were particularly painful in a comedy-manic way.
i put the books in my cedar chest, the one that held cherished moments, good and bad, and moved on with my life, but would recall those feelings again when cancer came to visit.
me and my past are cordial, with occasional hellos and acknowledgments, whispers and utterances and even an occasional humbling, red-faced moment of utter shame and embarrassment, but it doesn’t get time-enough to gain root back into my soul.
sense-memory can mug you, believe you me. (i already googled “believe you me” years ago)
every day, my history sails off into the void and at best, might visit in an occasional dream.

then, when the social networking happened, it got even more “interesting,” but more about that later.

last week, while laying in a wide grasspatch that separates runways 24 and 6 with 1 and 19, (each runway has two distinct numbers at either end of them distinguishing the direction a plane would be taking off or landing on or from) out in floyd bennett field, i took the above photo.
i won’t say i was considering “the facebook” when i took it, but i was thinking about those books and the women who gave them to me.
i ought to explain how i got them before moving forward.
maybe i should have started with that from the beginning of this electroscreed, but that might compromise my inability to do things in an orderly fashion.
i’m overwhelmed by structure.
or, i am underwhemed by it.
the jury’s out on that one.
imagine that.
somewhere in 1981, a beautiful young woman gave me this book;

maybe it was because…as an artist, i did not art.
as a writer, i did not write.
learn to type. ummm…yeah, ok.
i had a semester of it in high school.
the ancient underwood in my apartment would make short work of that notion, what with the dried-up red and black ribbon that would not offer a letter-image when struck by any key, nor would attempt to find a replacement ribbon to change this situation.

oh well. might as well go drinking.
i was most adept at that.

while i’m at this keyboard and in order to put a “timestamp” of sorts on this moment, let me say this;
much of the republican party is rife with stupidity and hate. this means much hasn’t changed since obama won the WHITE house. the scared, white republicans still take this as a personal affront.
“take back america” indeed.
hmmm, what else?
after 40 years and under the threat of shutdown, american auto makers finally build cars almost as good as the japanese, koreans, germans, swedes…and uhh, gee – who else makes cars?
but we can say one thing with absolute certainty – our cars were better than the YUGO

american auto makers were able to do this in three years after decades of substandard, planned-obsolescent crap.
following the curve on this braindense business behavior (the 30-year “duhh”), when do you suppose financial institutions might smell the coffee?
you see, it’s all the same.
it’s business as usual until it’s unusual, then there’s the battle back to sanity. (there’s little sense in banks who steal your money, but they do that, don’t they?)
it’s maintenance as opposed to cure.
it’s thievery until moral upheaval.
it’s “moral hazard” until morally hazardous and so on…
i drift into these waters and when i do, i become sad and weary, gluing my eyes to all-news TV and NPR radio, forcing me out the door…

…back to where i could communicate with my dearest friend.
and it would be songs i’d sing and words that i’d write while hiking with maxx and camera.
from out here, i voice-mailed my rendition of a “the way you look tonight, (written by jerome kern) ” from “swing time,” one of the best astaire and rogers films.
a day later, i got a text message telling me that i have an absolutely horrible singing voice but she loved the song.
i thank her for making me brave enough to sing.
i couldn’t begin to list the other things i thank her for.

…but i digress, or wish i could.
i need to talk about those books i mentioned.
the other book….

…and the people who handed them to me.

the typing book and the person who gave it to me reappeared some time ago. when she mentioned the book, a wave of embarrassment settled in for a moment, followed by an admission that it was suggested by a member of her family and she still cringes at the thought of it.
we made amends and are close friends.

the “computing in DOS” book and the person connected to it recently reappeared after 20-plus years.
thanks, facebook. (please use sarcasm here)
after explaining how she dreamed i was dead, but managed to have a conversation with me anyway about how i affected her lifepath (she became an artist and maybe it was my fault or something), i was presented with another book – this time, “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People,” by Stephen Covey.

i wondered how and why this was happening.
in an attempt to be…kind, i explained that we don’t really know one another after so many years and i have a little much on my plate to comment on this book suggestion.
it was better than saying, “WHAT? ARE YOU KIDDING?”
in the end, my entry into her dreams, she explained, was probably the result of too much northeast winter night.
i ventured to say that this was the first time i was considered the result of an atmospheric condition.
i said that maybe an “excuse me for barging into your life,” might be in order, but owing to this book debacle, nothing might be better.
sometimes nothing is everything you need.


there’s a hiss and sputter behind the humm that accompanies me everywhere i’ve gone since december 22nd.
the word melancholia jumped the line in my head, milliseconds before typing “depression,” in the note-title.
preparing a literal disclaimer;
at the risk of tipping my hand, i’ll say this glorious sadness, this magnificent weight – the color sunset assigned me by my dearest friend on the planet when her departure was imminent was here, in this sky, somewhere…….

