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Art, insight, life, Writing

December 8, 2011-Jubal @ Whistlers (Chicken Cordon Bluez)

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Often times, when I lived in Nederland, Colorado; I would go out alone, and check out whatever music may be playing, and hang out with friends that were bound to be out.  The night of this show, was a little gathering while I was back in the area in transition; house sitting and dog sitting for local friends.  This is the last time I saw Jubal play.  I am honored to find this in my notebook.  I am glad that I was able to record my perceptions in the moment.  It makes me feel good. I hope it does the same for you.  

The night may be one of those, High Altitude type nights.  The weather is cold, snow is on the ground, and those who choose Whistlers this Thursday, are primarily there for the entertainment and the suspended menu.

Tonight, I have some early bird jitters.  I feel there may be conflict.

The Thursday night football game is on the big screens; Jubal is on guitar and vocals. The audience seems split.  I figure, there must be room for compromise.

Jubal begins his set, almost as a warm up.  He is playing his less played set list. He emanates a desire to own the room with his music.

Jubal, is an inexhaustible well of music, the type of performers most towns wish for.  But, tonight, We, Have Him.  Knowingly in this moment, he has his competition; be it the football or those few patrons who would prefer their Chicken Cordon Blue in silence, he denies them their wish with gritty growling and harmonic strums.

Tonight we are all somehow the embodiment of this well, that Jubal is.  Some may be dry on the surface, but they are rich and deep, below.  The well is not purely a wood base on the ground, or a metal pipe with a pump.

One could consider a tree, a living well; pulling water up from the depths through it’s roots up to the leaves above, into the branches.  This is how Jubal and his music holds some capacity of the humanity around him.  They rise to him to be with each other, seeking some sweet soul nourishment; finding their call is answered.

If one becomes too dry, they turn to dust and fly away.

When one is fertile and hydrated, one grows and shares their steady beauty to those around them.

Sometimes, we become dry; and we don’t know exactly why or how. Was it the weather, or failure in the roots?  Does a tree, or a well, ever ask?

Sometimes, the well is muddy.  You have to drop the bucket through scum to find the spring.  You have to dig deeper for the clarity.

What really matters?  Perhaps in this journalistic opinion; it is the beautiful clarity that serene submersion brings, seeking the purity.  Jubal holds the perfect sound track for this; somehow every song begs the question, “What really matters?”

Is the game more important than the player?  Is the player always the star of the show?

“Perspective.”  A wise woman, once said.

The room is almost full, and it seems we are on some 24 hour precipice of a Full Lunar Eclipse that will be visible locally.  I wonder if the lunacy of the moon tonight, is reflecting back humanities lunacy.  What is the symbolism of it’s momentary shadowing?

I suppose we are all a little creative and crazy; especially when humbled by seeing the shadow of ourselves, in the midst of lunatic confusion,we still have just enough of a grasp on who we want to see within ourselves that we can find some reconciliation.  We find at times, even lunacy can be overshadowed by a strong desire for realization.

Jubal Thompson passed away August 7, 2016. You can read his obituary here Jubal Obituary.  You can check out his original music on Reverbnation here  at Jubal’s Songs .

I dedicate this writing to all of Jubal’s friends, family and musical admirers.  I apologize, if it wasn’t more about him, or his specific music; however I honor the fact he was a strong participant in a community I was apart of and love.  I was honored to spend time and conversation with him, and I feel this piece touches on a deeper part of our understanding each other in friendship.  If you want to do something in Jubal’s honor; buy a kid an instrument and encourage them to express themselves through the tool of music and words.  And always, listen closely to the truths expressed therein.

 

Art, insight, Writing

Above All, Love Thyself (2005)

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I met that assailant five years ago, today.

Internet connections say little about deviant ways.  I only know the sadistic things he’d say to me, while he forced me down, bleeding; telling me to say I loved him.

In that apartment of discardment and disregardment, the stranger of violence, sickness and anger; and a child trying not to be bitter, bleeding between virgin thighs.  Not from his penetration, but of her womanly cycle.

She came with two intentions; her first stop, a film festival.  She came to meet new friends, she only meant a night with out regrets and loose ends of insanity.  She only wished to be innocently entertained; not emotionally rearranged by a deranged stronger stranger.

She did want the later weather to keep her there; she didn’t want to seem overly careful.  She didn’t want him to be inside of her.

Why did he ask her to lie to him, when she could only cry to him to “Stop!”  Why did he mistake her curiosity for infatuation?  Alcohol, a mental obstruction for erectile distraction?

