Submergence/Post Script

I guess I was hoping to prove to Amber that this blog had few readers if any. That there was nothing to be concerned about. She was also concerned the father of her kids might be reading and/or bothered by my blog. I was wrong and she was right, on all counts.

I am very naive, even still, about how truly available to the world things put on the internet are. To think that a person could sit in a small cafe in Europe and pull up this blog, for instance, is still a little hard to wrap my feeble head around. So this will be the last entry for sure. I do want to keep peace. I tend to make trouble when I don't bother to look around corners, looking before leaping, checking mirrors in a lane change, et cetera...I'm that guy.

So I'll keep my own journal and feel free.

Thanks to those who were readers. I will continue to check on and comment on other blogs.

Brad

Eat Cake, Have It

To my thousands of fans, who read this, my blog, the very best blog on the entire internet, every single day - As a family conclusion the computer will remain off for a great duration. Cassin, 7, plays too much runescape, and too much blog spotting and myspace (4 accounts) and the occasional porn site on my part. I think it's good for us to get out of the corner and talk to each other. So be it.

As far as this blog goes, my girlfriend Amber requests that I do not write about my current life and living conditions, her, or her kids. I respect that need for privacy. I have pretty much done so since January anyway. Now Amber also requests that I do not mention or write about ex-girlfriends in any way. So recent posts and other recent old bits of recovered poems et cetera all fall into the forbidden catergories.

I used to write a real journal. Posting on the internet is not the real thing. Wrote whenever I wanted, about whatever I wanted. It was just one big word.doc. I'll have to go back to that some day, some how. This will remain archived and floating in space for now.

To you all, good bye.

b

Hello, Good Bye

On the same day Grant McLennan died in his sleep, on the opposite side of the planet earth, my brother's wife gave birth to their first child, my mother's first grandchild. Noah Jack Burkley was born at 5:27 PM Eastern time. Blue cigars, and tiny tennis shoes!

Grant McLennan was a member of The Go-Betweens, one of Australia's first contributions to intelligent post-punk rock beginning around '78. He released several solo albums full of earthy and heart felt songwriter songs. He collaborated with Steve Kilbey on two albums under the name Jack Frost which were stunning albums as well. Recently he reunited with Robert Forster of the GBs for two more albums with mixed results and the two were even interviewed by Teri Gross on NPR in the states.

That said, The Go-Betweens were one of my favorite bands, and that's why this news was sad.

GL's spoken lyrics from Trapeze Boy (Jack Frost)-

I hadn't thought about Mrs. Morgan for years, until I read in the paper
that she had died. When I was a boy, Mrs. Morgan played solo with my
mother every Tuesday afternoon. There were two other women there, but
I can't remember their names anymore. Monkey, Magda, something like that.

Mrs. Morgan collected opals. Her husband Ted owned a circus, which kept
him away and out of the picture most of the time. I'd come home from
school and the women would be hard at the cards. I liked Mrs. Morgan, she
always had a little chip of opal for me, and said that I should save it
for a sweetheart. I came home one day and Mrs. Morgan was crying in our kitchen.
My mother told me to leave them alone. I learned later that a boy from the
circus had fallen and died. He used to ride the trapeze. Mr. Morgan went out
of business and they moved away. I've still got the opals.

It's funny how someone you've never met manages to stay with you.

I have listened to Grant's voice for years, but never met him, yet he manages to stay with me as he will with many.

Condolences to the McLennan family.

May 6, a bittersweet date.

I haven't met Noah, my nephew yet either. The earth and universe have this unperceivable exchange of life force that we all face and feel. My little post about the loss of a skateboard, and my "RIP" title, though more really about Eri thru digression, seems a little silly in light of today's entry.

Congratulations Ben and Michele.

b

R.I.P. big blue '99 - '06

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The Semi-Radicals

The semi-radicals want something to hit them in the face
The semi-radicals take solace in the volition of secum rejection
Nothing to them is the essence of the real thing
How do I go about snapping myself out of the observation of everything and get involved?

My one way is to record my obsefvations and offer them up for consideration
What is central?
Egypt? Gaul? Nepoleon? Streets without Sphinx?
Thumb your nose at fate.

I dare you.


Serendiculous – ambivalent portmanteau word meaning something that involves serendipity in the gut and a ridiculousness in the head.

'twas once upon a time, on winter night, I came home with a strange but abandoned pict from a dumpster drunken did I taketh. to my bed and passed out I awoke two star signs later to find the lady at my side, in the flesh, and of angelic flesh only. she took my headache into her hands and altered it's shape. she kissed hypnotic, like Mesmer in on a leaning tower landmine. she bartered my pains for pleasure. she showed me the gates of her garden, a gate beyond the double door. she melted both my poles, which drained my ocean.

with her perichance prince of rescue, skin and bones she was, but still the painting, dicarded so sadly alone before, but now, further destruction, rain, and sun, from temporal disconnect,

nevermore, not to be.

beyond my old upright symbol of infinity door, found, was a sun of red shadow like the buffet light on a piece of dead cow hip. sweet was this light, sweet like home, endless night. left my body behind, joined her in the painting of ad infinitum nauseum. the circle of all life as a snake in a deosil circle chasing tail. Ostara past, Ostara future. together even as adam, every man and woman as eve, one.

Caution: in the studios of eternal now, paint dries in the strangest of ways.

Take everything into consideration,
Including everything that everyone tells you.
“paisley and flannel go together.”

But believe nothing that you don’t believe,
Inside.
Inside = “they do not go together”

Know the inside and you will know what is introduced for what it is,
but do not disrespect the good confusion of others.
Tell not the paisley flannel that they do not match,
and remind yourself how everything matches

Knowledge can be accumulated like the need to collect gold,
But wisdom is accumulated like the need to not need gold.

Those wrapped in the action of one act or the other feel not the need to need the other,
But still do
And this is natural,
Everything is natural, one and two
It has to be,
Or nature is not nature,
It is something else.

What else is there but nature?
How can anything be unnatural?
War is natural, don’t fight it.

You can fight city hall,
But you can’t fight a war.

You can fight in a war,
But you can’t fight war,
The tree-huggers went away because they lost,
They were natural to last for a time, but they were stoned,
And up the wrong tree, like Eve.

Drugs are for children,
Drugs are not for children.

REFLECTION:
Why does this stuff come to me?
Wisdom = no one’s possession because it is everyone’s possession.
Except for those who happen to have more or less, we all have five toes per foot
So too, wisdom.

Thus the word Thus

Thalamus theodore adores the thimble thought throne of thelonious themes
Though I am too quite the apathetic
Theloneous come home
Thorough is this thought
This thought
The one of grandeur
The one of walk
Thatcher and her mushrooms from mosescandenavia
Thematic Tina had always the way for me, Yogic keys and the charge card of your dreams
Then, out of nowhere
The blue sky shattered into the scattered home base of nonsense and Jesus loves me like the devout monk
This wish only: to wish for a love for Jesus, and disservice to myself by not?
Thorns of leather and brimstone amen?
This is the question
This is the task at hand
Tony is not a super hero named Jesus
Then how do I get home?

I am lost beyond pera-meter
I gander gaze long at idle wait diesel go-bus or interstate
Like child at the hear of christmas in mid july which then was light-years from godecember
Got not a lot of hope for myself now
Debt to my ears and over
Is it all over?
Proper burnt at the american stake burial?
Not in this life-time I tell you
Not on my shift

Nut case frothy smile mother go home home home
Shake off the beautiful sunset and remember the rain for years got good gunk funk hear fear star gaze and radio; Red light infra-program murder crack whore routine habit whole hole home gone home

Kim I’m sorry but you seemed to loved me and I didn’t even care about myself
but I didn’t know what else to do back then

I just want to say sorry to everyone.
That’s all any of it ever is sad drunk apologies from the chief through sad Kim with that sweet scandanavian smile and then andie whom of which I never bother to contact but do, as in this morning did remember to contact in waker dreams done and gone but done more so then was I

Thus sayeth the lord, never did I readeth ever the words of your Shakespeare, nor till never now do I ever wish to even do so now or forever; clever treasure the same asundery blunder agony of you foolish star-field squanders
home land security nightmare love mon momma nothing who is the one but everyone amen

Amen amen amen
I hate the word amen
Without absolution is the word amen
Without absolution is everything, amen?

b

P.Z. - I think this will be the last blogged compilation of fragments from a found folder "other prose" in my computer of old stuff, '00 - '04.

My Rapture In 2002

Root all beer of evil I tree?
Beet red bumps on my scalp like the 11 o’clock news and I can’t even see this.
“Too many big words,”
I hear the children complain.
The tall flatmate did hand me a 1/3 bottle of Shiraz out of nowhere, and I asked him,
“are you sure?”
He never said the word, “yes,” and they don’t case fight in stair stare cat fights like the last two did.
One of the two is still one of the two.
One is different.
Cats.

I plan to move into my new place soon. Today was an off day off, and a Monday at that, and I was going to go without. I am cashless and I need to get milk or coffee in the morning. It is good. I drove to the tire store this morning and filled my travel mug with theirs from the waiting room. Did take an eyebrow near my exit but… Then I made Ben a CD of sweet Drake, Belle and Sebastien, Church, Harrison, and the odd Starsailor track which hits me right only half the time as if somehow mood dependent. I too depend on mood.