…while christopher hitchens still roamed (well, maybe not “roamed”) the earth. i bring this up because of the interview i was listening to while working in my space. entitled, “All Of Life Is A Wager” (the interview at the link), he, in the gray-throes of chemo, could have been comfortable in a candid conversation regarding life and death with me and my dearest friend.
once you’re in the game, you really get the lingo.
and the interview crystallizes this point – luck – and makes me feel that the green felt that i continually imagine everything, everywhere is carpeted with (you need only to scratch the surface) is part of the biggest, grandest casino that stretches over time, space and all good parking lots.
i bring up parking lots because of the conversation i had with that lizard guy (who looks like omar sharif and sounds like eduardo ciannelli) the last time i went to the beach where maxx frolics while i looked for the big tire (i still do that) and spoke to my friend out over the green sea (of green felt), though i fear at times that the roar of the universe might be getting in the way of our words.
i can’t not cancer too often and can only not when dwelling on other pains.

i consider the pain in my right arm and say, “lucky it’s not my left arm.”
for me, that’s all i need to say. richard pryor explains below;


“ball of fire”,

January 1st, 2012

booted the now “double G-4″ computer to life as i-tunes settled on bill evans and for a while i sat here wondering if polished jazz fit my mental and emotional workspace.
the cluttered desk, the darkened television screen, buddy (my buddy) resting on his expanded computer-top real-estate and no longer in danger of falling off a computer tower in his sleep.
(this happened before and it scared the bejesus out of me.)
the terrible maxx is on the floor laying strategically behind me, his leash beside him at the ready.
if i shift in my chair maxx will rise, leash in teeth.
maxx is insistent (aside from being crazy).
ball of fire” will begin shortly. i’ve seen it before and i’ll see it again.
i probably mentioned it before, too.
it’s from the wonderful world of black and white i inhabit as much as possible.
a few days back, someone posted this article about current color films that are “better in black and white,” so it’s here to share with you.
but back to this film;

upon viewing it this time, i learned and retained the name of two gangsters in the film – one was “asthma,” the other, “pastrami,” though the focus of the film was the slang they were throwing around.
i love the language of the 1930’s and 40’s.
this movie is swimming with vintage language and hokey plotlines;
it’s inspired by “snow white and the seven dwarves.”

i had a long talk with a friend of mine.
as we spoke, i drifted into a sea of “discontentedness,” a word-not-a-word, but a word that needs to be a word, in my opinion.
i shivered when i gave myself enough time to consider my prospects at this age.
it’s no wonder, this need to escape into black and white.

what a perfect segue’ – i have to say this everytime i shoot and click out there in gateway national recreation area;

this place is in the new york metropolitan are, in eyes’ view of manhattan. imagine that.

you wouldn’t think i’d be walking through a blizzard when i took this picture, but i sure was.

it’s been going on for a while.
day or night, clear or cloudy sky, it doesn’t matter.
it’s sortalike strolling through tiny, magic snowstorms, the kind where snowflakes explode and tingle surreptitiously upon my cheek and eyes, causing my hand and fingers to search for these phantoms and wonders at points of impact, something the passerby might construe to be a “facial tic” or small madness on my part. i move slowly and casually to mask my anxiety which probably makes me look like a junkie.

i guess there’s no graceful way of straddling dimensions.

i consider these moments to be utmost magnificent windows into dreams and wishes, those places my eyes find each time i blink.
sometimes, i find myself in the darnedest places in the bat of an eye.
for a moment, as my fingertips searched for the phantom snowflake, i wondered if there was a game afoot being played by that lizard guy – the one who sounds like eduardo ciannelli and looks like omar sharif (or any of his associates) – and if my low-edged humanity, that which keeps me safe from being rendered a meal and a suit by these intergalactic gourmand hustlers, was being taken for a ride.

last week, in the blink of an eye, i found myself in a room in a house. i remember cream-colored drapes billowing gently at an open window as a radiant, dark-haired, petite individual sat in a rust-colored vinyl armchair, the kind familiar to hospital waiting rooms and state-run offices, next to it.
“do you come here often?” her gruff, whispery voice inquired.

