Confession...!

It's life's 'Trojan horse'  that is living among yesterday's fallen saints: we are a population of fallen saints, waiting around to be saved. You thought it was a gift, some fxxxing gift. That's right, all along there were hidden layers tethering its acceptance; this gift of a  'horse with no name.' As for myself, the horse keeps giving it to me right up my Hershey highway. Truth! I was on my way to my next failure in life when I had an unfortunate run-in with the "horse with no name;" they're all so full of their own 'shit,' waste unfurling from the folds of their time. yes! Their droppings are a nuisance to one's mental health.  This is why I never fit in with the in-crowd; you know! It's that our differences are so different. Yes! just because some of them had a moment of despair where you were required to be the fodder of their consumption. You know! They are yesterday's saints because you have moved on leaving them without an audience. Sort of like the landless reactionaries watching their Syrian environs dissipate under the strain of ideologies born out of demented hopes that Saladin will emerge from the ashes of time, or maybe Suleiman's (1200) taking back the advancement put out by the Crusaders trying to save the Pope's idea of spirituality.  The thing is this: the Middle East was all of Suleiman's domain to rule as he wished until, its morphing through many generations came into the power of leadership; these leaderships were all Sunni in nature. the last leadership in the middle east was Ottomans(1924) It was governed as a Sunni would govern on behalf of the tribe. The Ottomans were their own tribe; they ruled 'the middle east' for hundreds of years and lost their power because they backed the Germans in WWI, and lost their bet.  You Know! " when you are on a horse with no name...." it's still Trojan by its nature.       

"...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.   


     

Black mold....!

The time has come to turn off "Trump." So I'm looking at myself as if I were me; therefore, I say I'm dead. I found myself swinging on the porch's swing. There I am sitting on the swing reading a mystery off of the New York Times' best seller list. It's my niece's house; her porch & swing. I have a place on the Ashley river not far from here. It's less than 50 feet from the water when the tide is up, high tide. They found 'black mold' & I will leave it at that, no more said. OK! Now! Because of the black mold, I have to leave my home. I can no longer live there. I have to live somewhere.  This is just getting underway. I'll be moving out and about. Every few days my wife will move me around, this relative or that friend. They all have wonderful accommodations. Believe me when I say this: I have the greatest fear of waking up in the middle of the night, not remembering where the bathroom is because I'm not sure where I'm sleeping this night; there will be so many different twist and turns to getting there. I don't want to mess the bed up, you know! See the problem with me is that my memory has limited capacity.  Like, you go from point A to point B and upon arrival you forgot what it was that you came into the house for, B. In this situation A is outside on the porch's swing. I do this all the time. For example, something pops into my mind's eye; I go to execute, yet there I backfire as they say. Yes! Just like now, I'm sitting at the table writing in my diary, wondering who out there will ever get its message. Trump is there, it's his position to stay. So get over it. Shape up your self esteem; this political stage upon which Trump will "trickle, twirl, and swirl." Not understanding that they use the Machiavellian approach when interacting with him. Trump is the novice in some off Broadway play, filling in for the Star - trying to unravel his creativity like a producer of a reality show. But! I need to pee so that I do nothing to shame on my wife. I'll have to find a tree, maybe.

Donald Duck....trumping his horn

We all change or "morph" as we experience life's interactions with our peers, or the generalized other, as when one interacts out and about town with others, those cherished personalities. It's especially true for me today because as I was going through my closet's offerings. I came upon a pair of whitish/yellow faded linen pants that I had worn when attending a special wedding between two dear friends. Yes! It was in France in a village in the Dordogne. I wore green socks and sandals, making a 'statement. Don't ask me what it was because it was a long time ago and I can't remember how I feel about last week; never mind, what I trickled, twirled or swirled through those many wonderful days hopping around Europe after attending their occasion: two fantastic people with wonderful open hearts; down to earth,  understanding that it's the moment's outlook while reveling in this special convergence through marriage between loving friends. That is what counts. Now! I'm an Irish 'teetotaler' when I'm back home, you know. But here on the European continent, one is obliged to 'tip the elbow' as they say to  play with the 'local' offerings. For example, Barcelona, Spain has 'Gaudi' and I did taste its, Barcelona's offerings. I was in Lisbon last month, tipping an elbow or two while enjoying the back streets around the city's market places. There were many tasty morsels, one after another as you hopscotch across its horn of plenty. Well, let me tell you about those pants: they fit and they are loose! So it was a monumental moment, knowing there are many more morsels I an eat and many more monuments to see before becoming obscene. I'm only just beginning my 75th year of life in my journey toward normalcy. Please! I'm not the 'naked prince or emperor' you know, for right next to the linen jacket I found one of my old Hawaiian shirts, yellow, tan, green and grey pattern representing the Island. So that, the outfit works like a trio of jacket, pants, shirt. Let me tell you this: it doesn't need the 'gold or silver' thing to work! It fits you know!