But I plan to move into my new place soon. It is the upstairs efficiency and tiny like I want it to be. In many ways I can’t wait. I am listening to the made CD as I write this. Ben will hate starsailor, I know it already, but the CD is done, as what’s done is done is… Stacy at work read my book and really liked it. I am getting the, “I like the drug part…” or the “I like the cop part…” stuff consistently, either or. I just finished the wine and didn’t even notice. This now shonky flatmate loves to slam doors too. I have eight evil dollars. There is something quite liberating about putting down whatever pops in. It pops out. It gets out. Gone. Captured.

I have to get more wine. It is good see. I wasn’t going to, but now, it’s like port, but with more acid, and less of a fruit. It sits well on my tongue now. I am as addicted to coffee as I am whhiinnee. That is just the other end of my bipolareality, AM, PM. I am wide awake and I do not have to get up early, this is all coming off the fingers quite easily tonight. I will rush off, but I will be right back. Wait here...

…I- back. I bought white merlot, and had my cards read. White Merlot, guess I’ll go play bingo with the girls and eat potato salad in the morning. I’m in for more problems as far as the cards go. But to me that is life as we all are. I don’t care, but there is to be a point where I “give up.” How could I give up again more than I already have, on occasion? Then it is all too clear as an earth card and do a 180, and then find spiritual love, but then again this is all quite all what I do, and don’t wanna hear. And this musix is all the quite cali dreamin’ late 60’s, but was never there I.

I high my my why? I do in the end tend to recall a lot of things I could not otherwise. I am the reincarnate mate of Prince Albert and Emily Dickinson, with a slight overlap perhaps, and stints in the civil and Vietnam wars. Vietnam was a civil war to me, as a creature stands at my back even now with a high raised knife to spite the “let it roll,” of an ego geo bo, Harrison plays. Hair on my neck is for cutting too.

Hunger into the departure hunts. I love to imagine myself, no more out of my way, going by my observation deck, my writer’s bungalow. Windows! And they are. I can see myself now, already, up there. My new place. I cannot see the street from here. But! But from the future window will I see this street? I rode my bike out into the path of a car one night coming home from work, my mind was everywhere elsewhere. I was sick though when I saw my miscalculation, seconds after. It was such a simple oversight. How long can the average person hold their breath under water?

The cards on the table by the other flatmate, the other one, the new one. I cut them. I just can’t see how things could be any worse. How could I be forced off this plaid plateau? Gainesville? I tend to love those I will never see again most or more than those I see before me, this would be a curse, but love is actually neutral, so it is an illusion somehow. What then is it? Real, but something else, yes.

Maybe, no. There are the many, any lonely people in the word, whether they “have someone” or not. The newer screen savers are good too. I watched “Life as a House” with Dia, her mom, and Melissa tonight. Moving. Meellissaa said it got bad reviews. I am sure Donnie Darko did too then. I will from now on write all the reviews for earth. I am not Whitney Strieber or Art Bell, but I must be a paranormal specialist of some kind. Prince Albert was good intentions mixed with thick mental nonsense. Me too. Skinny dip for me. Show me your tits, on Yom Kippur Disreali June! Show me your priestly rings! I have tried to read the Gnostic texts at dusk but have been sent into the immediate bla blagh. I have tried to write while “out of mind” and only got the morning after blues and it all goes into the trash, torn up.

My, what nonsense drum circles there might be in my future! I am a little too awake but so, as in the same a little, weary now too. I start to fade fore rea,l weather or not the end of page, you analytical bastards!

There is a woman I have seen at many bars and parties who claims to be Debbie Harry. I never believe her, but keep listening each time. I hear her talking but hear nothing. The aching mundane breakthrough has yet to arrive. I can only see her body and calculate the way it feels. If I see her somehow in daylight, she would be another person. And on, on, oh well.

Ahh, I see you. I see two evil dollars left. I have some change somewhere too. Rapture?


b

More Old Laments

Moon

Hearing neighbors down the hall lock the multiple locks of a single door makes me think of old men at four way stops with the hesitation of a hundred squirrels, and of the quickened pace of a stranger ahead of me in the valley of death with I, behind by chance, on this, a late After-Saturday night, and of how it might just be, that I am actually, in spite of all my frightfull aprehensions, perhaps, if possible, actually less afraid of death than all of my other varied human counterparts.

Alesbien Mother wears Arainbow sweater in the sunshine rain and I, feel, for Asecond, that I have perhaps, perhaps, wasted the Atypical intentional inventions of abjunct function on the mundanality of my own advented Aversions.

Oh sweet teeth, oh, oh why did you ever leave me?
I swear that all I really need is bleeding and a urinal, and the guts to walk into the grocery store and down a bottle of Tussin right in front of the cassier!

Cherry flavoured cavities and you, you should never care, as I should never carre, the dentist both gave us lollipops and sugar blues.

I long for horizon.

The only thing good you ever gave me was this desk,

But then again, in reality, that is not true,

I got mem-ries of you that you will never have,

Mammories of everything home and onderesque.

Tonight I am off.

The moon came off,
I mean up, up from the unseen horizon,
Up and through my window in-between trees and up into my eyes as if it was all right where it was, supposed to be.

Emily-D and the stranger of camus, bury me in the sky,

So I can look down on you,

Yours, Moon.




Gnotes from Underground

I could have gone and gotten a coat or decent pants an hour ago, but I continue in this perverse pleasure, forcing myself to the muse, up from my bed by the shut-eye window of sweet dreams. So now, satisfaction in freezing my ass off. Likewise it has been a relief to show my ass in such a splendid way gentlemen. Wars and rumors of war! Like all good American men, grinding in mortified discontent is my desire to be the hero, but at home I am best as the scoundrel. I can only roll play. I’m actually nothing, neither good nor evil. For real and with nature only while indulging my type A characteristics, certain drink with certain food, the pillow for my head that never hit the ground, and a book while on the toilet! These things are the only laws of my nature that have become laws.

Do I seek sympathy now!? The nerve! Crave celebration. I crave celebration till it arrives and then it’s like a band that makes me cringe. It’s appalling artwork! Any accolade is like standing on a table, I must comedown. We all comedown. My mind takes this action, or is it my soul? Up, and down, before I can even consider the results (this is truest of all - the unconscious is a nervous scapegoat!). It’s that resolve to remain unsolved that we crave, but can never satisfy. Instead of in my chair, I’m beneath the table now, in the round, and at home. From here, after a night or two of poor sleep, I will sleep well, the way I breathe, deep and constant. Then, we get up, refreshed and curious, again.

Some men are naturally mysterious, and some put a note on every fact. Some seem to be stretched between pages in each book. So, like fire from a fire hose, comes my too well-suppressed anger; not the single incident but the string of incidents that stack in the memory of a lifetime that make for a trigger. A long lingering reservoir. It’s that suppression that gives it its energy. So like a jet engine perhaps, like compression, an exit, and dropping from the sky. In which case an implosion at detonation. Rich satisfaction at first, but then there are bed sheets to clean, and there will be nothing here washed in time before my time to lie in this bed, exhausted anyway. And all this weary analysis, where does it all lead? This was known at the start and ignored till the tonic was found to be lost. Like chicken and egg, crime and punishment leapfrog without origin.

An odd form of public life this is. I spent two years sitting at a computer dumping out my every thought and setting myself strait in the mid-day dawn. Corrections abound. Then I made a collection and broke the plates. We may become politicians in our need to make the perfect speech here, as apparently the whole world is watching. Feathers full of color, but ruffled, and wings unused. Where it is only us in the room, I should return to my computer, just the two of us. It becomes a mirror to all the good and ugly within. Even those governdemented mannequins in multiple multi-media flash windows are human, seeking your vote and your teenage daughter’s carnal company while your back’s turned, inside the booth, hanging a chad.

But my point is drifting. What was my point? I think I just wanted to say hello, and thanks here for your votes if it’s not all too in vain or to your chagrin. What good would that be?


Red Wine

There’s that song about red red wine. It’s supposed to help. It’s not. Not right now. I haven’t gotten crazy drunk in a while, the way I used to before I met Eri. I haven’t heard from Dia or Eri for a while. Last I heard, Dia had a boyfriend. Of course.

What sustained me was the company of my wonderful co-workers. Now I’ve been fired. I will see them no more. I have felt this bad only two other times in my life, my night in jail, and right after Daphne died. So mom comes in town for a visit.

Overcast on this one and the days are shorter and shorter at that. Nearly 7:30 AM before the first sign of light. I had a bad mood but I shook it off. I had to lie a lot though. I though. I was gonna have clever ways to beat around that bush. Speaking of Bush, most remote viewers are predicting obvious signs of apocalypse next year. So none of my minded mealy concerns will mean anything anyway, like they mean anything already. No.

Just broken heart and blues, old news, repay, and repay the dues. I wanna run away. But I gotta find a new job. Overcast, and Ana hasn’t come by. She has mail here and she knows it. I’m beside myself like a shadow without sun, but I can’t shake. So I shake it. Shake shimmie shake. Out on the ledge again, without a building. It’s building. Metaphysics.