i opened my eyes.
i walked forward, raising my camera and lowering myself so i could shoot just above maxx’s point of view. i had no reason to do this. it was a whim.
it was my homage to the canine-point-of-view.
i blinked.
“only when i masturbate,” i answered.
she laughed her conspiratorial laugh, the whispery kind akin to cartoons i’ve known.
a waft of peppermint drifted up my nostrils.
“yes. a hefty shower,” i said. “is dr. bronner a friend of yours?”
the sun was bright this afternoon of national parkery, a day when i went from airfield to beach to ruins to paths, all the while being touched by snowflakes from another storm entirely.
my mint-flavored friend, someone of near-legend returned to focus when i sat on a plank and listened to the breeze…

because time has its own rules in relation to these odd travelings of mine (at times), i felt safe in knowing that if i were to stay in this room with her, time would hold to its rules, meaning there wouldn’t be any.
the blink of an eye is the blink of an eye, as it goes.
it’s pointless to measure time when having these conversations.
i blink.

i owed beachtime to maxx.
i worked in the house all day trying to feel at home in my own space. this is not the same as when i’m not feeling, “at home” in my own skin or “at home” on this planet; besides, i have buddy and maxx to consider andi’ve been getting “visitoritis” because my place was becoming a “storagespacery,” two words not deemed words yet, though they’re fine with me, which brings to mind something i haven’t considered in ages – the glossary of mind and memory.
this decision was made days ago, but i can’t seem to get it together worth a damn.
i awoke this day.
that was enough for me.

39. – Visual imagery – The process of forming mental pictures of objects or ideas.
reading my morning e-mails and facebook notifications, i clicked a link about the federal reserve, a 7-trillion in bank loans at the time of TARP and dennis kucinich, triggering visual imagery unleashed in my head, remembering how the likes of kucinich, ross perot and “unsafe at any speed-nader,” were reduced – in astonishingly quick order – to caricatures of political buffoonery.
there, i used it in a sentence.

this is/was automatically-triggered by the two political parties, the press and media who give a skewed and distorted “critical look,” at “outsiders” when necessary.
i see this because i participated in it simply being here. i saw perot as a crackpot, after suggestions in that direction.
same thing with kucinich. i’ve been educated to believe that any third party is a crackpot party.
remember lyndon larouche.

before proceeding, here’s my disclaimer;
i’m as qualified to be leader of the most powerful nation on earth as almost every current republican candidate, with the exception of newt gingrich.
he’s as smart as he is evil and he’s very evil.

a dimwit like sarah palin (remember her?) and the current cartoon characters the republican party trotted out this year – bachmann, cain the minstrel (yes, he is), perry and newt the catholic – are considered “real” to an entire electorate when there’s absolutely no substance to them.
gingrich has substance.
he’s made up of cancerous lies and hate and right now, he’s top of the pops with this party of scared white folks.
it’s these same people, for the most part, who put george bush (the cheerleader) into office – twice. remember the perils of the independent voter who wants things fixed yesterday.
whether it was stolen both times is immaterial; the simple fact that it ever got that close is testament to ignorance and misinformation as well as the stupidity and collusion of the other party.
john huntsman, the sanest voice i’ve heard amid the propped-up beautitudes of the grand old party is considered not to be considered.

the occupy movement is getting it from all sides, especially by law enforcement and surreptitiously, by our own government.
there’s a massive game of “good-cop, bad-cop” going on here
and the good cop wants nothing more than to hold onto the status-quo or at most, toss them a financial bone, but keeping the population under the thumb of servitude and debt.
there’s no win here, least of all for the 99% percent, students or the OWS.

but i digress…

fuck it – this post is old

the Guarino home – and this is only part of it;

Augie Maurello died three days after Thanksgiving, 1988. He was found beneath an Otis elevator car, the kind they have in high-rise buildings on the upper-east-side with a 2500 pound capacity that was indeed, filled to capacity. In a freakish moment, instead of coming to a stop in the lobby like the illuminated button commanded, the elevator car slowed, but continued to the basement where it stopped on what sounded like a crate of cantaloupe. That was Augie.

Apparently, the human ribcage being broken up in its skin- sack sounds sorta-like unlucky cantaloupe, but that’s neither here nor there. When the elevator stopped, the door opened and the annoyed tenants left the building through the basement. No one would know they were standing on a dead guy until later when the elevator mechanics arrived and found him and called the police. When the tenants found out about Augie, they were no longer miffed. They shuddered and were sickened, once again proving the power of information.

There was a big investigation. This could have been a mob thing or a union thing or a mob-union thing or just an Augie thing. Mister Maurello, in addition to being an elevator mechanic, was a low-level wise-guy who lived in a neighborhood filled with low-level-wise-guys. He was not a nice man, either to his wife or his children, but a saint to his capo (or “mob-boss”), his peers and his “women.” He loved the film, “Goodfellas,” and knew some of the actual characters from the story.

