Category: Prose

work life….

Yeah.. like so many of you.  I work.  I work at a job.  Daily.  Why?  Obligation.  Do I like it?  Well, it doesn’t matter if I do or not.  I have to do it because I have obligations.  I have a house to pay for.  I have children and a wife to feed.

“Oh!” says the optimist, the pragmatist, the dreamer, “you should do what you LOVE!”

Yeah.. I’d like to.  But what I “love” doesn’t pay as much as what I do right now.  What do I do?  It really doesn’t matter.  I do stuff.  It pays pretty well.  Do I like it?  It doesn’t matter if I like it…like I said, it pays well, and I have to do it.  Is that sad?  Yeah, probably so…but my needs are met.  My family is fed and housed…and I’ll have an ok pension if I stay right where I am.  Retirement in somewhere between 18 and 20 years…or thereabouts…should be mildly comfortable…if all plays out as expected.  It’s a gamble, I know.

Do I love it?  Do I do what I love?  Am I doing exactly what I thought I’d do when I was a teenage dreamer back in the 80s?  It doesn’t really matter, does it?  I watch other people do what I love…and I’m ok with that I guess.  In the end, it’s only money I’m after…just enough, you understand, and I’m living life as best as I can because of the choices I’ve made…and I’m at peace with that I suppose.  I have to be.

I hate to do this, but if you like what you’ve just read…and have the means…click below…thanks. We could really use the cash…


…a strange encounter…

“You always have a great smile when you come in here.”  She said. “Well, I try to be nice” I said.

The Safeway store I frequent is just one of those places where people get to know you…they see you often enough to start to recognize you before long…

But then I start to wonder.  How messed up is my psyche?  What does that cashier not know about me?  Does she see the anxiety?  The depression?  No.  Because I hide it, like so many people, behind a mask of happiness and light talk and banter.  Why?  Why do we mask ourselves?

We do it because the people we meet every day have their own battles to fight.  They don’t need to be embattled with those we’re engaging in also.  My anxiety is my own.  My depression is my own.  None of it is for her, the cashier at Safeway.  She has enough of her own to deal with, I’m sure.

Is it disingenuous?  Is it fake, for us to mask ourselves to the people we randomly encounter from day to day?  Yes, but in my limited experience, it’s for a good cause.  Pain expressed as sadness to others only perpetuates that sadness into the world at large.  Were we to express ourselves to people who are not our closest allies, our confidants, our soul mates, in this world, we only cause more pain…and there is enough pain in this world.

So…go ahead.  Mask yourself in the market.  Pull the veil down as you move through your daily commute on the subway, the bus, or whatever.  Keep those things to yourself, until you find those people who are yours to confide in…we need to move this world from pain and suffering, into something more humane, and more calming…and more pleasant.  Our suffering can remain under our own surfaces, and can be dealt with between our close ones.  Our loved ones.  Those with whom we can share anything.

I hate to do this, but if you like what you’ve just read…and have the means…click below…thanks. We could really use the cash…

…tiny head…

…have you ever put your hands on your head and felt the size of it and thought…this is too small.. how is this brain so small to hold such cacophony and endless thought noise and internal spaces that sometimes seem endless…it seems too small.. to constricted by bone and skin to be able to hold these vast incalculable ruminations and dreams and nightmares of infinity….

…the hooch

Back in those days, we had a little structure we’d nailed together with leftover wood called “the hooch.”  It defied it’s definition because we were all underage, but we still had some way or other of obtaining alcohol by any means necessary.  The Hooch was on Aaron’s parent’s land…we were lead to believe.  It’s location is now apocryphal.  There was a little spot for a fire in front of it, and we all sat around and listened to music on a  battery powered “boom box” (The Doors, old Rush (Caress of Steele, and etc.)) and drank until we passed out and slept all night under the oaks and the starry sky beyond the green canopy that protected us from the cold of the night.

This wasn’t the psychedelic shack.  This was a tiny place all our own.  The Psychedelic Shack was for larger gatherings…an abandoned concrete block structure in which we’d graffiti-ed pictures and slogans like “sympathy for the devil”, and other sayings of our time…the Shack was near an abandoned rock quarry.  There were parties there…debaucheries happened there…drinking, music….all of us in our abandon would dance and make out and talk and stumble about in our drunkenness without a care in the world.  We’d stay there until the dawn…then slink back to our parent’s house and slip in early in the mornings and sleep the day away.  It was the ’80s, after all….