The rocks were to protect the Atlantis wise man retreat. I never knew it, but wrote my best poetry there, on retreat. I will go there tomorrow, and stay. I am a wise man, and only full of lust, the fool. I love my family, even still, them all, even dad. Ben is distant, but I understand. Why pretend? I don’t pretend, why should he? Tomorrow is a new day. I’m down and out, so I hope to not be there, asleep in a sweet dream forever,

AMEN.

b

Uninvited, Like The Clouds

So I’ve listened to the new album for a week now. The first track, like no other SK recording I can think of at this second, starts with voice first and then the rock orchestra winds up behind him like a big truck with no brakes, quietly at first, slowly from the top. I picture Steve in his hat and shades walking through Bondi Beach traffic, negotiating pedestrians and taxis, sort of like that Bittersweet Symphony video by The Verve. It’s hot and there’s sea breeze “…magnets and runes…” and his life is flashing before his, and now our eyes in the song, with little breaks looking at odd merchandise in windows “…well I got a fever…” Steve sings to us from the other side of the glass. We’re inside. But the song picks up and it builds and builds and builds again. Block is Steve in Kilbey rap mode at his best. Maybe even showing ‘em how it’s done. Bringing art to what has been a nearly artless form…but I digress. In one scene he sits behind the glass with his easil and brush requesting, “…if you could all just hold still…” This song is an autobiographical version of Feel from PA in some ways. Feel is vague. Block is specific. And then the first of several bluzy rock solos as we jam to the end. Now we’re spending a week in Australia.

We wandered looking for the café where Steve writes his blog, we give up and sit in the one that we went in earlier. It’s almost dinnertime but you’ll have another coffee anyway. You had breakfast at lunchtime anyway. Jet lag. Suddenly the mental Block is cleared with feedback and we check our e-mail with something more corporeal playing. “You’re money is so pretty…” we look up disoriented, “this isn’t the church I know!” Why are we checking e-mail! Look around, the evening is so magical! String chaos theory, anything can happen now. We’re either dreaming, or in a video, a movie maybe, but the band is there. There’s a verse/chorus/solo upbeat rock song with something more playing in our heads. Don’t be too sophisticated here, just listen, it feels good. Great mix of guitars slithering across each other and backing vocals that work.

Something ominous has entered with brown tones of anxiety. The girls exit the runways and go off into the back. Black light chunka chunka chunka bass line and there’s the dabble and meddle melody. The café has become a nightclub at dusk. Something Sci-fi is on the big-screen but we can’t quite make it out, looks a little like an old Peter Fonda movie, the trip or something. Backseat effects in the rack and we’re open to guitar solo’s and 8th note riffs now! Rich with melody this album, you even find yourself humming the guitar lines.

Piano bar next. We’re wandering through town. Jazz. People drink martinis in this place. Steve’s loosening up now, smokes some jazz, sings some jazz. After his near run in with needle and space, he’s giving us advice and observations on life in this song. He’s being blunt at times. You might even think for a second he’s scolding someone, something, us. Cool deep room reverb guitar fills on this track, and the Ivory Lane loops and dots to keep us tranced. Then we outro with a wailing Marty tremolo solo. He was live on stage in the studio I would say...if ya know what I mean.

That easy keyboard (or is it a keyboard?) intro really makes your ears PERK, reminds me of something from Leave Them All Behind (Ride), but then we get the more familiar swirling guitar textures. In fact it’s very familiar, we’re back home in Ohio! Other strings add and layer and we have something quite cloud like, but the white and fluffy kind. This is a song for Holly I think, lyrically. It just strikes me as such. Could be I’m wrong, it’s actually about anything you want isn’t it? This has less melody than the other tracks but makes up for it in textures.

Marty sings now. I love this song. Apparently about getting hung up on somebody with power over you that you know is unhealthy but you can’t resist. I had a run in with a girl this time last year that lasted only a month, but she really sunk her talons into my neck. She made me feel like a little boy. She was suddenly done with me, and hell if I didn’t think every day for 6 months after that that she would, comeback for me tomorrow. Cool slide (steel? ) guitar fills which foreshadow the coming Floyd.

Ok, so Us and Them was a suggestion for a PF cover, I kind of thought that was a little funny. Now I don’t so much. I picture Church doing mostly pre-darkside songs. But this song is us heading back toward Sydney with the band days later, stopping in that psychedelic martini place again. What are we, their busdriver? Are we dreaming? Are we even there at all? Are we watching a documentary delivered as a musical? Breathing memory heavy chloroform walls for sure though. Cool décor really. Stars and dim lights. Solar system by the galactic ocean theme, we’re alfresco. I like the line, “…I read you’re novel, the names were switched…” Suddenly you’re just walking on the beach listening on headphones and thinking of how you’re so far from home.

Alright, now Peter’s song enter’s our head. I like this song, but it’s the only one on this album I would change a bit. The string-voice keyboard line is plastic sounding, and too high in the mix, and the cinematic fugue at the end is over the top in my opinion, but the lyrics are cool and weird. The sepia sun has come up in grayscale. The movie continues.

My favorite song on this record, at this time, besides Block maybe. Real Toggle Action. Steve lyrically confirms we’re in a film finally. I think it’s really cool the way it’s slow-core funk or something, Terra Novacaine in a deep-space porno maybe. Deep Space Blues! Lots of cool colors mixing too. Peter’s guitar keyboard tricks, the ‘60s flavor, the chanting, the space slides. I always liked that second track from Jammed too, now it's all grown up and nearly naked.

Toward Untoward now in that Q. n A. trick from ref:0mation. Is he saying, “Metaphysical chickens” in this song? Oh, check-ups I guess. I really like this one too - elevator music on another planet, a far more intelligent civilization of course. Steve is giving us advice again. He’s our bodhisattva sometimes. Big brother, dad, rockstar, blogfiend. The energy behind the acoustic and the melody are royal and kind, and I can’t help but smile in spite of the down-boy-lyrics which seem to be telling us to stand in the mirrored corner.

Day 5 down under now. Ameri-centric perspective. Actually we’re not sure where we are. We assumed it was Australia. Everything was so different, and The Church was there. Now it’s almost as if we we’re far off in the future or on another planet, but it’s just a film that sucked us in right? Or was it. A secret colony, a sleeping planet. And then the drug wears off with a punch, pull off your silly man suit, and exit quietly, suddenly. Almost the coolest song on the album.

Now you fly home uninvited. You’re high again, but only above the clouds. You're not even sure where home is. You look out at the wing as it seems to shake a bit. You put the tape in that Steve gave you in that lounge. You forgot it till now, stuffed deep in your carry on. The tape you thought you were dreaming. The film that wasn’t real. The cafe inside, but under the stars. You press play, the jet banks, and he explains what happened. He details the whole thing with ambiguous precision. The mission impossible tape, after the mission, self-created, songs to go.

b

Under Plastic

Tipping The Scales

Are you ok? How do you know? What do you go by? Where should we look to figure out where we are in the grand scheme of things? Are things grand? What’s the scheme? I think of teenage girls in school dressed like prostitutes and prostitutes dressed like the dead. I think of freedom of choice and how it can be manipulated by those who are greedy to make the uneducated and spiritless even more dull and soulless. We have hegemony and a rank for everything backed by the banking of the dollar and or credit score. Do I obey the machine or use my instinct? The big machine in the White House or The Church? No, the one in my computer program that has underlined the previous sentence and the one four before it with green, telling me there’s something wrong: there’s something to change. That machine is the same as the big ones though in a major way. There is no grammatical error here. There is only a rule made that could apply to a given situation but not to all. An incomplete sentence is only incomplete if it’s incomplete. You can go by context, isolation, quantity, quality, internal and external.

I had a “friend request” on MySpace from a 25-year-old woman photographed with two other blonde women, all strangers, all making the same mirror-practiced face. She wanted to be my “friend.” I clicked on her “profile” and it became clear she either was 16, or had the mentality of a 16 year old; particularly when I saw that the one person she wanted to meet was Brittanny Spears. I’m not making this up. I’m in journalism mode here. The poet in me is taking a nap. And that’s how she spelled it too, Brittanny.

Imagine walking up to a 16 to 25 year old stranger and asking for their pictures name and other information, and also gaining access to all the other people who they have granted the same wish. Even better, imagine making a t-shirt for yourself that contains all the info contained on the front page of your MySpace Account and wearing that out in public. Name, location, interests, school(s), et cetera. If the government required that then we would all rebel. But we are free to do it on our own. We are free to go to the store and buy the things it might to take to help us look a little more like Brit-tanny too. We have all been reduced by the big machine to quantified and categorized characters which will be underlined with green or red if we step out of line.

“Because you’re mine, I walk the line.” Sounds like communism but it’s capitalism. You can’t sell what you can’t label. You can sell something that can’t be labeled, but you have to label it first. But then that takes the thing out that you were selling in the first place, the external label kills the unquantifiable essence. If you wore a t-shirt that said “cool,” it wouldn’t fit everyone or ever change a person who wore it on the inside. “Of course…” you might say, “…relax, it’s only networking!”

For now, I prefer my "KILL BARBIE" t-shirt.

Further Tales From My Prior Life On Planet Gainesville

1) Country Song
I will hate myself in the morning
But for now I am in love
I love myself tonight
I can love myself tonight.

Is it so Bad?
To love myself, tonight?
I will love myself some day and in seven days
There will be no light
No night like tonight
As tonight I am weak and can hurt no one.

Here, way out in the country
Here on my trailer porch, far from the highway
And no gas in the tank anyway
With she gone and dog lost to the trees of a far gone forest
I can hurt no one
Nobody tonight.

Only me
Oh woe is me
There is only me
I can only hurt only me
Me Myself and I

After all, I’m the king of piss
So why not for now be happy as only here welcome am I
The world’s most broken wholesome
The forest, sky, and I.