Someone who knew the cops on the case said all they could do was scrape him up and hose the rest away. His remains were subject to official scrutiny by crime labs and DNA collectors for almost two weeks before being released to the family which consisted of Connie, his wife of fifteen years; his twelve-year-old son Augie jr. and Celeste, their four-year-old “surprise” daughter—a point brought up on Thanksgiving by a drunk Augie when his daughter refused to eat the raisin and sausage stuffing, climaxing in tears and wails at the table. “Celeste, you’re the mistake that keeps on giving,” he slurred from his chair at the head of the table while mixing C&C cola into another glass of red wine. Celeste turned to her mom who was wide-eyed and speechless. “Mommy, what does Daddy mean?” she asked. Augie Jr. howled with delight, pointing at his sister, “miss-take – miss-take – mom’s unwanted stom-ach ache!”

But now, everything was different. Daddy was dead and Christmas was ten days away.

The body was transferred to the Gaurino Funeral Home on Flatlands avenue in Canarsie, Brooklyn. Needless to say, it was going to be a closed-coffin. Gaurino’s is a middle-income, family-run funeral home. The owner’s house is located across the street and every December the front yard of the two-story ranch-style home becomes a winter wonderland of motorized Christmas vignettes complete with Santa and Mrs. Claus, a sleigh with reindeer (complete with Rudolf and his brightly-lit red nose), elves working in their workshop, Frosty the Snowman and more. You can’t NOT see this as you enter the funeral home.

The grieving Maurellos arrived and set up grieving shop. Connie ran out of tears days ago. She was grateful that Augie’s parents were already dead and his brother Charlie was upstate doing eight years in the Dannemora Correctional Facility. Charlie was also a low-level wise guy who wasn’t as lucky as his brother until now. He was still here, Augie was not.

Connie did a quick emotional inventory. She figured she was on the fourth or fifth stage of grief. She didn’t have them in any particular order. It was all too blurry. At 7pm, she was stationed at the chapel door, her children to either side, her mind hovering somewhere between “acceptance,” “glee,” and “please kill me now,” when the first guests arrived to offer their condolences.

The weight and gravity of the night needed to be recalibrated for everyone who came. Augie was gone for two weeks already and everyone had begun to move on. Because of this, people were less convincing in their heartfelt-ness regarding Connie’s loss, particularly her mother and father who, in light of whispers about their deteriorating relationship, were quietly delighted with these events.

At eight pm, Sal and Maria parked their Plymouth in the lot adjoining the funeral home on the opposite side of the building where the Christmas display was. The car’s back door opened, releasing their eleven year-old son Nicky and Louise, their five-year old daughter. Sal and Maria were among the Maurello’s oldest friends because of the the proximity of their homes (a block away), the age of their children and Connie and Maria’s high-school days.

Connie’s big secret was that her daughter was totally planned. When Maria became pregnant with Louise – something they considered “a wonderful surprise” – Connie orchestrated the “Celeste project.” Augie’s death was as much a mistake as his daughter’s birth, if you know what I mean. His death would end the use of that word regarding their daughter. Tonight, as they walked across the parking lot, Augie jr., at a loss for words, began to taunt her sister again with, “miss-take,” and was solidly smacked across the head by his mother who, through clenched teeth said, “call your sister that again and i’ll cripple ya’.” She said this while pressing his cheeks together until they almost met in the middle of his mouth.

Sal, Maria and the kids walked from the parking lot and were immediately drawn to the huge Christmas display across the street. A scratchy rendition of “deck the halls” came out of a set of old speakers placed atop a display that had a group of yuletide carolers swaying back and forth in mechanical meter. Behind the crackling music, you can plainly hear the whirr and click of mechanical gears and pullies. The Gaurinos put the same display up for almost thirty years with little change. It was charming and old-worldly. Looking at it made you think of music boxes and The March of the Wooden Soldiers.

Sal, a carpenter and contractor by trade, sized up the display to be in excess of one hundred feet long and over a thousand square feet in total area.
He silently priced out the job in wood, aluminum framing and plexi-glass. It was instinctive. It was what he did. He shoo’ed away this thought and before everyone could get too wrapped up in the window scenes, he said, “C’mon, not now,” and guided his family back across the street and into the funeral home. They walked across a large common area, glancing at the other chapel rooms—there was one other wake in progress—before seeing Connie. They smiled and hugged. The children bolted toward each other, finding comfort in familiarity.

Sal and Maria stood talking to Connie, asking how she was bearing up; this was more about how the gauntlet of death unleashed itself upon her family than it was about Augie. He was old news. I mean, he’s been gone two weeks already.

Connie recounted detective-talk and police interviews and questions and business cards from investigators and members of the organized crime task force. As she spoke, she looked down. She wanted to lay down where she stood—right there on the burgundy, thick-pile-commercial carpet—and go to sleep.