Her strength only a fraction of his, a safe distance missed by watery miles.  Her smiles are long gone.  Her night began at this innocent film fest with other aquaintences; those artsy types, a long and rainy ride to meet a director for his debut.  Not rude at all to his young admirer.

A wine reception was only a lesson in show business and politics.

Next comes that sick twist of cinematic proportions that corners this sad story of lost glory and innocence.  She leaves the film fest to meet those she doesn’t know; the water flooding the highway floats her toward disaster.

Some one must defend her!  Try and rebuild her sense of self worth, but she’s left feeling more worthless than ever before.  A trusting girl, now she’s only a mess on this emotional train wreck.

It takes more then seconds to think of the lessons she has learned from this tragedy.  I know it’s messed up, because it happened to me.  Now self esteem seems so hard to catch.

Men leave me cautious and sick when I think of lost intentions and sad revelations.  Not all men are the same, but the bad name is branded by a night that broke me.  Not at all a joke to me, just a sad story of lost virginity that needed to be told.

I will choose to be bolder, though my heart grows colder than it would have been, had my innocence been left to rest a while longer.  I needed to be stronger than I was that night.  What was once made wrong, I need to right for myself.  Search for help.  Pay these dues, get past the hurt of being used, sexually abused.

Move forward to help some one else, before the memory fades.  I know no matter how many days pass, I won’t relax because there is a mission to share.  You girls, beware; some guys are beasts out there.  Some times you can control your fate before it’s too late to say those words.

Stand up like a woman, though you feel like a girl.  You show this world that you can overcome; beyond grey skies, look toward the sun.  Innocence is lost everyday.  That doesn’t make it okay or right, but it’s no reason to want to die.  It’s a reason to grow; be bold, live to grow older.  To be the shoulder to some one younger.

It’s a lesson born of a sick sad situation; building aggression, fused confusion and broken illusions of grandeur.  This is the stuff soap operas are made of- the complete opposite of love.  It’s sick, it’s bad, but it’s something some of us have had to endure.  It is the merger of physical violence, sexual deviance, and disgusting circumstances rolled into a complete disregard for a woman’s voice crying out “NO!”

It’s the emotional blow of a lifetime; the intimate mark on a personal timeline.  The invasion of a jail-able crime, but a sentence that doesn’t serve enough time.  Something I didn’t report, a personal decision of mine.  Something upon which Karma I tend to rely on.

So I have gone five years, not so much fearing for myself sexually, as much as I started hating male humanity.  Not the lest life to lead in a hetero-relationship.  I haven’t figured out yet, some I am suppose to live in forgiveness of the situation.  To really let it go, and begin again.

I take it with me everyday… it’s a lot of hidden pain and twisted thinking.  Enough to constitute drugs and reckless drinking; which is what got me moving forward into helping myself and trying to help some one else… yet, I still haven’t learned to love.

I’ve got to take these lessons, there is something to be gained from the most painful of days.  A bit of enlightenment that never fades; a diamond of knowledge from the wise old sage.  A source of healing from the rock of ages. Another one of those challenging steps in the phases of womanhood. A woman, where a girl stood.

Should you ever be this woman’s lover; LOVE HER!  Cherish her.  Covet the love you have for her.  Sing Songs of Solomon to her.  She is a beautiful disaster and at times a walking contradiction.  She suffers the lost virgin affliction.  She NEEDS love to be her addiction.

She will fight it.  She will fight you.  I know all of this, I do it too.  She will cry, she will weep, she will stay up all night and make you lose sleep.  She will mourn, she will come to terms, only to wake in the morning and burn again with anger.  Some times she will seem like a stranger.  The faces of hurt sometimes can not hide within her.

She will want you to hate her, because she hates herself for a situation she couldn’t help. To her control is something she prides in herself, it’s at the top of some list next to personal health.

Just love her. Learn her.  Remind her of her worth.  Let each new day, really mean “re-birth”. The pain is sharp as it internally hurts.  Love and time can heal all wounds.  It’s just a tough job convincing her she is worthy at all.  Not a small task for the weak of heart, the faintly in love.  You WILL want to give up! Yeah, and some times it really sucks… but once she “gets it”, it will be eternal love.

So please, curb your tendency to criticize, look deeply into her eyes and ask her to vocalize her worries, her deep set fears. Tell her, tears are okay.