Girl I know gave me opportunity
Gave me chance
She gave me her attitude
Gave me
Plastic romance

Girl I know gave me heart and imagination
Gave me a chance to forget strait street bourbon friends
For a day and/or
Junk romance.

Girl gave broken chance for cold love,
Warm lust?
Just plain romance.
Just love for love
Like broken cash advance.


2) Easy Now
This gives me a virus
Just like my computer
But it is over and obvious
No home town
Free verse

Machin=Es break the glass of metal nightmare
The remote control news paper that smiles like me
As if a me or some robo-others

Give me triad onomonopia
Give me ocean with out end
Give me liberty, and give me death
My eyes roll at my own pseudo-drama

Cheese melts on potatoes
Observation is king
Mother loves us both

Fear not your heart be troubled
Belief in god
Is also in me, a parody

Earth is a space ship
Doubt this?
Look up at night,
We are floating nowhere

Easy now,
We float in space,
like a heater
and that’s alright


3) Jack Shit
Ya know, I haven’t seen the ocean in a while. Snow either, snow longer. I have dreams where I lie down in the crunchy snow, still below 0/32. I lie sanpaku and prone. I would make an angel but I’m mother paralysis and smile.

Have it all. you know it’s nothing. Only five pills. Like recreation for many. a beer, or two, and some bad bowels in stir. What ever made Jack think people would want to read his shit? Whatever made Jack right. He’ll never know I think of him.

I think of Saint Peterzburg. I think of momma home, and I’m a warmin’ to it. Somebody or two died in Iraq today. Me too, only I don’t know it yet. Oh my, what will I thgink??? Asna paduka. Asura aftermath jesus lalalalalalalalalala. Loved a girl names Melody once, long gone dead. She might smile on me, on a night like this, as I sing.

Sunz still up, whathefukamitalkin’ about?

I don’t know; I didn’t sleep all day.

I’m a cat, in a bag, in a river, underwater, screaming.

That’s what I wanted to say.

And I am better a cat man than...

Cat out of bag: I am god. I can lick where you can’t.

(Insert Emoticon)


b

Father Porno

The edge is all he will ever know
And the edge of what we will never know
The edge of the night,
And never at dawn?

Obsessions often called love
Neurotic reactions as old habits
Calling down the land line with drunken breath
He Wined to the front desk

You steadied so solid but he's your father and
We are the last hope for the ancient mystery
But we're biased and claim to be in love
A slide-show of motion in history

A two minute call from a subway a week ago
And you canÂ’t touch her feet
TheyÂ’re over your head
He's spinning now, or falling instead

Just an undone obsession
Stupid oiled infatuations
Old enough to know nothing and know better
But he's not old enough to break

Moving on eggs you are now her daddy?
And he longed for every detail
YouÂ’ll never tell us
But only because he knows better

He's the father who found his daughter in a porno
He's only a drunken weak and motel moment
There is no hope to the per-view paid
All are animals and lust, at last, and free

What to be made of this instinct abandoned in youth?
What to be mated to the intellect we abandon in old age?
What to be made in patriarchal existence?
The reverse?

Life is only lonely incest
Death as company is his only abstinence
Our senses are pornography in itself
Truth is colored invisible but never reduced

Truth seduced by death, the only means
Hot loins and a kick in the mother's groin,
In the first snow of the season
He's gonna shake it off
Cause she melted for him

b

To Consume Is Only Violent Possession

When I was young I was on the swim team. I could remember sitting on the edge of the pool, after practice and I was so content from being healthy. It was the healthiest I have been in my whole life. My heart would beat slow and strong and I ached nowhere. I reached the final destination and end result that all exercise is for, or can be. This is how we lived. This is what I want.

What do I really want? What is it beyond all of this absurd self-excruciation that comes from nowhere? I made a conscious effort to locate in my heart what it is that I really want out of my life. I was there on my back staring at the ceiling with the AC gone out when it hit me. See, I have gotten so much accomplished lately but it’s empty at the end. At the end of the day there’s nothing. Just an empty room and some alcohol. If I could do anything and make it happen and do it, it is this, honestly: I would want to live on an island with a dark girl (I think she once sung of the Philippines) hairy legs and pits (as if unshaven not cultivated) smelling like whatever nature would have us. There would be blue sky and a point break with a soft reef. We are naked and clothed only in the confidence that we have all we need. Fish and coconuts. Sex and sleep. We surf at morning and dusk.


We rarely speak, but when we do it sounds more like singing. We speak in songs. Her hair is long and dark. It’s a bit crusted with the salt and sun, but perfect. This is our world, not theirs. She has a small belly, and it’s perfect. Looking strait on as she comes towards me, hers is less of the hourglass that they had us believe. A dash of the androgenic perhaps. This in keeping with the 80/20 principles of our yin yang universe rather than the 50/50 theories we as intelligent creatures developed. We try in the western world to redefine “fair” and only use this redefinition when it suits us. There is a 50/50 going on just as there is the 80/20. Just think of the eastern symbol. We took it and made a pie. We slice it till there’s nothing. This is the nature of the analytical dualistic mind. Some try to judge and cut out bigger pieces, some try to cut equal pieces. Some share, some don’t. But in the end it’s gone. It wasn’t even a pie was it? With these facts to be in place and active, ready, we follow our instincts first and obviously, transversely, I will have the bit of a woman in me that is a ribcage, the eyes. There are flowers in the trees and we have made musical instruments from bones and things found in the forest-jungle. Her smile makes everything around her look like a painting without frame, only my dream of its essence, all that it is. The essence of this world is all that it is. Purity found. How did we lose it? I want to find it. That’s what I want.

Blue Lagoon? Perhaps there is a village. Maybe we’re alone. If there’s a village we are independent creatures and get along. This is where I have to use my imagination. How would this work? We take care of the sick, but don’t need to take care of each other otherwise. There is an unspoken natural system. We work together but without effort. It just happens. There is no obligation to help each other, it just happens. Kindness ceases to exist because that’s all there is, just as there is no opposite to breathing while alive. I guess you can hold your breath, perhaps there is no opposite to the heartbeat while living. I’ll have to think about this more, it’s like a puzzle.

Amen is the best word ever, because it means even less than “God.” I gave you stoned progressive hard rock winters but the waiting kills and I have better things to do. The bouncer you most dislike now gets you in the door for free, the forgotten free, and Maria begs and waits for you in the wing, on the tail-flap of her father’s fighter. Oh what a romantic matrical mary-ann! To drift and remember oneself in such uncertain terms accounted and dried for this thin and intimate infinity, it’s a macabre celebration, Dante’s dentist, oiling his gun.

At birth perhaps, before the words and the a posteriori madness of existence, we think of that grass greener in the womb, we split from it, and then it all, all, almost sure of something, but then when we grow older and on to put it all into split words, we find something else altogether was our scratch.

NOTE: This is an old one as is “Yet Another Movie, 3 years ago or so, pulling up some old docs recently.

b

Energy Drink Ingredients And Your Health

So you had to get up early but you have plans for tonight when the afternoon blahs kick in and you need a kick-start. Burning the candle at both ends will double the light right? One legal way to get this boost that has gained popularity is with one of the many brands in a whole fleet of energy drinks. I end up drinking 3-4 sugar free energy drinks a week for one reason or another. Leading the way of this popular movement is Red Bull, which has worldwide appeal, but also has skeptics of its benefits particularly in Europe. Countries like Norway, Denmark and France, who banned the drink, are concerned about the negative effects that are possible due to the lack of testing on what might occur from mixing the various chemicals that are in the drink. According to the Red Bull website the drink is Vegan, Kosher (Jewish for “ok to eat”) and Halal (Muslim version of Kosher). It is not made from bull testicles either! I’m glad to know this, but I never considered it either till I read the company’s rebuttal to what must be a rumor somewhere. Regular Red Bull contains sucrose and glucose. The Sugar free version contains aspartame and sucralose. Recent study results show that aspartame does not cause cancer.

Some or all of the following chemicals plus other chemicals are may or may not be in other energy drinks in various combinations. I took a look at a couple of sources for information on the ingredients in Red Bull. I began at www.RedBull.com. Here’s what the site said about the leading “medicinal” ingredient in Red Bull, Taurine at 1000mg. Taurine is also found in scallops, fish, poultry, and added to most baby food.


Taurine – a conditionally essential amino acid which is naturally occurring in the human body. “Conditionally essential” means that in some situations or under certain conditions, as for example, in situations of high stress or high exertion, increased amounts of taurine are eliminated from the body and cannot be replaced by the body in sufficient amounts. Taurine is involved in vital functions of the human body. Taurine acts as an antioxidant and has been shown to promote detoxification by binding together with harmful substances and thereby accelerating their exertion from the body.

In an on-line article by The Canadian Broadcasting Company (CBC) that took an independent critical look at the ingredients of the drink and hired a laboratory. In this report they quote French nutritionist Isabelle Van Rullen, who works with the country’s food safety agency, says France banned the brew because of how the ingredients in Red Bull interact: “There are various side effects for each one of these three substances, which vary in degrees of severity. And they can also interact with each other.” Meaning there’s no long-term research on how caffeine, taurine and glucuronolactone interact in the body. Here’s what CBC said about Taurine alone:

An amino acid, taurine is important in several metabolic processes of the body. Also known as 2-aminoethanesulfonic acid. Taurine functions in electrically active tissues such as the brain and heart to help stabilize cell membranes. It also has functions in the gallbladder, eyes, and blood vessels and may have some antioxidant and detoxifying properties.