Maria steered the conversation to the future, and Connie became more animated because of the potential for a new life; a new page. She raised her eyes. Sal excused himself and walked over to a group of men who reminded him of himself. Augie Jr. and Nicky disappeared—probably outside—while little Celeste sat on a chair at the end of an aisle and stared at the flower-draped box while Louise sat beside her. They were silent. Connie looked at her and wondered if she understood the Augie-in-the-box-thing.

The night went on for another hour or so. People chatted. There was hushed laughter with the occasional squeak of children.

Connie thought about how “this was it.” This thing tonight, this funeral at ten tomorrow, this burial at noon. Done, done and done.

Gradually, the fifty-or-so people who had signed the guest book gathered themselves and their others and found Connie to say goodnight. She thanked them for caring and made half-hearted, “maybe” plans for the future. Maria’s words floated in and out then back into her head.

“Huh? what?” Connie asked, her eyes re-focusing on her friend.

“I said we’re getting ready to go, hon,” Maria chimed. ”You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Connie answered. “Just worn out.”

“You want us to wait around? Want us to take you’se home?”

“No – I got the car. We’ll be fine.”

Sal gave her a hug while Maria did the same with the kids. “We’re gonna go ‘cross the street,” she said, tying her kerchief. They left. The other wake emptied, too. Connie and the director stepped into the small office in the main room. They spoke a little while. The chapel was emptying and partially dark.

When Connie returned, Celeste was asleep, her head on her brother’s lap, sitting on a couch in the main room. She stepped over and lifted up her daughter, her ringletted hair resting on her mother’s shoulder. Almost whispering, Connie apologized to her son for hitting and threatening him about “that word,” but asked him to please never use it again, because it’s hurtful and “your little sister might be hurt-enough right now, OK?”

“Okay, Mom,” he answered. She stroked his cheek lovingly.

Walking out, they passed the director who smiled sadly. Connie wondered if he had that smile down to a science…then guiltily dismissed her thoughts.

Exiting the funeral home, she looked across to the Christmas display. A couple was walking past it chatting and pointing.

Augie Jr.’s eyes asked and Connie’s answered. Smiling, they crossed the street to the big Christmas display. Celeste raised her head from her mother’s shoulder and awoke to a winter wonderland and a crackling rendition of “Joy to the World.”

…or in a movie directed by ridley scott..or when young lovers reunite in a 1970’s romance film…or what happens when someone puts a gun to your head. (just for the record; i did experience the last thing mentioned not once but twice and it was the same thing both times …extreme s-l-o-w-moving through a crystal-clear glob of mucus).

maxx (my loose-cannon of a dog) is asleep, rolled in a circle, his head resting on his tail – he has a very comfy tail – laying on the gray poncho i placed on the daybed he took over three years ago.
buddy is positioned to my immediate right next to this keyboard; sphinx-like, his paws tucked beneath him he sits, his head up and eyes closed on the red poncho folded into a plush-square and placed on the desk for him.
he has a BB in his hip from when he was used for target practice in his feline-youth.
i saw it in an x-ray.

but i digress.
i can’t help talking about buddy like he’s some sort of hero. he is my zen-master.
i’ve been inventorying heroes lately, but if i go on about this i will sink (or float) further into digression that might land me in a world of vague discomfort…or not.

while i was laying out these articles of clothing that used to define me, i promised to start wearing them again.
i have no idea if i meant what i said.
keeping promises to myself isn’t one of my strong suits. i’ve settled for promising the thought and letting it go. shame on me.
this plays in my mind like bitter fruit.

i’m better than this.
what of my public? (i have no public)
what of the children? (i have no children)
usually, by the time i get to this, i’ve forgotten what i was talking about.
it worked again.
i just have to make sure i don’t proofread this.

for a while, the night became one of black and white.
i spent a few hours composing this while listening to the television.
the greys and whites danced with the shadows at the edge of my right-eye’s periphery.
turner classic movies was screening “gold diggers of 1935,”
a depression era gem that i hadn’t seen in a while.

toward the end, when i heard the music begin to weave the melody from, “the lullaby of broadway,” i noticed the screen blacken, gaining my attention.
i forgot this particular busby berkeley number…it’s almost 15 minutes long and at moments it’s pretty intense;

but back to slow motion.
i’m not sure if it’s where i need to be, but something tells me i have to go here. i need to continually close my eyes and hope to see the paths my eyelids lead me, like tracerlines from dreams, traveling to the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension.
in the past, i wondered if my imagination played tricks on me in my goings and comings out there, marveling at the “slowness” i felt when traveling at the speed of light.
i remarked about this from time to time (and place to place) over the years, never once figuring there was a chance dreams might travel faster than light.
that was until those supercollider guys at CERN found out about those bang-zoom neutrinos.
i might say my dreams are neutrino-powered, but through years of conversation between me and my friend, i’m sure we travel faster.