And if you are on the other end, quit defending your pride!  Don’t lie and say “nothing is wrong.”  Admit that you are insecure, full of fear, anger and resentment. Let him know about those losses and so much more.  Tell him this unlocks the door to the dark stuff that keeps you awake.  These are the feelings that make you fake your security.  It’s okay to express the pain of how you use to be, and how you can seem to change or get it back.

Hold her hand as you listen.  Never think her deranged.  Listening like this could forever change the course of everything later on.

Girl, learn that when they listen, you know they are for your best intentions.  Each time it’s a new lesson of patience.  It makes no sense to try him over and over; Rover only returns if you treat him well.  He can assist you with finding Heaven, if you face it that you are not in Hell.

Sadness for the past drowns the strongest swimmer in the Sea of Despair.  You only fair so well for so long before your air escapes you and you sink so far below, he can’t see you, see him anymore. Just a word from one who knows.  She is the repeat offender; all of her destructive decisions fall in the blender of memories.

The times I have made myself scream at self loathing and the desire for Love to leave, for the leave of love I couldn’t understand and still some how still don’t.  I believe in Love above all, and perhaps just not for me.  Another struggle of trying to believe; I’ll convince you, if you can convince me.

I am waiting for seasons to pass before I drop these leaves of self doubt and hate.  All those lovers before, bailed  after they realize the bait was tainted by sorrow.  I never plan on being sad tomorrow, sometimes it just ends up that way.

If you are sad and you want love, you will find excuses to pursue love and then call it all useless.  It draws you back in, time and again.  I suppose the fact you can still fall at all, is a positive sign but learning how to stay is like finding a pearl of Truth.  Eternal Love is Eternal Youth; the ultimate soother of all those fears and bothered looks. (Trust me I read about it in one of those Self Help books.)

I feel I can help you along a road of self love and self help; but I feel like I can’t help myself.  My advice leaves me dry of knowledge for my best intentions. I tend to learn life’s lessons the hard way.  I start up the same old mountain, from the same place, and fall at a moment late in the game from failed interactions and emotional distractions.  Leading at times to erratic over reactions and faulty verbal transactions.

Maybe someday I’ll try the other side of the hill; it could be the cure for spilling down that rocky road, and getting that bulky load to the top.  Showing that rock, whose boss.

Look at the Lover, and wonder where they got their graceful strength and patience.  The power of two is more than one.  Set this to the reminder at the rise and set of the sun.  Love, above all, Love Thyself.  The wealth of Love is with you.  Covet Love.  Love the lesson of a lifetime, the delicious fruit on Time’s vine.

Art, Writing

The Kiss of a Stranger (2006)

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She looks at her reflection, it just won’t teach the lessons she’s looking to learn.  All these consequences for risky actions; scandalous transactions have this girl attached to unreliable sources.

Forces of nature, put her there.   Aware, the whole time, of her shortcomings and the risks. She slips across these thoughts like skipping rocks across water, bouncing a few times before they disappear.

Walk along these empty streets with me, just breathing the fresh air and carefully walking in darkening grace. This place, right now, is silent solitude; a lovely little interlude from this crazy life.

A momentary escape, late at night, a people packed room.  A slow progression forward, not bored at all by our conversation. Walking to your home in synchronicity, in these moments of clarity, I want your kiss desperately so.

Did you find me witty and adept?  Appealingly unkempt and at times a bit bereft of rational thoughts?  Are my motions too fast, did I interact too boldly?  Knowing I only want luscious lips on mine.  I want to redefine my single-hood.

I am a walking effigy of innocent integrity; he begins to boldly kiss me; softly, sweetly and passionately.  It’s been  over a year since I breathed the breath of another.  The wonder of such newness!  The friction of a first kiss; a moment I have missed so desperately!

It is my weakness; this physical plea test, the best part of the beginning.  The feeling of winning the touch of a beautiful stranger.  Later he hours go until no more darkness rests on this hemisphere; the queer night of indulgent lips lock in lust and curiosity.

He even still smiles at me; not as bad as it could be.  Thank God, he didn’t want to sleep with me; but I want to see him again so badly!  I have got to breathe, because this has only just begun with a question and a look.  A smile.  A chat.

Chatting over a cigarette for a while, walking back east in style; a wily hippie at my right.  A perfect night cap.  How is it I find him so appealing?  His physicality reels me forward into kinesthetic wonder.  And I question if he rocks like thunder under the sheets.

What am I thinking?  I am again forgetting to breathe.  The lack of oxygen is clogging my senses.  Again I feel reckless and senseless confusion.  I give these illusions abandon. I am not yet stranded.  I should be celebrating my independence.