So apparently Taurine is an amino acid that we may or may not need at any given time, and it may or may not work as an antioxidant. There were other description variations between the two sources that begged comparison such as the ingredient Glucuronolactone at 600mg in Red Bull. It may or may not help detoxify the body. The whole question with Red Bull is if it’s toxic or not so, this is ironic, don’t you think? It also does occur naturally in grains and red wine.

Redbull.com first: Glucuronolactone – a carbohydrate that occurs naturally in the human body where it is involved in detoxification processes, supporting the body in eliminating waste substances from the body.

Then CBC: Glucuronolactone - A naturally occurring substance manufactured by the human body. Like taurine, glucuronolactone is supposed to detoxify the body. Little research has been done on the effects, and the only relevant studies have been conducted on animals so the risk to humans cannot be adequately assessed. Glucuronolactone has received some notoriety due to rumours that it was a Vietnam War era drug manufactured by the American government and led to several brain tumour deaths at the time. These rumours are not based on documented facts.

Caffeine is a substance that most people are familiar with. There are usually 80mg of caffeine in coffee. This is the same amount in a can of Red Bull. It’s found in coffee, chocolate, and tea. Here’s what Red Bull.com says about caffeine “…known for it’s beneficial effects on mental and physical functions…” There are 65mg of caffeine in a can of tooth-rotting regular Coca Cola.

There are often B Vitamins in energy drinks. B Vitamins are valuable for processing carbohydrates plus other physical and mental functions but they are water-soluble and diuretics (cause increased urination). This combination is like taking a B-Complex vitamin with a cup of coffee. The diuretic effects of the caffeine in combination with the vitamins will have you using the bathroom in no time, and you won’t even need to turn on the lights because you’re urine will be glowing like an alien spacecraft. Then there’s the option of making an alcoholic drink with Red Bull. CBC also reported on the growing trend of combining energy drinks with liquor, particularly the “Vodka Red Bull.” The concern is dehydration effecting the heart muscle. A Red Bull spokes person said that the drink is not marketed to be mixed with alcohol, but still is actively sold in liquor stores.

Other Energy Drink Ingredients

Inositol - necessary for the formation of lecithin and functions with Choline. Since it is not essential in the human diet, it cannot be considered a vitamin. Inositol is primarily used in the treatment of liver problems, depression, panic disorder, and diabetes. Neurotransmitters such as seratonin in the brain depend on Inositol to function properly.

Ginseng - Frequently used as a potent preventative rather than a curative, it also demonstrates therapeutic benefits for a wide number of conditions in some cases. If taken regularly it is said to increase vitality, and extend life span. But these claims are not proven.

Guarana - comes from potent South American berries that when extracted, consists a crystallizable agent called guaranine, which is identical to caffeine and exists in the seeds of the berry. Guarana is useful for mild forms of diarrhea, but its primary use is for headache, especially if of a rheumatic nature. Some retailers promote it as an aphrodisiac; however, there is to current evidence to support this claim.

Ginko Biloba – supposedly increases blood flow to the brain and throughout the body's network of blood vessels that supply blood and oxygen to the organ systems. It is also supposed to increase metabolism efficiency, regulates neurotransmitters, and boosts oxygen levels in the brain.

Damiana - used as a general tonic for the nervous, hormonal, and reproductive systems. It has an ancient reputation as an aphrodisiac. Some claim damiana tea has a relaxing effect not-unlike low doses of cannabis.

L-Carnitine - An amino acid usually created by the liver and kidneys and supposedly helps increase metabolism and energy levels. There is no scientific conclusion on whether or not one needs to supplement with it unless there is an unusual diet, but you can take 2-6 grams without worry D-Carnitine is “inactive” and may actually hurt endurance levels.

In conclusion, I think it is just better to eat well and drink lots of water when exercising. Most of the energy drink ingredients are either not proven to be beneficial or are already in healthy foods. It’s better to just drink water than drink something that will cause you to lose even more water while already sweating out your reserve in the summer sun.

http://www.cbc.ca/consumers/market/files/health/redbull/ingredients.html

www.erowid.com

http://www.energydrinkdirectory.com

http://www.energyfiend.com/energy-drink-ingredients

(The above "report" is the same my report to be turned in tomorrow in a health care class I took this semster as prerequisite to entering the EMT program in the Fall '06)

b

Crowd Minus One

Obscurity is the soul's highest level of fame. It's all down hill from there. Obscurity makes an excellent work space. It's where it seems I write my blog, and it's better that way, to be your own audience. It's where I've left my music. It's the head of the heart's virginity. Native Americans said you lose bits of soul when you let yourself in photographs. Is a recorded song equal to this? More than a few have chopped off the most artistic of their own fingers by wallowing in the mud of celebrity. "...just sign here in blood..." We all live with our choices.

Anyway, more importantly, nobody ever told me how I "should have done it" in my little rooms with a guitar and a lone microphone. Few have ever heard what I've recorded. I can make it as good or as awful as I want. I have over 300 songs. I have put little to no effort into getting "discovered." Feels like I want credit for that somehow...but that would be a paradox I guess. Credit for having no credit? Or better off dead and loved like Chatterton eh? Loved or not still dead, so no matter.

I tried to start a few bands a few times but found the technical side of writing and compromise between members too mechanical and the fun got sucked out through small sucking holes. It can be fun though, playing well with others. Need to find the mutual playground though.

So I posted three songs on myspace.com/crowdminusone. I have used this nom de lute since 2000 when I realized that Smog was one guy, and I thought that was cool, to use another name, like a band, instead of your own, so I thought CM1 was a good name for my one man band.

b

Yet Another Movie

I guess I always thought that I would somehow, in the future, find a way to go back in time. I never once, but maybe twice, felt that each day was really gone. Or that “the now” was really all I had. I guess I came to know with age that the sun would rise as it always had in the past, in the future, so I felt it obvious, if only slightly less in adulthood, that tomorrow could be yesterday, as easy as it is now. I’m still waiting for the nudge.

She moved away when I was 15. I was in a tree at the corner of 6th and 19th where I could watch the van be loaded, and then could watch it pass by in the first step of it’s journey to New Jersey. I felt sad like hot tears but didn’t cry. I felt like running up the driveway and having my case heard, tears, laughter, joy, no matter what happened, but I was stuck there like a cat without a ladder-truck. She never saw me in that tall oak and so I concluded that I could care less about her going off without a last goodbye. But perhaps I imagined this as imagination at some point near then, and now it’s all creation evolved.

I ran into a guy in a nightclub that used to be a loner and a friend but would latch on in a social scenario. I think he thought I had a way with the ladies, and he thought that being in my company would bring him some luck. I’ll assume this because I never shook mid-hello, or made eye contact, something. He was never there when I nearly pissed myself in front of a class trying to give a report, nobody was.

I sort of resented this, being seen as confident, but only slightly. My ego was healthier back then too. So shake it off spaceman. In the nightclub, after not having seen this fellow in months - I see he has a sweet kind girl at his side now, yes, and he has my whiskey on his breath, and doesn’t smile as he returns my greeting. The sweet kind girl smiles all over the place, at me, the sky, the lights, the music, in the way that the grass is always greener in space. He introduces me and my name and says hello, “hi,”

“hello,”

“hello.”

There was a back room at work. We used it in the event of an emergency. We used it when it was full in the front. Also we have incorporated the wine list into the menu itself. The wine sells better now. Whiskey cures a cold, in minutes, for about an hour, then it comes back worse. But if that hour is what it takes to get you back to camp, and the fire, to food, and out of the winter storms of earth and mind, well, then it’s not so bad is it? I fell asleep in that back room at work, once, on the clock, till they called my name and poked at my Adam's rib. If I’d of only known the boss would think it funny, I would have done it a million times before - always needing sleep at that hour, but I haven’t done it since. The cause can be the cure, and the cure the cause. The trick is running out of the loop, and making your own circle, but in this backwards talk of mine I remind the void, the loop is ego, the circle is nature, an original face saving. Mine, only I own nothing.

So then I ran into an old school buddy in the restaurant the next day, booth 5, in the front, said hello, What’s Up?

Nothing man…

…thought that was you…

…well, managing the restaurant…

…working for phyzer…

…great job…

…remember when…

…don’t you remember…

…what ever happened to…

…don’t you know… (some awkward silence)

Hadn’t seen her since I was 15, and it was now 15 years since that time. A semi ate that U-Haul whole at 65 halfway to NJ. Nobody made it out alive but the pet snake. What we use to be strong can also be our weakness and once we realize this, somewhere along the path, we doubt everything like a bad trip. Survive the paranoia and the head trip of illusion, the “I” of your own mortal immortality, we can find the part that we wake up to, that we want to live forever, dead, and that part that you can’t grab, that was there all along and hasn’t changed, will live on forever, identity free. As for myself, I was sleeping in the back room, waiting for the nudge. Now I'm back.

b

SK8

Wadsworth Skate Park 03-25-06 Photos by Amberjane Emery.