yeah, i know it’s a stretch, but maybe busby berkeley saw something back then…

the inside core at CERN looks girly-powered.
of course, this is just an opinion.
i got loads of them.
they might morph and develop but they don’t ever do a one-eighty. a one-eighty is an unreasonable swift change-of-mind.
people who do that, who think black on one moment and white the next, give me the creeps.
people who do that, “in the public eye,” are most-likely liars.
people who do that in the political arena ARE LIARS.
big stinking liars.
my biggest hope regarding occupy wall street is the birth of a non-aligned political party, but i’m not in too much of a hurry for it. anything that pops up without massive roots and inner growth is doomed to be taken apart by the sinister self-interest of the “two current parties.”
i state it in quotes for obvious reasons.
want to see the democrats and republicans work together? start a political party.
they’ll work hand-in-glove like good soldiers to destroy anything that threatens them.
they will work shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling.
they will roll up their sleeves and perspire.
ask ross perot.

general motors and ford and chrysler teamed up like that in the late forties against Preston Tucker.
his story is nothing short of extraordinary.
they made a movie in the late 80’s called “Tucker; a Man and His Dream,” but his story was much bigger than the movie could ever be – though the film was pretty great.
these were the biggest corporations in america at the time and they went whole-hog to protect their market shares.
imagine entire political parties going after you.
throw in the influence peddlers of wall street, the banks and insurance companies and every well-heeled greedy bastard on the planet.
that there is one big, powerful lobby of self interest, you betcha.
hence, the need for a huge, undefined group of about a sixty or seventy million people who are just plain tired of the endless bullshit being proffered by the powers that be.

while i’m at it –
please, get the hell out of afghanistan.
i’m asking nicely.

one last thing;
dolores told me to tell my sweetest friend on the planet that she’ll be waiting on the corner of joy street and eternity avenue.
they’re already acquainted.

the title of this note came to me for a number of reasons.
it might have more to do with a sense of tedium, unsure if it’s physical, emotional or spiritual.
maybe it’s a combination of these, mixed in with the wearying sense of “aww, shit.”
“aww shit,” is what watching or reading the news gives me.

on the bright side, now there’s only one war – that i know of – left.
in iraq, the US license “to war” expired and the iraqi parliament isn’t going to stamp our government’s war-visa for next year.
our president spun it his way (which is fine) and it made him honor a campaign promise he wasn’t ready to make happen…yet.
the republicans got all sort-of indignant and woeful, which is about their speed. they think they can still bully the planet. these guys be nucular dummasses.
the behavior of these scared white guys is despicable.
and the republican teaparty has loads of them.
i’m not sure what rates higher in their mind – greed or hate.
i could try to veil this by using nicer words, but sometimes you gotta call’em like you see’em.
even considering another texas moron who’s stupid or stupider than the last texas-republican president is an act is sheer insanity.
understanding it can happen AGAIN is testament to the wholesale ignorance propagated by the powers that be the “99%” is up against.
fool me once, shame on…uhh…
i cringed just finding this boob’s video.
how can a large portion of this country even consider someone even remotely like him?
when half the population of over 300 million people think men like these deserve to sit in a position of power, you know we’re going to hell in a handbasket.
i’m not going to blame the movement downtown for my inability to sit and write something here.
i attempted to employ this lame excuse a few nights ago in conversation with a performer after her set. having been reduced to a yammering fan, she mentioned how she enjoyed reading my notes here and i lost all composure.
i attribute it to the long, frilly gown she wore and her crystally-blue-water voice.
this morning i found a link to something someone in california wrote that as i read, my mind said, “yeah, uh, huh,” and other under-the-breath mumbles of agreement.
i understand that it doesn’t speak to the entire occupy movement but it DID speak to me some…
this is what it was and it came out of occupy oakland this past week, around the same time as the police assault.
i read it once and will give it a 24-hour rest before reading it again. it’s a broad stroke.
it touches on what’s terribly wrong in this country, but then again,…
reading it, i recalled a book entitled, “the greening of america,” written by charles reich, something that bordered on fantasy about “changes of consciousness,” that would permeate our culture, sorta-like a huge “ohhh, i get it now.”
i remember my older brother leaving the issue of the new yorker that introduced the book and can recall the cover of the issue even now. he got the paperback version of the book which i read, probably the same year i read “fear and loathing in las vegas,” making my choice of reading material as varied as my drug intake.
i bring mister reich up because, though he may not have gotten it spot-on right, he did get it close-enough to the mark that i find myself re-examining frayed edges of my memory regarding things dismissed years ago and now haltingly want to reconsider.
in the links provided, the first one was written this past june and lists facts about the author that are eerily impressive – i mean, aside from being a distinguished Yale Law School professor and justice sam alito’s teacher – like his future view of “feminism, gay rights, racial equality, an end to military conflict, rampant consumerism, and overweening corporate power.”
the overview of the occupy movement, such as i can make out, rings many of the bells he rang in “greening of america.