Art, insight, Writing

Hoʻoponopono

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Hoʻoponopono (ho-o-pono-pono) is an ancient Hawaiian practice of reconciliation and forgiveness. Similar forgiveness practices were performed on islands throughout the South Pacific, including Samoa, Tahiti and New Zealand. Traditionally hoʻoponopono is practiced by healing priests or kahuna lapaʻau among family members of a person who is physically ill. Modern versions are performed within the family by a family elder, or by the individual alone.

Thanks Wikipedia! 

 

Dear –

I am sorry,

I forgive you,

I love you,

I thank you.

These are the four small but massive tenements of change.

I realize, “I love you”, just isn’t something I think or feel, until I do.  It is such a rare thing.  But when I finally feel it; it feels intentional,  yet somehow, also distant.

I will say “I love you” to those I adore, but our geographical distance keeps us removed.  I pass the sentiment through telephone lines and satellite feeds.

Meanwhile, my grandma, a few rooms away; and who I truly and deeply love, sits alone.  Why is it, I say “I love you”, to her, begrudgingly; almost with bitterness?

What have they done to deserve this?  If it is only my discontent, and we are all the same person, only separated by meat sleeves like sausages; am I spoiling those around me?

I am reminded by old adages; “Treat yourself as you would have others treat you.”

The Chorus Of My Answers-

I am mean to myself.

Some lost Golden Truth, imposed and impressed-

” Treat others as you would have them treat you.”

The reality of my actions-

“Treat me like disturbing trash in the wind.  Be swift with your disgust and disregard immediately.”

*****

So, I lay in bed.

I recite, “I am sorry.”

My next thought is “What am I sorry for?”  Deep down I know the list is endless.

“I forgive you…”

But why?  I can’t even forgive myself.

“I love you.”

For what?  I hate love.  I hate the word “love.”

“Thank you.”

What did I do?  No need to thank me.  How can we live in thankfulness with feelings like this?

I start adding things. Improvising.

” I am sorry I have been so harsh with you.  I mean it.”

“I forgive you for allowing Truth.”

“I love you for your resilience.”

“I thank you for sticking around.”

“We might be crazy.”

“I am sorry I’ve tried to kill you.”

“I forgive you for pushing me.”

“I love you for your perseverance .”

“I thank you for accepting my apologies.

*****

Things start flowing from my heart and my eyes.  I am knee deep in a love/hate moment.

“I am sorry I haven’t believed in you! ( I really, really am!)”

“I forgive you for not believing in me. ( I don’t blame you, I haven’t believed in me, either.)

“I love you because you are lovable. (Even when you don’t feel love or lovable.)”

“I thank you for being, me.  (We are One, and that is why it hurts.)”

By this time I feel the familiar choke in my throat; a solitary tear creeps between the slits in my closed eyes.  Again I feel that Love/Hate resurface… what have I gotten myself into?

“I am sorry I dehydrate you, every day.”  (What a dick I am.  I know better.)

“I forgive you for enabling me.”  (Why am I my biggest enabler?)

“I love you for the limits you set.”  ( How can you even say that?  My limits seem nonexistent to myself, these days.)

“I thank you for understanding.”  ( I think you might be mistaken… for now I am more confused.)

*****

I go further.  I focus on my grandmother.

“I am sorry you are getting old.” ( I wish I had more patience and kindness.)

“I forgive you for your failing body.”  ( If only we could turn back time.)

“I love you so, so much!”  ( Why am I crap, at showing it?)

“I thank you for your continued support.”  ( I suppose that is the least I could do, right?)

“I am sorry I am a bitch to you.”

“I forgive you for not stopping me.”

“I love you because you exist as 100% love, in my mind and heart.”

“I thank you, for being just the way you are.”

The grey matter in my brain feels extra mushy.

“I am sorry I can’t figure out how to make life easier for the both of us.”

“I forgive you and your past.”

“I love you because, I do and always have.”

“I thank you, for your silent strength.”

*****

Most days, it’s just me, and her.  And the only people I have to feed, is us.  Admittedly, most days I wait until I am absolutely hangry before I choose to eat.  By that point, she has already been snacking, and squashes our plans to have a shared dinner.

I have made plans for food for “us”, not “me.”  Tonight I do not want to eat alone, but her disinterest is telling.

At this point, I am so hangry, that I put on some boxing gloves and punched a tree for three solid minutes.  I do fifty jumping jacks.  I wonder if I am killing the tree, by not hugging it enough.

I avoid eating “our” food, and have another drink.

