"...exploding 'C'abbage head...!

I'm as I was at my birth; naked, as if I had just dropped off of the cabbage patch truck when the farmer made his sharp right hand turn onto the road for his morning deliveries. Now! What does a head of cabbage do to survive in such foreign lands. Because every day the farmer makes another hard right hand turn onto the road for his deliveries, another head of some sort drops off his truck landing into these foreign lands. We are all naked felons in these foreign lands; we have become the farmer's droppings. They call us felons. Who will help socialize us so that we too can become one with society again? Now! Until someone steps forward with a plan to socialize the ever growing population of felons existing in these foreign lands, I'll be as naked as I have been since my birth. And! If you look up into the picture's center you will find me exploding into pieces because I have become unglued due to the stresses of being naked in these foreign lands. It's kind of like the tale of "Humpty Dumpty": there are just so many pieces to put back together that one is forever fragmented through out time. It's my memory being molded by fragments yet found; therefore, all of life is situational depending upon your resources, or lack thereof.  So now the secret is out: sperm is all protein.   

...pink eye...!

I went out dancing the other night, came home with "pink-eye." Went to the doctor, got tested; I'm on some antibiotic for two weeks. Yes! I'm contagious if I'm not careful. Anyway! The dancing was great. I had the floor to myself for about an hour. I was with my niece celebrating her ascension to the next year; she too knows how to occupy her space on the dance floor. I even did a few squat type moves touching the 'toes'. You know! Now I have a theory about those dance moves because I was washing them down with gin; a very good gin poured over crushed ice with a twist of lemon skin. Just the skin, no pulp from the lemon. The club's interior is grounded in the Black jazz age of yesterday, solid & comfortable around the dance floor. The floor's apron contained tables with two chairs apiece, and there were the booths with table and mirror wall to free up the room, exposing its patrons' reflection off of those glass mirrored walls; accenting each and every patron's presence at play, dancing & prancing back and forth between the bar and their seats. It was nothing like Tiny Tim 'skipping through the tulips' on the Johnny Carson TV show.         

a Picture's portrait...

New pictures of my mind's eye: me melding with the lens of my camera. I went into the art galleries around my location while I was in Chelsea, not every gallery in the city, New York. I took 457 shoots, digital. I take the original piece off art as my backdrop, eviscerating its simplicity. For example, looking through  a four pained window, holding the piece of art behind the window pane divides the art into quarters, than using the inner four corners of the window pane you will find the artist's 'play.' There are five places for them to hide. Each with its specific range and domain. It's my mapping system to see if I can find one of them in the art work. It's like finding the X on the old treasure map. pirate's treasure. It's the confluence between 'me & lens' which frees the voyeur in me. Because it  "gives me what I want when I want it." Attitude is where it is; it's the game. If you want me to stick around, you must feed me. You must be very gentle with me. I'm your moment to moment; you see because I'm it, as in "give it to me when I want it" -" give me what I want when I want it." I'm 75 years old & I'm sorry to say that I never had anyone to talk to about it. This is all my making; I played all of the roles on all of the stages within my moment. Yes! I was the 'fool' among others: they knew that I was a 'fool.' They let me live the part of a fool...be careful with me. Anyway! Life is beautiful in its own way.

Chelsey's affect....

So! this is my story: I'll tell it my way. As I have been told: I'm on the bottom of life's pile of shit; my batteries are 'pooped' out as they say. Now! You may ask -why I would go out of my way to do such a thing-. like it's 'now or never'. It's given me what I want when I want it; give it to me 'now' please. What I can say to justify my behavior is that it was 'fun'! Yes indeed, Jazz was in the mix; one of those nights I had the pleasure to be in the audience at the "Village Vanguard'' listening to its jazz orchestra. Yes! a table overlooking the orchestra. The key to Monday night jazz is its jam session; for these are the masters you see when you go out to anyone of the other clubs during the week. These 'guys' come from the best clubs in the "Big Apple." Now, it is also true that I had one of the best seats at the bar when engaging the "Blue Note's" exciting quiver. Bobby was behind the bar attenuating to my enjoyment.  The hamburger which I was so enjoying, was out of this world. The jazz was Chick Corea & Steve Gadd, confluence mystifying their audience with shared joy. If I go back into my memory banks, which are very weak -due to aging. I come up with a flashback to the "Blue Note" in Paris, France. It was back in the days of Errol Garner, a man & his piano. Back in the mid-60's the 'Blue Note" was the back door into the Lido Cabaret on the Champs Elysees. I lived in Paris for three years, plus or minus serving my country's needs.Anyway! one night I was out & about, tooling around like only some twenty two year old dude could do; I walked into a night of remembrance, Garner was on the piano doing his magic; his way. I was at one of the few occupied tables enjoying my libation. Now!  Back to the week at hand, there was the night of "Kinky Boots,"  kicking ass on Broadway. From the beginning to the end of this production, I was occupying my seat. You-know! Holding on to the belief that as a member of the audience, I could believe & let go of disbelief. Hokey, it is true;  suspension of disbelief. Also! We ran around from one art gallery to another creating some very special art. I ended up at another jazz joints called Dizzy's Club Coca Cola. Another seat at the bar, a small bar; it had maybe 6 or 7 seats, high back seats so that when you turn around in the seat to face the music, you are comfortable to once again suspend your disbelieve, freeing those notes hidden deep within your soul. Yes! I gave them all up this night to Paquito D'Rivera doing his south American thing.