btw/ each “greening” link offers different info regarding the book and author. i just thought you should know.
also, if you DO consider reading this book, get the patchouli oil out.
just a suggestion.

which is as good a way as any to segue’ to my late-night journey to floyd bennett field to photograph the waning snowfall yesterday.
it was more about letting maxx run free, as it always is.

earlier in the day, as i worked on this note, i was listening to the original “godzilla.”
as i’ve said before, much of my time is spent listening to films and this score by akira ifukube reaches to things far back in my life, no doubt.
the underwater sequence toward the climax of the film was playing when i began to feel emotional, like an ocean’s weight of sadness poured into my room.

i found myself missing people who either exited my life or never made it in, my dearest friend in particular.
funny how this stuff comes and goes like that.

i got plenty.

bud i digress…

October 16th, 2011

writing has become a foreign matter.
the events in new york city have crystallized since going there a couple of weeks ago.
the 99% have made it clear that there isn’t a political co-opting available for either party.
someone’s gotta do a perp-walk from wall and broad streets and that’s just for starters.
i love that.
the stooges in the media did everything they could to keep a blind eye on it while the corporate teabags and the shivering-in-their-boots government bureaucrats (leased and owned) ramp-up the discredit machine as events no doubt are underway to subvert it from under and within.
regardless of your point of view, there’s a whole lot of something going on.
which reminds me – i haven’t said this in a while;


ok. i feel better.
on another note;

i went to floyd bennett field and/or fort tilden a few times over the past weeks. the photos from the previous post were shot a lost rainy-day ago (there were a few of these days), but can’t remember which and now as i write, days have come and gone (along with visits) and more things occurred on and around wall street confirming the need to go to the parking lot in search of that guy who sounds like eduardo ciannelli (and looks like omar sharif).

when i photographed the pic below, confrontation was on my mind…yeah, maybe a little paranoid…

…an army of buds leaning toward a missing sun.
between you and me, we might be those marching-in-place little guys who are “as lucky to be as you and me.”
that might be a good name for a song performed by the new christy minstrels.

i grew up with these fresh-faced young americans on my parent’s first color television.
maybe it was an RCA.
i could have been a zenith.
members of this troupe grew up to become acts like “the association,” who became famous with a song entitled “along comes mary,” and barry mcguire, who wrote eve of destruction, a 45-rpm record i played way too much at age 12…
where was i?
oh yeah, all over the place, but specifically gateway national park, though it’s probably a worn irritant to some people who visit here.
sorry, it’s my “good place.”
we all need one.
these past weeks, each time i went there, i hoped to photograph a monarch butterfly. i do it every year.
had i seen one and photographed it, i might have said it was the same one from last year, or if butterflies aren’t supposed to travel north twice in their lifetime, i would say it was from the same family of last year’s;
that there was a post-it note in the DNA of this year’s monarch butterfly informing me that i had rescued its uncle (or aunt) from the ocean and nursed back to flight.
…but i would not write this story.
i haven’t taken the photo because i never saw the monarch.

every day, i die of regret a millisecond at a time.
if it’s not for one thing, it’s another.
1 – “i said THAT?”
2 – “what was i thinking?”
3 – “SHIT”
4 – “uhhh…”
given the moment, decisions made decades ago feel like a noogie to the temple.
sense-memory with self-loathing, this low-level headache stems from the heart and fills the mind and vice versa.

when i went to Occupy Wall Street for the first time, i walked around the park area, then headed out to places where i worked in my youth.
i walked east on wall street to a building i worked that housed a gold and silver commodities exchange.
it gave me the shivers.
i headed south and west till i was by the old US customs house at the end of broadway.
once upon a time, i worked for an engineering company across the street.
it could have happened happened on another planet.
from there i headed west and north to where i worked for a shipping company, then headed east again toward liberty park when i noticed the american stock exchange, or what used to be the american stock exchange.
now it’s something else. whatever.
i remembered that i had gotten a job there.
i was about twenty.
i was walking into offices and filling out job applications. i got a phone call from someone in their personnel department who asked me to come down for an interview, which i did.
i was going to start as a runner, one of those people who wears a blue polyester jacket with big pockets for pads and pens (at least back then) – i have no idea if the job still exists, but i’m sure now you need to have a degree of some sort for the gig.
the jowly-faced irishman who interviewed me described the job and told me about my future if i stuck and worked my way up. it sounded promising.
it sounded fantastic.
plus, there was a mccann’s bar just a block away.
that monday came when i would start this new job.
i never budged from my park slope apartment.
maybe i drank myself into submission the night before.
i don’t remember, but i never had a regret about it.