My Lover calls me back.  He tells me “Everything is great!  I just had dinner with an old friend of mine that I haven’t seen in a long time.”

I tell him, “That’s all I was calling about earlier…. I gotta go.”

The call disconnects, and I am pretty sure this time it wasn’t my fault, but who knows.  The hung dial tone is loud and it’s amplifying my rage.  In all this dissonance I decide to take a drive behind King Soopers.

I am looking for a “For Sale” motor home I heard about over a week ago.  There are several motor homes and fifth wheels in the trailer park area.  Nothing is labeled “For Sale.”  I am miffed; this adds to my daily defeat.  I just want reinvention and newness; with out babies.

I think I am wasting all my good karma on free drinks.

A week ago I wondered what if I treated alcohol and tobacco, the way I treat psychedelics; I never buy them, they are only received once in a blue moon by gifting, and they must be blessed before consuming.

Today that idea seems a void.  The small destructive pleasure of escapism are at times, the little lights of living.  The little social resurrections, despite how volatile.  Obviously, I don’t ask for much.  Maybe, I don’t ask for enough.  I can’t bare to ask for more, but why?

This Universe is supposedly infinite; most of us really don’t need much.  Many ask for more than they need, and receive more than they asked for.

I don’t mean to sound humble… my ego isn’t very humble; however my needs are few, and therefore I would say my needs, are humble.

“You get what you ask for.”

“You get just what you need.”

“You get what is coming to you.”

“You don’t know how to appreciate it now.”

Maybe not, but I think I do.  Every moment is “Now.”  Science says time does not exist.  Spirituality says we are all infinite.  Astrology says I will find abundance in my 50’s.  Fuck, that is another 20 years.

“To some, 20 years IS a lifetime.”

I tell my inner guru to shut the fuck up.  It is annoying the present place, now, me.  Fuck.

*****

I make my way four miles home from the pub.  I grab a sammie on the way.  I Hoʻoponopono along the way, trying to reconcile some people in my life that I feel have the same emotional lack that I feel in the present moment.  I believe the motion of walking will solidify my meditation.

“I am sorry I’ve allowed you to lie.”

“I forgive you of your past lies.”

“I love you for your brazen attitude.”

“I thank you for teaching  me.”

Despite my outward expressions, I am just talking to myself, out loud.

I continue.

“I am sorry you haven’t been honest.”

“I forgive you for your misuse of imagination.”

“I love you for your creative spirit.”

“I thank you for your unabashed-ness.”

*****

Home is quiet.  The loves in my life are both asleep.  I am happy to sleep alone while battling the reality of falling asleep alone.

Those two don’t realize how different but the same they are.  My loves.

One sleeps in the basement and the other sleeps above, only separated by twenty feet, and fifty years.  I lay in the middle of decades; always more distantly close to one, more than the other.

Distance.  Miles.  Emotions.  Years.

*****

I decided after a long while, to google what I can only say, was once “The Love Of My Life.”

His refusal to engage with social media led me to finding his baby momma, now wifey.

“What am I doing with this lurking?”

I find her comfortably taking up space on Facebook.  Right there, now, in my face sits this happy little family.

There he is, still handsome.  His daughter looks a lot like him.  I cringe.  I cry a little.

Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t think that this should have been us… our life would have been different, most likely childless.

I have only had a handful of relationships, and this is just another one that tells me, (from the outside looking in,) that I am all wrong.

I have tested every man I have ever loved; ultimately pushing them far, far away.  Not long after we are over, they move on and start families with women far more congenial; far more loving, far more responsible.  I can’t help but wonder how damaged I must be, or how clueless my self dependence is.

I am, in fact, so sick of being and feeling alone.  Out of love.  I am sick of feeling like I have to keep my emotions at an arms length away from potential love.  I am sick of not finding attraction that stirs my understanding and compassion.  I just want to feel the stirrings of mutual love.  Loving mutually.  I want to wipe those past relationships from my broken heart.

Those who did choose to love me, loved very hard.  In turn, I had a very hard time accepting it, until it was gone and over.

Hindsight is 20/20, right?  It is.  I know.

*****

Dear Lover,

I am sorry we didn’t know how to love each other.  I forgive the pain we cause each other.  I love you, always.  Thank you, for taking time to love me.

I am sorry for breaking  your heart.  I forgive you, for breaking mine.  I love you, and I can’t stop.  Thank you for teaching me.

I am sorry things didn’t work out.  I forgive you for hitting me.  I love you for the sweetness’ we did share.  Thank you for setting me free.