The Hooch was no different, but it was smaller, more intimate, and never a party.  We’d retire there after “happenings” at the Psychedelic Shack.  It was listening, it was talking, and of course it was drinking…always drinking…sometimes smoking too.  It wasn’t even as easily accessible as the nearby cemetery on Aaron’s parent’s land.  You had to park off the road, and slip through a fence to get to it…it was secret, it was ours…it was private.  A select few knew about it…it was ours.

In those times boys…teenage boys…would bare their souls.  Say things to each other that could never be said anywhere else.  Cory Llewellyn said he loved me.  What did that mean?  In his mind altered by alcohol state, I could only think he meant “trust”…in the male sense.  As the drink opened our minds, and the fire and the music played on our consciousnesses, we opened up and became real with each other. We made pacts, we made vows.  We made proclamations.  Hardly any we actually kept…but at the time they meant something.

Now we’re all grown, lost touch, and don’t even all believe the same ways.  We have moved on to other things.  But those days are still in our heads.  They’ll never go anywhere.  We will always remember, we will always be around that camp fire, drinking, and talking, and looking at one another and trying like hell to find some measure of brotherhood between us….but brotherhood remains.  Do we abandon those feelings even as the world around us drifts and changes and divides?  We come together.  There are areas where we cross…where our minds intersect, even still.  We have to…or else we all suffer.

I hate to do this, but if you like what you’ve just read…and have the means…click below…thanks. We could really use the cash…

when the end finally came…

…for whatever reason, they kept me alive through it all.  I remember the rise of humanity’s smoke and ash.  They called it a revolution.  An industrial revolution.  Until then they were just living their lives in relative balance.  Looking back on it now, I suppose it was easy to see the signs that this would eventually happen.

I don’t remember what year by their reckoning it was, but there was a moment when I felt a kind of relief.  A relief that the oppression and press of their massive population was gone…even though the stench of death was almost global.  Not only the humans, but everything else as well.  The silence stretched on for days, months, years, eons.  But, for me, after eons of listening, interacting with humanity through their growth and their short lives…through the cacophony of their struggles and sounds, and later, their media, their travel, their go, go, go….it became cumbersome.  Their conveniences became their downfall.  Their desire to make life better for themselves became the death of their own species, and so many others.  Some of us tried to warn them, but it was too late, so we just let them carry on, because we knew the planet would heal over time without them around, and we’d be here to watch over it as it did.

I remember the day the last one perished.  They were lonely, talking to the sky, wishing things had been different…but humanity had been evolution’s grand consciousness experiment…something new.  A way for the universe to understand itself, a way for the universe to converse with itself, and try to understand it’s own existential angst.  For a time, it was wonderful, beautiful, even.  There was art, there was magnificent music, there was awe inspiring and amazing talent…but, as always, and as the balance of the universe demands, there were the mirrors of those.  Sadly, the mirrors ended up with more power.  Perhaps that’s the way the universe recycles it’s own energy, in great expanses of time and entropy, through flowering of species, and the dying thereof…recycled.  Folded back into the greater whole to wait and flower again later.

When the last one was gone.  I sighed.  The weight was gone, and the waiting began again, to see what would come next.  They’d used their Eden, their garden, their home.  They’d used it all up and left it barren…they were so ambitious, the were so amazing…they were so destructive and childish.  They were beautiful and wondrous and amazing, and so full of life, but lacked the ability to see beyond their own time, beyond their own tiny minuscule lives.  A flaw in the pattern.  A problem with the programming, maybe.

We’ll watch, and see what this universe comes up with next, and try to interact and attempt to understand what went wrong…we’ll make notes…this time we might try to guide a little more.  We’ll watch and listen and observe, and we will always be ready to learn something new.

The Positivist…

What lives we lead!  What amazing temporary existences full of pain, love, hope, sorrow, happiness, elation, rapture, and depression!  What fullness we should experience.  What luxurious sounds and words and views should we all intake.  Yet, we don’t all get to do this.  We don’t all get to see, hear, love and feel as some do.  We are broken, and yet we live and carry on.  We are fractured, yet we act as if nothing has happened and we wake up, make our coffee, amble off to our workplace…or stand on a corner with cardboard.  What are we?  Why are we?  Who are we?

Receive the fullness of life, if you can.  Experience what you can, love what you can, hear, see, taste and feel all you are able.  If you cannot do something, revel in the things you can.  Focus on those things, listen to your heart and mind, see and hear all that is around you.  Experience and fullness is all there is in life.  Hurt none, never exploit, love all.  This is all there is, there is nothing more, and you aren’t the only one alive who needs to live life.