On this day there was a little guy at the top of one ramp, 7 or 8 maybe, a little freaked out about droppin' in. I felt like he was never gonna do it, or he was gonna eat it with that timid approach. I told him, "either you do it all the way or not at all, you can't drop in 50%, you have to want to do it." He actually listened and it freaked me out that he took me seriously. Most kids act cool and try to keep that nonchalance going around us "old folk." So I got a lump in my throat then too, "shit what if he eats it?" I thought; but he made it and was stoked. I saw him later when I was leaving and he seemed to be building up to say something, "Good job!" I said first. He was grinning ear to ear when I said that. It made my day.

b

Psalms 33 (remix)

Today's my birthday. I'm 33. I can't figure it out. I'm still in the back seat. If you're not driving though, you get a better view. As the driver you gotta watch the road and keep from crashing. Blinders on. Ever notice that? Child like flashbacks in the backseat, the road and it's flashing by at mach 1.9347325, and the dancing shadow on the concrete and tree scattered banks, all the same, keeping up, the shadow of a car on the interstate, with a window, and you, waving in a setting sun, trusting the parent who drives to get you there. Used to sleep on the back dash of the Monte Carlo. Dad's silver machine. Red felt velvety seats. I got hypnotised by the rhythm of the road and watched the milky way paint itself on the glass regardless of the gone rattling highway. My breath spread itself out on the night like a cloud and then swallowed itself up. Part of me is still there now. That's why I can't be all me here now, not anymore, not without total memory renunciation, or value on the memory, something, gotta let it go. Got a lot of stuff I can't let go of to keep me there instead of here, remembering like a drug.

b

God

My girlfriend's family is Southern Baptist and I've been hanging out around them lately. I was raised Southern Baptist. I had questions since I was a little. A lot didn't make sense, just the concept of hell as the main thing. People who are never reached by those who could "lead them to god," or were reached, and then reject "salvation" with their >god-given< brains are going to hell to burn forever, and a lifetime within the space of all time is too short to figure this out in most cases. It just makes God out to be far more sinister than any picture of Satan I've ever had drawn out for me. They’ll tell you to go to church to have a personal relationship with God – doesn’t that seem backwards?

When I was 16 I studied with Jehovah’s Witnesses for a while. They didn't succeed in getting me to join but they did show me how pagan the whole lot of Christendom is, only with nature removed as natural and made to feel like guilty sin. I think the story of Adam and Eve describes the split between Nature and Human Nature. This isn’t because of JWs teaching me this, but it is because of how they dislodged me from the literal thinking that I was brought up in when it comes to the Bible and God. A lot of what I learned I still feel today. The Roman Catholic Church was seen as evil by Baptists, and by Witnesses alike, so I've never seen the Pope and all beneath him in a good light. I'll be seeing Da vinci Code soon too. Hmm.

I got into the Eastern stuff almost 10 years ago now, Buddhism mostly, Taoism too. I find it the most agreeable conceptually, but how to be good in this mode from one minute to the next day to day is far more difficult. Finding the good at the core within yourself takes much more diligence than having someone who supposedly has authority over you in a religious capacity telling you how to act. For instance the Tao in an angry moment is harder to reference in ones head than say, the 10 commandments are.

In the end I believe in God because I do find myself feeling spiritual. It's not something I can usually initiate. It just happens. Being around children or animals seems to be a good kindle. Nature in general I think. Many mornings in liquid solitude sitting and waiting for a wave and just watching the clouds sun birds and horizon interact is enough for me. I feel least spiritual in a church. I used to joke with people on this subject that I “…was an atheist until I took acid and found God.” Too many don’t get it though and think I’m trying to tell them acid is God. This is what happens in a richly materialistic society. The quantifiable stuff is the only reality. Consciousness becomes nearly fake.

So by strict definition I'm not an agnostic, I'm a non-religious spiritualist I guess, but most people see what I describe as agnostic, I don't care, call me what you want.

This is from my post at Hotelwomb.com on the existence of God.

b

Highlands

Ever been outside with your eyes open, but in a place so dark it was like they were closed? Felt I aged 10 years in a single weekend, walking toward my fears. Seemed I aged a lifetime in a year. I went to the mountains for a few days, Highlands North Carolina, when my brother got married. He had taken a vacation with Michele there, and they agreed to return for the occasion with vows. I walked to the top of one mountain which featured a popular trail near my hotel in the small town. I came to the clearing where the path ended. I was high up like a cloud looking out over a horizon that reached forever and it seemed impossible that I couldn’t see the ocean. I felt I was seeing the whole earth. Most of the family came for the wedding. People I hadn’t seen in years but I climbed the mountain alone. My divorced parents shared poses in photographs for one last time.

On the night before going home, it was a full moon, and I knew that the view from that spot would be incredible. I left my room and took off up the path alone without a flashlight. It was dark but I knew the moon would rise soon, a day or two after true full, an hour or two of no moon darkness. The sky was rich with stars and the humidity was none. I saw a sky I may never see again. No human light pollution, just me the path, the stars, and a destination - my plan. I made my way up the winding side and gravel yanking hard in my head on the rope that should deliver the needed memory to find my way. The trees made a shroud as I came to the thick part in silence. There was only my breathing, steps, heartbeat, and the distant unidentified sounds of sylvan movements that pulsed through me and telling me to freeze, and to keep going, simultaneously.

In the thick of trees that blocked the sky I became disoriented. I had gone off the path and didn’t know how. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. I stood motionless listening. It was as if my heart had moved into my skull as I could hear it thumping loudly. With the distant noises I imagined becoming a food chain beacon for a larger creature. I saw a documentary about Akira Kurosawa on PBS years ago, or maybe it was Bravo. After the bomb, his big brother led him through the blackened earth at dawn and told him to look. “Don’t turn your head away Akira.” Nature vs. Human Nature – different only in our minds, the purest conscious dilemma.

I crouched and listened for a few endless minutes thinking of ancient times, of ancient men, and how they shared fights and flights with animals on the same level till then finally a beam of moon light creeked the wooded cracks and led me to an eastern ledge. The giant ball lifted and lit the night throwing long arms into white shapes in the black forest and my black sky sister became crystal blue. I stood there watching with my eye whites glowing and thinking how it could be 1776, 1492, 2000 B.C., or even some time after my death. I beat the old beast for a moment, and breathed the old breath for a spell. I passed through, but I will come down.

b

Stale Clues

i cut my little toe on the corner of an open door
i cut it too quick
i stood in line at the auto parts store
i listened as the guy before me took up my time
to complain about how long it took for him

i had lunch with my girl
i ran errands while she worked
i drove 80 miles
i dropped off rentals, picked up papers, left the courthouse
and took to the beach

a fag took a drag of a fag not in drag
a wink he gave me
a smile, and he's always over there on a bench by the pier
i'll have to walk by but i don't have to get near
the bathrooms, or his lug wrench

a notary at city hall was still out to lunch
so a minute i talked to my mom on the phone
a cloud came at two and was followed by hundreds
as they gathered like sheep,
in the dream of a child

and i drove up and over the bridge back to Colbert
and i listened to music, to talk, and to news
and i watched the sky thicken as the sun cooled it's gases
and you sat in your hammock and read parts of stale clues
and wondered as you puffed what to do or to ponder,
what is next, what is best, how shall i pass thru?

so i figured the maze of trapped steel and flat horses
so i climbed up the mountains, jumped off and i flew
so i toiled with the passive the angry and massive
the tiniest creature is still the foot in my shoe
tipping and cracking the bones and the blood veins
throwing and jarring the soul from her flesh
gouging and daring the last of the deep breath
to be all that i tasted in the moment I knew




b

Bike Week Daytona '06

The grass crunches when walked on. The wind is shoving through the curve of our sphere and throwing up sarcastic dust. The bluest sky. So dry it's hardly there. A moon shows itself in the afternoon. Wait till night children. A roaring interstate monster just miles away. Anyone going anywhere in the mainline metal box blood stream. If only Jack and Neil really were the inspiration for all this. Instead we have fond memories of Walt Disney, Harley Davidson, Dale Earnhardt, and President Eisenhower's beatific vision, in bastard fruition, sprawling blacktop with lanes in to 4 then 6, then 8! We got lost causes and probable mundane inevitabilities. We wait for the light. We're the free and the brave.

So I worked up a sweat and then jumped in the ocean. Surfed for an hour, good waves but the zipper on my full suits broke so I was out in my spring - which wasn't cutting it in my extremities so I cut it short. Threw on my Donnie, not so Darko, Billabong hoodie and went upstairs to Finnegan's. Finnegan's Beachside Pub. It's on the ocean and A1A has a deck with a nice view. It's bike week. I topped the stairs and scanned the crowd of 50 or so sitting in the sun near the bartender's island and listening to some guy belt out a Stones cover. He was about my age but somehow looking too young to be authentic.

I picked a spot at the bar and mused wit'in me rasta hed how out of place I was - and how out of place it was for me to be out of place. I'm not Jamacian. I'm a local. I grew up in fucking Flagler Beach. Amidst all the phony Bologna biker leather I had on shorts and a hoodie. Warm but for the wind and the ocean. Here were a ton of celebratory free democratic republican Americans enjoying the fruits of their bounty.Bikers aren't really rebels anymore, they're wealthy people playing baby boom cards. They are out to impress. The first bikers, the real ones, the ones in clubs, don't really want to impress anybody. They wanna wear the leather, but the FTW philosophy is gone. That's ok. Just people wanting to have a little fun. Still, I was looked at funny. The Devil Inside video. I'm old enough to know the difference between my childish paranoia and genuine out-of-placeness. A black tank-top waitress was walking by just then, "Do you have shoes up here?"