*****

There is just so much to say, and not enough words.  Again, I am left with question and yearning.  I would have given him everything, if he would have just, let me in.

I love a lot of people, but being ‘in love’ is rare.  Mostly for me, it seems attraction is not a defining component of love, how ever it is a huge factor of ‘being in love.” I don’t just mean physical attraction; I mean multi-level attraction.  Body, mind and soul searching type shit.

A burning of compassionate passion, that brings two bodies into a union.  I have found the sparks of those fires quickly die off.  Admittedly I hold grudges that affect my mind, actions and libido.  My libido is already, very weak.

I don’t want to be touched (physically) by ‘just anyone.’ I need everything to feel ‘right.’  This rarely happens.  Instead, I find myself upon some high dusty shelf in some sort of “self preservation.”  I wonder, if I am wasting time?

Art, Writing

May 24, 2014 : Lesbian Stereotypes I learned by Binge Watching “The L Word”

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  • There are NO overweight lesbians in L.A.
  • It is inevitable that you will eventually be best friends or lovers with the lesbian that aggravates you the most.
  • Lesbians, have little qualm with  sleeping with more than one woman a week.
  • Lesbians “in heat”, are loud mouth breathers.
  • Lesbians in L.A. wear tight pants, that are often times hard to remove.
  • Even “butch” lesbians in L.A., are fucking HOT and still pretty fem.
  • L.A. lesbians rarely, if ever, discuss their periods or reproductive health.
  • Lesbians eat A LOT of pussy, but they never discuss how it tastes.
  • Lesbians apparently don’t have very many heterosexual friends; especially heterosexual male friends.

 

Art, insight, Writing

Attempting to Submit to Love in 2003

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I knew my adult story started with him.  My superficial bones tested the strength of will, I thought I had.

We tell ourselves things in judgement of others.  An internal pact, ” I will never be that woman.”  Then some how the ironic face of circumstance sets forth a learning curve you once thought yourself to be invincible against.

I walk through life, listening to my own voice-over; laughing and wondering how a story could begin like this; but it did.

Imagine a girl entering into a new period of her freedom.  Twenty-three and vigorously trying to be more athletic and perhaps more hip than she has been before.

It’s a ski town and she is trying the “snow bum” lifestyle for a while.  This place is edgy in its very removed and integrated way of twenty-somethings and older folks alike.  They were all there for the snow; small town drama and copious amounts of intoxicants at any moment came as a sidecar.

Their attitude was “the moment is meant to be lived”; this philosophy in this neck of the woods led to other sentiments, such as “It’s better to live below poverty ABOVE 9000 ft.”

I love the mountains and nature.  Every once and a while I like to party.  Mostly thought I love nature and beer, with a sidecar of interesting stories.  So, I found a job at a local pub with the help of a couple of local friendly friends.  Forward I worked into the integration process.

This was May 2003.  By October I had a few friends I could stand on a regular basis; plenty of places to hang out if things got dull, and a condo with a filthy roommate who was rarely there.

I was getting more fit, and spending much of my free time painting and forcing myself to workout.  Twenty pounds of extra winter clothing and a two to four mile walk, would make me happy, as I was literally “walking my ass off.”

I wasn’t smoking cigarettes. I had a healthy pot habit and mostly drank Guinness or Carlsburg Dunkle.  I walked to and fro, from my three jobs.  Mostly I avoided drama.

I remember it was a warm day in August, or September; the first day he saw me.  I recall him telling me his friend owned the condo behind mine.  He was helping with “home improvements.”

He’d seen me running.  That same day I had finished one of my favorite paintings out under sun.

In this small town, his friend living directly behind me,  his avoidance of drama; we were bound to eventually meet. Our paths had to cross.  It would take a couple of months.

I had some flings before then.  Maybe more than I would like to mention, given the circumstances of small towns, and my distaste for sloppy seconds; none of it was of real potential, just young snow boarder guys.  Most older than me, but not at all very serious.

I am feeling my superficial bones ache.  It takes more than beauty and brawn to win me over.  Still, admittedly, I like good looks and a great mind.  Great minds are sometimes a bit vulnerable to superficial beauty.  The brain could go on thinking in such contradictory and malicious circles, until one finds themselves void of the ability to communicate clearly; perhaps going so far as to not be able to communicate at all.

I’d like to say that when we met, I was starting to feel as though I was grasping clarity; though now I know, I hadn’t even really started the search.