Expository humanitory

Whatever you think of me, whatever I think of  you, is probably wrong.  This unsubstantiated ideology we have of each other is predicated on the wrong notions of what it means to be real, to be human, to be alive.  We are nothing but molecules expressing themselves inside a framework of gravity and social ideologies.  Are you able to see inside the circuitous bones that contain the grey matter of my consciousness?  Am I able to see inside what you are, the very essence? Is your reality anything like mine?  Am I sitting here in my little library room and you are sitting there in your little vinyl listening room as I see in your whats spinning Facebook  post? I have no idea what you are, what I am, what we all are…we are nothing but molecules expressing themselves in rote and narcissist ways, and we live from day to day looking for more, looking for life, looking for meaning.  Whatever it is, we are still one, still leaving the earthly bonds of gravity and constraint to this earthly plain, to be something more than we are. Whether we delve into the earth to look at the past, or look into the skies to see the future, we are all human, we are all one, we are all connected.. so why don ‘t we fucking act like it already??

Mind to fingers to page with no edits…

I have become death, the destroyer of worlds.

Those are the words that sometimes pop into my head, for whatever reason.  Reason has nothing to do with it, frankly.  Reason, though I aspire to be reasonable, I am rarely reasonable at all, because I am emotional, feeling, drifting, listening, I am human, after all.

Whatever music lies within me lies to me daily about how it might escape me into the world at large.  It remains pent up within me, singing, emoting, driving my thoughts toward some end I cannot see.

Where is the ending, where is the beginning, where am I now that I’ve drifted into this conflagration afterlife of sorts?  What becomes me?  What do I become afterward?

The music bounces in my head, grinding, churning, epic ballads and grinding rhythms.  Sinner, singer, song writer.  Standing arms wide while the music flows out of my mind with the force of a storm wind.  Nice though it flows my head keeps it inside and doesn’t let the world see…I abide within my own world of sound and fury, which ends up signifying nothing.  Nothing at all.

….and so it begins…

As the night fell on that election Tuesday, and my heart melted in fear and anguish, my body was thrown a small but tangible life line, in the form of a new space of my own.  We descended on this place like moths on light that day, but chaos was still the order of the day.  My own space, though, was all but complete.  Boxes of meaningless possessions, and a few that hold memories and sentiment, that make up our feeble and tentative lives stacked around the house, as I stared at books that were older than me, and that would outlive me into the future.  Texts written by persons long disintegrated into dust, leaving only their words on pages yet to be turned.

We had come through the fire, only to be piled upon with tasks and debt beyond measure, and decisions that needed to be made.

Here in this little quiet sanctuary of my own, what do I plan on doing?  What do I intend to study, to write, to listen to….how then shall I endure the next four years in my bunker of books?  I shall take it upon myself to write, and to create music.  some of it will be awful, and regrettable, some maybe, if I’m lucky, will be good.

The mythologies of our time, and of our past, are my current focus, as are simple expository and mind to fingertip writings such as you are currently reading.  Music of a sort that I enjoy, and perhaps, just maybe, someone else might also.  A place to retreat, to get away from the derision and division of the outside world, wherein I can talk at length and freely about how that outside world affects us all…protesting I suppose, in my own small way.  Because, as we are now the divided states of america, divided from family, from history, from the world, these thoughts need to be expressed.  I will attempt to refrain from preaching, from teaching, and try to simply talk, write, and sing about these feelings that we are all having at this tumultuous time in our world.

I don’t know what else to say…here I am.  Here we are.  I am in my basement cave, you are where you are.  We all breath the same air, look up at the same sun and moon, and walk on the same ground.  We should all be one, and yet we are all so far apart and distant, even as we ride together on buses, trains, and subways, together and apart.


true colors

You can delete all the evidence. The posts. The instant messages and the pictures. You can erase your digital past and carefully curate your pixelated present and future. You can try to change who you are, and who you seem to be, and who you want to be seen as….but when the night comes, and the darkness closes in on your bedroom, you know it isn’t really gone. It seeps back into your brain stem and worms it’s way back, through darkened neural pathways, down the shadowed corridors of your mind, where it raps silently on doors you wanted closed and locked, silently waking those memories you wanted to shut away from yourself, and everyone else. The doors open, and out they flow like mist over morning grasslands.  They become the quiet demons of your bedroom, the horror of your waking hours, and your facade slowly slips from your face, showing the world who you’ve always been, but never wanted to be.