"No," I said, thinking - you must be crazy - knowing what would come next.

"Well, don't let anyone see you're feet."

I felt contempt throw itself through my veins thinking: I live here. I'm at the beach in Florida, in the sun, during a celebration of so-called-freedom, and I'm patronizing your bloody establishment, and you want me to go find some fucking shoes?! I didn't say anything back, of course, but put my feet up on the stool beside me. People like me keep it in, in public, face to face, and feel brave on places like blogs. Hide my bare feet at the beach?! Never! Viva la France!

I sat at the bar and the singer took a break. He sat a few down from me and seemed to be in the same boat as me somehow. He looked around lit a smoke and seemed to be in pure neutral. Jack Black with a white bandana. Nobody said hi to him, patted him on the back, or even requested a song. I wondered if anyone clapped when he finished his last song, but I didn't even notice when he stopped playing. He probably keeps a blog too.

I scanned, ordered from a guy. I listened to two couples talking. They were rich gold studded and in fresh leather like everyone else up there, in heaven, looking down, but in just bits and pieces of sound I heard...

"...get a job”

"they must reek...”

Who were they looking at? Real bikers? Hells Angels? I stretched to see. There were two hippie squatter kids with a cardboard sign down below. They had dirty hair bags and a dog.

Rebel bikers sitting judgment.

What’s the world comin' to?

Apocalypse?

Do I hear four horsemen riding?

On silent silver bikes?

Slowly rolling in to town at sunset, the big one?

Earth breathes itself.

Jesus was a Hell’s Angel.

b



PS - (Comment suggestion - A surfer sitting in judgement of bikers? What's the world coming to?)

The Church

...the neo-psychedelic, art-rock, mood rock, guitar-rock band from Australia, that strummed and penned Under the Milky Way as was once seen on MTV (when MTV was almost cool) and can now be heard in a scene from Donnie Darko. Et cetera, et cetera.

I will admit something. I'm 50% church fan because of the past. The wonderful soundscape moods and non-sequitur horoscopic lyrics that often sent me to the encyclopedia are mostly pre-SA archive. I mostly support this band now because of what they gave me then.

25% of my allegiance is the fact that I dig the jam ethos and it results in 2 or 3 really good songs per album at this point. FY (and Isidore) - I just can't even stomach but maybe 2 tracks now. Used to be, in the old days, it would take 2 weeks or so for a new album to "click." So I played FY and others over and over and over waiting for the click.

The last 25% (all % as working estimates) of my attendance is the promise. The Church seem to make an unstated promise with each recording that, "we're working on a bigger scale here - just hang in there - it's coming." Meanwhile all the mystery is unraveled in the information age, and I now know more about this band and SK than I do my own family and father.

For instance I was shocked that someone else was shocked to find Peter is half Dutch on the SK blog the other day. I was thinking, "I've known that for years!" and that kind of thing happens a lot. I know too much. And it's kind of stupid. It's looking closely at the least important things about music. It's not even the music.

Marty and Peter’s songs are hit and miss for me too. IE - Peter's EMD New Season I love, Marty's Triestess - I have honestly never EVER finished it. His sugar water affectation is awful sometimes. It all makes me sad actually. I can't believe I'm even posting this.

BWTB is interesting. Not worth the money though. My non-womb church fan friend Sam that I talk to every now and then agreed that there are two good songs and a couple ok ones. But I'm back trying to make something work that isn't there. I don't even care about the Block EP. It can't be worth the money, and I'll get "uninvited" when it's in a store near me. So that's my sober confession. I would love to have my mind changed.

As an additional note. As much as I love reading the SK blog (the time being), because SOMETIMES it's really good, the comments people make to offer their love make me want to vomit. This chicken (me) hasn't quite grown the balls to comment on the comments there within the comments there, but I feel my own blog's a good spot. Some of those people need to get their own blog anyway. The most recent entry by SK "Jumble Sail," is as mediocre as anything he's posted. And that's OK - It's only a blog after all, but I figured he'd get fewer comments or at least some sober ones. But instead he got heaps of ass kiss because he mentioned lower comment numbers on previous entries. With love from florida - get real people.

As a parent, for instance, you can't make a child love you by giving them what they want. Instead they become a spoiled rotten brat and they will resent you in the long run. They know your love is shallow, or at least the expression of it is. Real love comes when you're honest enough with yourself to be honest with others. You can't make everyone happy, you can only save you're soul.

b

Java Joint Pt.2

Wow. Cool. Thanks for reading my blog. I enjoyed the comments. I'll be away from the computer for the weekend so I wanted to put something up before we load up and hit the road. I'm really thinking about the JKV thing. Bloggifing it might just be the thing to make it fresh again. Adding pictures would make it pretty interesting too. I have a lot of old pictures that go with the story.

I have some new ones too. I put a couple with this entry. I put up a bunch more at myspace. myspace.com/bradleyalbertburkley. Check 'em out.

Yes I am currently sporting a Gold Afternoon Fix beard, and yes my hair is as grey as Kilbey's. Yes I'm only 32. Although I took too much acid at one point and it turned my hair color, 4 years ago, early grey runs in my family. It has been getting lighter and lighter in the sun.

As for Java Joint - well, I think it's your American right to run your business however you want. Even if you wanna run it like a communist dictatorship. Even if you want to run it into the ground. I also don't have to hang out and watch it happen either.

First thing - it's not a coffee shop. It's a vanity project. The owner has a lot of loot and I guess she always dreamed of having a coffee shop on the ocean. That's cool, I can dig it. But you can't be all things to all people while only being prepared to serve 12 people at a time, max. They have the best coffee in town, and good food (if the right cook is working), but they are running this small room with few tables like a restaurant. When it gets busy it gets so crowded and loud it sounds like a mess hall. I have been in and around restaurants and hotels my whole life, an F&B manager at the Hilton in Gainesville for a short while. You wanna be set up to run at full capacity. So there are people sitting reading the paper sipping coffee, with a line out the door!

Second thing - you gotta take suggestions. The menu(s) there are a nightmare. I was gonna offer to redo it. I actually did on my own just so I could study it when I got the job. It's all center justified and stuff, so I told a co-worker my idea. "Oh no, don't do that, they won't change the menu, don't bring it up. The inventory and computer (for entering orders) are a mess too. Now, when I wrote about Java Joint in my earlier entry I mentioned the communism thing in relation to the tips. But apparently it goes further than that. You can't be critical of the way things are being run even by the slightest comment. This couple (one is really the owner the other is her partner) has never been in the business before.

Another note - and it speaks to the pros of Capitalism I know but when you pool tips, "redistribute the income" if you will, that encourages your hard worker to become lazy and your lazy worker to stay lazy. I saw it in action. And when the owner is taking their cut from our tips without hardly being around! .....anyway, I quit. I went to pick up my last check yesterday and they said they had mailed it to me.

A couple of peevish things too - while I'm at it. They love to tell all the customers that "everything's organic." It's not. Some things are, some aren't, in fact there's Hersheys syrup in the "organic chocolate dispenser." They are conservative republicans to those customers, and liberal lesbians to those customers, drive big Suburban SUVs, have a recycle bin upstairs, but take it down and put it in the trash with the other rubbish. You get the idea. Lot's of rubbish.

One more thing - I don't intend to suggest I'm Jewish, as it may seem in the last post. I'm an all-american mutt. English/Irish/German/Dutch, with many variations depending on what family member you talk to on what day. My grandmother was unusually dark, with dark eyes and dark hair and it was suggested tongue-in-cheek that her family was Jewish.

b

Curb Your Enthusiasm

Seen this show? I love it. I feel like Larry David sometimes. I feel like HBO. CYE is an excellent name for a semi-spoof street skate video too BTW. Have an older guy between scenes with a bald head and a Jewish tongue, pissing people off. Rumor has it that my mom's mom was Jewish, or partly so. Used to be a bad thing you know, in America, in the south, kept secret at times. Was Penn ever a Jewish name? I could research that one. Assuming that was her real name. Sean and Michael Penn are Jewish right?

But really, to the point, I don't get pissed too much anymore. Really! I've been nasty and foul tongued before yes. I found a lot of pointlessness in the fish bowl of human life when it comes to anger. It uses up too much energy. And I have a tendency to be a little lazy so...well there you go. It's not because I repel it, it's because I understand it. I don't know why I do, maybe I'm getting older, whatever. It's how you work with it, not how you avoid it. Conflict is gonna be there till death. I can see why people get pissed though. They're all wrong, and their all right. Anger is a symptom of a human falling under the control of ego rather than using their wisdom capacity. We could all be wisemen. Once you see that wisdom is really not matter of rank you become wise. It's just sitting there on the shelf waiting to be used by everyone.

Well, I really set myself up this time didn't I? Mr. Wiseman eh? I'm sure it will happen. I'm gonna say something stupid. It hasn't happened yet though. So far I'm spot-on. I'm flawless. I dare you. :)

Beg to differ? Then do so. If I'm wrong - factually, opinion-wise, or grammatically (i employ poetic license a lot obviously), please dig in. Throw me your dirt. See how I do. See if I can stand up. I do not use comment moderation, nor will I ever. I welcome all comments...well I will consider all comments, if your talking about something ridiculous like violence then that's not really welcome, but I'll deal with it. It won't be deleted or censored. You'll just be making yourself look foolish.