He touched me and this muddled mind and vulnerable heart, immediately forgot about listening to common held fear, and jumped happily forward into a hard lesson.

Something I have always known and been impressed with, is the most effective way to fully know a lesson, is to fully immerse in order to truly learn.

Art, insight, Writing

February 12, 1999

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I was able to apprehend a job at a local radio station when I was in High School.  I have to admit that I felt it was one of the coolest jobs a kid could have.  It didn’t pay much, and believe it or not, it required more responsibilities and checks than most HS kids have in jobs.  I stayed in radio for roughly 4 years on and off.  I still think it is one of the coolest, underpaid jobs in the world.  Here is a taste of a normal day observation back at KRAE/ KRRR; run by the iconic Tom Bauman.  

Tom reminded me of the cigarette smoking man on the X-files.  He was a strict mystery clouded by smoke.  His daughter Brenda, one of the main DJ’s,  was my favorite person at the station.  She loved my thrift store clothes, that reminded her of her youth.  Occasionally she would inform her listening audience on my daily attire.

For a few years, the KRAE family, was my second family.  I miss those old days, on the radio.   I loved that Tom wanted me on his crew.  I watched as the initial take overs of small stations were usurped by larger broadcasting conglomerates, infiltrating one of the oldest local stations in the region.

My how times have changed.  Please enjoy this short relic of the past.

P.S.  Yes, I worked at a place that still played records On-Air, and our commercials were recorded on to 8 track cassettes.  “Digital” was still in it’s infancy.

 

Silently I sit on a broken stool, in a puke green shag carpeted corner.  I hesitate while the stench of stale cigarettes pervades the room.

The addicted man behind the other door, lights a new one, once again.

I am burning out as he hungrily inhales his Cancer.

Music.  Good time oldies are playing and melting together as sweepers play in between every two songs.

Dan Rather will soon give his daily report.

The phone rings at just the wrong moment, yet the lady at the control board opens a sandwich bag full of fresh slices of orange.  She drips juice down her chin, and my stomach growls.

There is a consistent whir of reel to reel carts playing KRAE commercials.

The lady eating oranges says it is my turn to play.

Art, insight, Writing

Titus

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In the autumn of my domesticity, he waddled his tubby body into my yard.  Closely followed behind, came his parents.  I was able to easily see the origins of his over weight form.

Titus, despite his size was only four years old.  His clothes were meant for a husky seven year old.  Clearly a product of a fast food generation.

He came sweetly to me.  A precious and sensitive child oaf.  Chubby and gregarious, fascinated by dinosaurs and dump trucks.

Blonde tubby towhead, bright blue eyes and smile that could power a lighthouse.  Titus could be king at charming adults when his mood was right.  At other times, however, Titus was very irritable.  These brash swings in temperament could be linked to a constant consumption of sugar and processed foods.

Solid attitudes toward health were far from priority for this family of three, living in a 500 square foot converted garage.   Despite their eating habits, the house was well maintained and clean, cluttered only with Titus’ growing collection of happy meal toys  and matchbox cars.

Reflections of the emotional stress of Titus’ parents is evident in his overall physicality.  Pounds of fat to protect this child from his mothers need to constantly be drinking. A sensitive attitude perpetuated by his fathers fear of homosexuality, and a need to hide behind layers of smoke.  Daily toking to detached from this unplanned life.

The only escape for Daddy is going out with friends; Mommy’s is the taste of wine on her lips, all day long.  Titus retreats into a world of Walt Disney fantasy, and dinosaur discovery.

Though this child is oafish, he is far from dim witted; remembering the names and correct pronunciations of prehistoric animals is Titus’ specialty.  At times correcting his tipsy mother as they share time playing before he goes down for his morning nap.

Titus’ mother, Sarah, is a college graduate with a degree in Literature. She is a wonderful conversationalist and a very friendly neighbor.  She would occasionally stop by and leave me and my partner at the time, little gifts and treats.   Cookies, herbs from her garden and cards of appreciation.  We would commiserate over our failing relationships.

Sarah wasn’t shy about her alcoholism.  She was well aware of it, all this despite her college education; which temporarily led to a phase of speed use that landed her in jail.  Later she became a Warden in the same institution she was once confined in.  This woman, this mother, drives while drinking as Titus sits in his car seat.

One day, while Sarah grabs the phone, as she unloads her car; she asks if I will get Titus out of his seat.  He sees me move his mothers 64oz Super Gulp out of the way.

“Don’t drink my mommy’s juice!  It’s her juice!”  Titus declares.