no part of me died when i recalled this story.
not a micro-millisecond of me.

for no reason i can think of, i thought about “playing, playing to win, and just winning.”
of course, this makes me refer back to enron and my first meeting with that grifting lizard guy – you know, the one who sounds like eduardo ciannelli and looks like omar sharif – the one who handed me those extraordinary binoculars and showed me ken lay on that ship over four years ago.
what’s more fortuitous is that, as i recalled these things, rachel maddow brought up enron on her show, causing me to remark about it on the facebook.
the smartest guys in the room is a documentary about what happened. the ENTIRE FILM is at the link here or where the title is.
this film underscores and offers understanding about how we are being taken to the cleaners by arrogant, mean-spirited little men.
understanding enron might make you angry.
it might also make the sub-prime hustle the banks executed with brokerage houses and bought-ratings agencies horribly real to you…
collusion. what a great word. it’s a cozy-evil word, ain’t it?

“playing” is fun.
“playing to win,” is what drives some people to let competitiveness overwhelm fairness. fun with harsh reservations w/ options leaning toward brutality.
“just winning,” takes everything out of the game. there is no game. there is no win. there’s just winning.
that’s where america is now; the tilted table, the loaded dice. a twilight zone episode.

what’s it like if a small investor realizes he has better odds in las vegas.
there, you know the house ALWAYS WINS, but at least you know the odds are mathematically stacked against you the same way all the time.
such is not true of the world at wall and broad.
betting on a stock could be the same thing as betting on a horse or betting on a wrestling match.
i’d imagine that’s the lesson in the financial meltdown of 2008 that is continuing even now.
iceland’s collapse in 2008 never gets airplay and there’s no news from that part of the world on any of the major networks. that’s because it’s a microcosm of the world’s current financial madness.
it was an insane hustle orchestrated by a few people who were actually set up by associates of that guy who sounds like eduardo ciannelli and looks like omar sharif.
they told a handful of fisherman that they could buy the world and they almost did.

i sat on the battlements that overlooks my safe place, my anteroom to the big casino where i commune with friends here and gone, now and then or yesterday, today and tomorrow, where i zoom to the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension

…and whisper “i love you,” to the grayscale moment of our dearest dreams.

…when i took the above picture, i was standing atop battery harris east, looking north (or was it west?) – maybe it was northwest.
a storm was headed this way.

from the harvest moon

October 10th, 2011

i took maxx to fort tilden for the first time since hurricane sunday, the day of the divine lightbulb.

it would be legit for maxx to frolic on the tan, grey and black sands of its glorious beach as the winter-clock is on at gateway national park. (september 15th to march 15th) without green-clad reprisals from the likes of the last park-police guy who asked me about drugs, “almost willie nelson,” or the lizard who wears the suit of the trader lady from three years ago when i walked on the breezy point road.
these people are somewhere behind me on this digital scroll and will last as long as the innernet does, i guess. someone – a reader – suggested that i “hard-copy” this for the future.
i gather that if this stuff is the same as ourselves, we’ll be electronically whizzing and banging all over the place for the tomorrows and yesterdays there ever were and will be.
for me, the notions of “future” and “humanity” tend at times to be a stretch. it’s not goodness or the divine blessings of dieties that will bring us forward.
it’s luck and odds.
we’re lucky to be here and the odds are that if a future cataclysm were to occur, there’s enough of us little cockroaches to insure someone, somewhere will be procreating and starting things all over again.
if that were to occur, i’ll maintain that there’ll be a buzzkill douchebag to gum it up even on the rerun.
it’s what we do.
besides, there’s an entire race of grifting lizards who “depend” on us, but -i’m sure they have access to a lot more “galactic supermarkets” out there for their diet.
of course, i could be wrong. i know as much as they want me to know about them and that lizard guy who sounds like eduardo ciannelli (and looks like omar sharif) does play his cards close.


…what lies above those little lines sat in this digiwarehouse till today. i forgot i wrote it. the one thing i want to say about that is this;
i can’t wait to talk to that lizard guy about, “occupy wall street,” and all that stuff that’s going on all over the world.

a month ago, i was told that this website/note-doohickey is “absolutely terrible,” the first such review in almost six years.
upon looking at it, i have to admit – yeah, pretty unkept.

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