Category: Prose

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.

Meaning…part 3

Giving up has it’s rewards.  Don’t let the positive thinking people deceive you in to thinking you can think your way to ‘positivism.’  The truth is more complicated, more visceral…and different for each and every one of us.

When you drift downstream, forgoing effort, you become calm, you lay on your back and look upward as the sky drifts by, knowing full well the waterfall is coming, but not worrying about it because it’s not something you can change anyway.  Let it be.  Let it flow.  Let it go.

Don’t let them tell you we make our own decisions.  We are driven by external forces outside our own control, causing us to make decisions to mold ourselves to that reality. The evolution of consciousness isn’t complete and we are stuck in a transitional state between control and controlling.  It’s always more complicated than what you think…because what you think is affected by so much else.

Giving up has it’s rewards.  You flow, you drift, you find peace, you live in the present.


Forty six times the event has come around, each one different and also the same.  Glacial changes over time, reverting back to the beginning and inching closer to the ending.  Forty five was half of ninety.  Ninety will never be seen, in all likelihood.  We only know the half way point once the ending is reached.  Every day is a gift and every day is a repetition.  The same gift, opened without excitement, excepting on rare occasions.  Oblivion calls, as life holds it back.  In the end, the abyss wins over, and we all enter.


There is a space between activity and sleep that I enjoy, and inhabit more often lately than I have in the past.  It’s not contentment.  I am not content with either myself or my situation.  It is, almost, resignation…a certain peace of mind that comes over me.  Maybe it’s like giving up on things, on everything, and just letting things happen.  Maybe it’s a zen-like state.  I don’t really know.

It is a kind of action, though…coming to a pause…the act of pausing.  Slowing of the metabolism in reaction to some external force or event…or even environment.  Yesterday, Prince died.  We don’t know why yet.  Today, as always, there is another shooting in the USA.  Life and death goes on, as it always will.  Today is Earth day…it’s not a day to help the earth, but a day for humanity to realize that this spherical space ship is all we have to live on right now, and that it will go on into it’s own future with, or without us…the decision is ours.  I am quiet.  I am peaceful.  I have no aspirations about the 2016 election because, as usual, if I dive into it too much, I become embroiled in my own anger and disdain for the rest of humanity, and it’s disregard for itself.  I am circular in my reasoning, so I become empty.  I empty the emotions out and seek to find bodily and mental peace…from nowhere…from oblivion.

What is the meaning of all this?  I don’t know.  What is the future like, you, who are reading this a hundred years from now.  Did we make it?  Did we repair the earth-ship?  Did we overcome our own petty squabbles and hatreds and live, finally, together in peace?  Come back and tell me some time.  I’d like to know.  As for now, this gen-x-er is going to nap for a while…mentally, and bodily.


some days I feel like i’m slipping away…becoming invisible…and I’m ok with it.  like blending into the background…a warm, comfortable feeling of well being…where softness surrounds your body and infiltrates your mind…

you soar…away…wings of freedom and all that…release, renew…like an ip address…but the renew is somewhere else…alone, numbness spreading and dulling senses until all is nothing and weakness is the only thing left…

some days are like that…knee bouncing nervously…then nothing.  a desire for peace and alternate realities sets in…a comfortable unreality where dreams are…where you can be what you always wanted to be and so much more…


For the past week or so, I’ve been having the strangest thoughts that seemingly arise from out of nowhere, when I’m sitting quietly at my desk, or doing some mundane and mindless task. They all seem to stem from a dream I had a few nights ago, I think, wherein I was back in my grandparents house, on Astor street, in Fort Worth, TX. I am my current age, but they were still there. They’d be in their 100s now, were they still living. My grandfather, on my mothers side, was born in 1909. His wife, my grandmother, in 1912, I think. The small house still looked the same, the low nap carpet with its subtle pattern, the circular woven rug in the center of the living room, the dark wood paneling.

Even the back yard was the same, the single wagon wheel on it’s side, mounted in concrete so as to act as a makeshift merry-go-round that you held on to and swung from, the Honeysuckle hedge, my grandfather’s “dog house.” Inside the doghouse, he was there, sitting at a his small work bench, slowly turning the knob on his WWII era shortwave radio, the one I inherited from him when he passed away. He smiles at me, no words, I step in and smell that distinctive smell of oil and gasoline from the mower he also kept in the doghouse. It was a highly sensory dream. Since that night, I’ve had waking moments where I’m back there again. The memory is fresh for some reason. I’m looking into the face of my grandmother, who passed away from cancer in 1985. I’m seeing my grandfather sitting in his recliner, smiling, his white and thinning hair on top, and his horn rimmed glasses who died of complications from multiple strokes in 1980…and I feel warm, happy, comfortable. Even the smell of the house is in my nose…it’s an old, musty, but somewhat comfortable smell, and I want to stay.

I don’t know what all this means. I can’t understand why memories of my grandparents are visiting my mind now, of all times. Perhaps the dream opened a neural pathway to where those memories are kept, releasing them in order to provide me a little peace and comfort during this unsettling time. In the dream, and in the waking visions, I walk around that old house in Astor street, and a few things shift…the door to the kitchen is moved over a bit..but the stacked white washer/dryer combo still there…the small table in the corner…the one with the laminate top, the white cabinetry, the cans of Armour brand Vienna sausages. I’m sure it’s nothing, but I wonder, sometimes, why these kinds of memories just pop up every now and then. I know I’m not the only person for which this happens, and I won’t be the last. I know that someday, if I have grandchildren, they may have memories of a similar nature, about me. We are all born, and we all die, what matters is what happens in between those two events. We live on in the neural pathways of our children and grandchildren, and even further. Make that memory a good one…a warm, happy, comfortable one.