I lift the lid, and take a whiff.  Mommy’s “juice” is Pink Zinfandel, most likely from the economy sized box of wine in her fridge.  I shudder at disbelief and spoke not a word about it to anyone except my tyrant boyfriend.

This added fuel to his fire, one that thrives off the faults and failures of others.  To him, these were poor, fat, unhappy boarder line white trash neighbors.  Still, neither of them knew, how harsh his criticisms were behind closed doors.

Titus’ father is as domesticated an Oregonian redneck can get.  Rather than hang out with his “old lady” and kid, Sy would usually be out fishing; golfing, drinking at the bar, or clam baking in his tool shed.  This is the life of discontent fathers  in the land of suburbia.

The whole neighborhood had a veil over it, so it seemed to me.  No one was happy with their lives, but they would attempt to keep their yards looking nice.  If you ever got the opportunity to be invited in, the discontent was palpable.  Sadly, I had no room to judge because everything was falling apart on my own end.

 

Art, Writing

Pain is a Place

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She is soulful and silently chiding this estrangement.  Echoes ring inside her mind with aching pains she refuses to hide.

Losing Self, to Inner Peace.

Crawling from light into a place where warmth is first.  Catching a glimpse of shadows that please the mind.

We were simple once.

Conversations build elation, a mirage painted like a mural upon a crumbling wall.

What is this for?

Commotion, corruption; what is the difference?  Nothing more than a few letters.

Meanings lost upon the wind, patterns blown into the breeze.  Wild hearts seek a master, someone to tame their wiles, their reckless ways.

A child seeks the mother he never had.

We wrestle alone and pile upon word after word, leaving nothing but marks and bruises, barriers and walls.  Everything is lost in translation.   Everything.

“Who are these friends of yours?”  She says this with trepidation; she knows the place they hold.  They are the life within you; the death within her.

She is counting hour upon hour.  The slightest itch, creates a sore.  Bleeding never did cure the ill.  Bleeding never won a heart.

Loyalties and Royalties, another space filling another void that did not ask to be filled.

He never asks to listen anymore.

She thinks you’re afraid to hear the words between the lines.  You want to leave, to roam, and be free.  But these strings have been tied, waiting behind  each, a pair of scissors ready to take care of problems.

Flying from one wrong end to another, basing the same old ideas off the same old feeling.  Always using the same distinctions to discuss old conversations.  Tears can be recycled like yesterdays newspaper.

“No one will understand you, and those who say they do, are only acting.”

You are breathing verbiage that stinks.

“This word is defined the way I choose!”  says The Law.

Who gave anyone the right to change, to alter definitions?

“Hidden between the lines.” She says, “Creeping between the lines.”

WAKE UP!

Eat, sleep, dream, and fry your brains on anything.  Feel the circulation creep into the dark spaces, the dank places, the cold recess’ inside.

You have them.

“They hurt.” She says.

“They kill.” She says.

She isn’t me,today, yet anyone acquainted with pain will know this Place.

 

Art, Writing

My dog is NOT an Alcoholic

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I just peer pressured my dog into drinking some PBR.

Everyone else’s dog in the mountains does it.  Why won’t mine?

At first it occurred to me that maybe it was a snobbery thing.  For, she likes coffee.  But only REALLY good coffee.  She also seems to prefer independent roasters and free trade blends made under a fresh drip.

So I thought, sure, like me, if beer she was to drink; firstly IT WOULD NOT be PBR.  No, her palate would prefer a Guinness or a heady local Amber.

Instead, presented to her bowl, were the contents of a Silver, Red, White and Blue can.

Small tastes were consumed from my fingers as I sat urging her to give in to the fizzy beverage.  I tap tap tapped my fingers in the brew, and rubbed some in her mouth, forcing my fingers past her teeth.

She has a look of vague discontent interest.

I start bribing her, “Come on, just try it!  We will go for a WALK, if you just drink some of this.”

Her eyebrows waiver, questioning my context of the word “walk” as I eagerly and almost maniacally point to the beer bowl.  She leans in, interested, perhaps thinking the substance has magically changed.  But, no.  Just the same old PBR.

I repeat more frantically, and encouragingly.  I emphasize the word “IF” she drinks it.

She snorts at the bowl, and walks away.

I change strategy, I tell her she only needs to take one lap, which would be nothing anyway because she has a hard time keeping water in her mouth.  I am assuming she knows what “one lap” means.. One more time, nicer, more sincere.

I realize, I am acting evil, and my dog is like Jesus with some magical willpower to deny my evil machinations.