But really I'm not out to make anger. I hope only that I might entertain and/or offer an alternate perspective on stuff. Have some fun really. Pleasure. I only regret that this post (in essence) is the result of a comment I made on another post and not from something I said in my actual blog. To me that would be great! Get it going. Let's not be so placid. Praise or Raze each other. You can only be a victim if you let someone victimize you.

b

One Blue Wheel

got new wheels, one blue, and i hate gainesville. i had to call an old boss, from an old job, about my W2 in 2005, givin' him my old address so I can get a "return." he acted like i was his long lost buddy. my mind tried to find the memory to make it so.

see, my wheels wore out. i had the same longboard since november 1998 in gainesville. one of my best ever investments. when my car was stuck, wouldn't run, no license anyway, tickets, and my 5th bike was stolen, i skated to work, or wherever, met up with friends. same board. even that job i had gettin up at 5am to make the breakfast banquet @ holiday inn in 2003. me , the cops, criminals, cabs and street-sweeps, 0445 hours and there you have it.

5 black ones, and a blue one. like nut shells on stage with a little ball beneath one, or a card game in Vegas - "I'll take these four," I said.

"Well here, take four black," the man said.

"No, if it's OK, I want one blue one...you know, for fun, to be artistic."

An eyebrow went up, "Ok."

so today i got some money. i tore off the two back set of wheels, off their rim the other day, poor two piece construction, so with the new cash I got some wheels, one blue. a great friend that board, yes, amen.

i been messin' round with "my space." 'f ya must know - www.netspace.com/bradleyalbertburkley. eye came across a "friend request" from a person in Gainesville. connnected and bounced and clicked around. i took a look at, checked on, a lot of people i used to know, it's been almost over a year. and there they are. on the net-vehicle, all of em would know about my longboard.

seeing these kids again, it wasn't much different than seeing them in person. the facade of friendship for convenience, the ultra-temporal interface, the shallow comments. I hate fucking Gainesville. made me think of "You Me And Everyone We Know" - a good film about the wall we use to connect with within technology. everybody's in a band, or wants to tell you about who is, at least in the psudo-punk crew i was adjacent to. So - Hi to all at "The Top!" - all - including my drunken ghost!

i'm hungry still. but the worst part of the fire is nearly out. i finally found a way to care about someone other than myself. i'm caring for other people. smoke out? no, i'm wearing an ointment that guarantees a cure from the narcissism. i'm entitled to nothing, none of us are. and it's a pleasure to learn this. happier to know this i am. yes, indeed. we all once were young though. i'm growing up, maybe. wether i like it or not. so be it.

i can't wait to try out my new wheels on the skatepark tomorrow.

b

The James King Version

I'm thinking of doing a retro-active version. A blog with my final version of my book: The James King Version. AKA - A Posthumous Autobiography of Good Confusion, Trapped In The Escape Pod, and For Days On End. My Library of Congress cert. is as The James King Version.

I would like to re-publish the book as a blog one section at a time and include pictures scanned and uploaded to go with it since, by my definition, the book is non-fiction and pictures of the actual people events and locations would add a lot.

I haven't even looked @ JKV in a great while. I got sick of it at one point. But since I have either sold or given away all but one copy of the final version, I am reconsidering doing something fresh like this, and it would be fun too eh? I might even turn Versa Vice into a book at some point, and then back into a blog? Hmm.

Well I'll keep those out there who are out there posted. And thanks for the recent increased interest in Versa Vice!

As for Hana - whatever, she is who she is. Perhaps not as deep in the directions I projected, and deeper in dimensions I missed. Nonetheless I really like meeting strong character types. People who are mysterious in some capacity. There are a lot of shallow mundane people and I fight to stay awake while trying to be courteous in social situations sometimes.

As for pot smokin' - as in my "Religion is Blasphemy" entry - a friend of a friend over the weekend and hell, what do I find myself doin'? Tokin' the with the joker! I enjoyed the second half of it. In the first half of it I have that "what am I doing?, what should I be doing?" anxiety. I just think people who are smoking it everyday and tell you about it with pride, and pretend to be peaceful but are high strung and delusional because of it should be avoided. I find in my area, that pot smokers are most often conservative republican meat eatin' hot-head construction-worker beer-drinkin' rednecks, so perhaps I need to get out of town a bit. Well, of course I do - get out of state, out of country, out of mind.

b

A Visit From Hana

Drove out to the country, the west side of the county. A confused weather day. Overcast but warm. We were gonna pick up Hana, Amber's cousin, at the house of their shared aunt. I had had ideas for other plans that evening, but I forgot about the visit from Hana. The kids are at their dad's for the weekend. We arrive in Espanola at the old boxy square country house with mentafacts and other articles about the door and side that would speak of America in a gone day. The house was probably nearly the same 10, 20, 50 years ago.

When we got out of the car I could hear rattling near the front door that spooked me in the darkness, but Amber was going around to the side. She knew the place like it was her home. She grew up next door where her parents still live. I was feeling like I was dreaming. Hana yelled from inside to come in when we knocked. The house was dark. So is Hana. Wooden, varnished wood, low lights, adjusting pupils and shapes in the dark. We found Hana in the better lit front room. She was messing with the locks on the front door. At first I thought she was still trying to get out, but she was locking up. The Aunt was in town.

This place is like a fort, she said as all shared greetings. I sat on the brown tweedy couch.

I thought that was the point of living in the country and having guns, so you didn't have to lock everything up, I snickered.

Oh there are guns everywhere, she said casually. I got a couple goosebumps and had an urge to look beneath the couch. I detoured this thought with picking up a book from the shelf, "Encyclopedia of 1977." It looked worn by time and browning, but never opened. I thumbed through as Amber and Hana launched into conversations on subjects between themselves. Stories and such mid-book that I could by no means catch up on as these two had grown up together. This was their theater. I was an extra with a cameo.

Hana returned attention to me for a moment and began a mini tour of the house, her old room, pictures of such and such, black and whites, Amber adding some details. Laughs and heads shaking adding to my disorientations. We were gonna pick up Hana and maybe do something together tonight - why are we still here?

Hana has a pale classic face. A '30s film star even. Dark eyes and dark hair of mixed dyes and various cosmetic experiments that came together. Big fake diamonds in her ears that fit, bright serious lipstick that might make you pucker in your sleep if dreamed of, and tattoos about her body peeking out here and there. I tried to place the shapes and letters without staring. Hana is a fruit that fell far from the tree. Figuratively and literally, She's visiting from Oregon, somewhere near Portland. She lives there now with her husband, an artist. Where Amber's part bohemian, Hana's part punk...but in a matured way somehow.

Aunt Ceil's got a thing for animated inanimate objects, Hana explained as I stared into the face of a plastic sewing kit/tool complete with moving eyes and mouth and made to look like it was part of a log and would open as a circle split thru the circumference. I followed them into the other room as the three of us had made a complete circle thru the house and were in the darkest part of the house again. Hana turned with a monkey puppet that began singing and I nearly screamed. I think she laughed or smiled, I think maybe they saw my freaked out face, I think it was a monkey, I can't be sure, it was dark.

I tried a rocking chair as they talked and saw "1873" on the stove pipe furnace in the living room. There were a string of lights colored white that could have been used for Christmas by a mirror in the center. The only light in the room. Now they were ready to go, just as I was nearly comfortable. I was ready for a seance.

C'mon, said Amber.

Shhh, just a second I said, listen.

There was nothing. No sound. None. I got up and left the chair. Maybe I would have a gun or two if I lived out there myself. Certainly the locks. I followed back out the side door where we came in and before we went down the platform,

Look! I said to the girls, the rocking chair is rocking itself!


We drove into town. I talk with Hana. But mostly she talks to Amber, and they whisper a lot. Girl stuff I know. Amber knows me well enough to baby me a bit though. She'll take little breaks from the chatter to rub my arm or pat my back, maybe a peck on the cheek. She spoils me with attention, I know this, but it's all a little unusual for our weekend without the kids. I sat in the back to be polite so they could talk. I think Hana thought that was weird. I think she likes tough guys. I've got that English respect for women that some American girls can't understand.

I said chatter before didn't I? That's the wrong word. That suggests something loose and reckless. Hana's not reckless. She's controlled. She's demure but still striking in appearance, aloof but sharp, and seems sophisticated in a low key way. She's lived in the woods, she's lived in the city. She seems to know more about me than I do. She replys to my statements as if to start arguments, but keeps communications. As if what she adds to anything is the last word, but doesn't need to make a point of it being so, it just is. She seems to read my mind. She seems to know of some weakness within me which I have not discovered. I feel childish around her sometimes, and she's younger than me. I need to travel more some day. But now I'm settling down.

She's the same age as Amber. She and I are on the same plane, we're getting along gloriously, for 7 months strait now. This maybe makes here old girlfriend suspicious? These two know each other inside and out, they've seen each other's boyfriends come and go. Is Hana on to something? Does she see something in the cards? Something Amber even is too in love to detect?

Shit, now I'm writing Soap Opera. That's not what I intended, I intended nothing though. I wanted to write about the last 12 hours for some reason and it came down to this. Well, Hana's still in town so maybe this is part one. The two of them went to the gym. I'm here alone now. We're supposed to go "out on the town" tonight. Just shoot some pool really. Last night we watched a movie together, well Amber fell asleep before the mid point. Too much Shiraz. It was only Hana and I at one point. At the end, when she spoke of the movie, it was as if it was the only and final review. We went to bed.

b