for stardances

There at the lakeshore, the last light of day
slipped down in a lavender, purple cascade,
leaving the clouds streaked with pinks, blue and gray
as my love and I watched them wander away

Against the horizon, the line of the sea
rolled off in the mist into eternity
and the seabirds and pelicans etched 'gainst the sky
cast their dark gentle shadows on my love and I

At the edge of the world, with no more land in sight
we watched as the water fell into the night
and held hands, in love, as a seagull took flight,
its echoing cry filling us with delight

As the lap of the waves on the shore at our feet
stroked the soft, lulling rhythm of the earth's heartbeat;
then we smiled at each other, and rose from our seat
and returned to the world feeling fresh and complete.

To visit the ocean, or any great shore
Is to understand beauty, and nature, and more;
And each time is different than each one before,
a unique expression of life to explore.

There at the lakeshore, the last light of day
slipped down in a lavender, purple cascade,
leaving the clouds streaked with pinks, blue and gray
as my love and I watched them wander away.

30 NOV 2002

According to the Department of Defense, and its newly formed arm the Information Awareness Office:

The most serious asymmetric threat facing the United States is terrorism, a threat characterized by collections of people loosely organized in shadowy networks that are difficult to identify and define. IAO plans to develop technology that will allow understanding of the intent of these networks, their plans, and potentially define opportunities for disrupting or eliminating the threats. To effectively and efficiently carry this out, we must promote sharing, collaborating and reasoning to convert nebulous data to knowledge and actionable options.

However, whatever exactly an "asymmetric threat" is, I am relatively sure that it is NOT terrorism. The number one threat to capitalism may be terrorism; the number one threat to democracy is ignorance.

That ignorance is what keeps us from attacking the real terrorists - those that use the constitution as toilet paper to cover their asses, those that use the threat of an "unseen" enemy to trivialize the right to privacy; that leverage their jingoistic propaganda machine against free-thinking, indepedent peoples to force them into supporting right-wing, totalitarian legislation; that insist that information is power while steadily depriving our educational system of any element of teaching that asks students to do their own research, find their own answers, seek their own truth, follow their own bliss.

The worst of it is that based on the voting patterns in this country, we do NOT give a damn. That only proves even more clearly that the enemy is ignorance, not terrorism.

George Bernard Shaw once quipped that "democracy is the only form of government under which revolution is against the law." Why? Because, theoretically, in a true democracy, where each person has a voice AND EXERCISES IT, you are ultimately revolting against yourself. The power structure that you put in place, that is you. Obviously, if in a democracy no more than 50% of the people who have the right to vote do so, then ultimately only those people who are concerned enough about their agenda will get out and vote. In America right now, it appears that those people are the Right Wing, Conservative Class. The left, the Democratic party, the concerned liberal front -- they don't need a qualified candidate or candidates in order to staunch the tide of Fascism. What they need is voters. Fuck the platform, whatever it may be. With the weak support shown the Democrats in this last election (in New Orleans, because it was RAINING, the voter turn-out was low ...), it doesn't matter WHAT their platform is, it will not succeed.

My personal belief is this:

Until the recent increase in home-schooling (and that is another whole topic altogether), we as a nation make an exception for mandatory public education only in cases of religious objection. I think we should make participation in the government mandatory on that same basis. If you don't vote, you don't get public assistance. You don't get social security. You don't get free legal defense. You don't get road repair. And so on. It is, after all, a democracy. It is a government OF the people, BY the people, FOR the people. If you're not interested in being part of the OF and BY, then you don't get the FOR. So it's a lot of hassle. So it takes up some time. So your vote doesn't count. Well, MAKE IT COUNT. Use it. Or lose it. The bottom line is that you're going to lose it one way or another at this rate. The suede-denim secret police are just around the corner. The conveniences you demand are about to become mandatory.

One more thing. People want better schools. Better roads. More cops. More whatever. And at the same time, they're always complaining about higher taxes. The Republicans want to create a huge Homeland Security Department, increase defense spending, improve our intelligence infrastructure. Well, those things cost money. And that money comes from ONE place - TAXES. You can't have it both ways. I can't believe that there is NO politician that is honest enough to flat out admit it. NO TAXES = NO SERVICES.

And another thing. You know what REALLY pisses me off? So-called "Christian" "family-value" candidates who run mud-slinging campaigns. THEY ARE TOTAL HYPOCRITES. Because their ads don't tell you the truth. They violate a serious commandment - thou shalt not bear false witness. So they are NOT Christians. Period. They are liars, and their campaigns prove that they HATE the American people. Hate them? Yes, because they are flat-out telling you, the voters, that they think you are STUPID enough to buy this crap. And you know what? For the most part, they are right.

Which again, proves my point. Terrorism is not the enemy. Ignorance is the enemy.

One last item. This description from the IAO blurb above "...collections of people loosely organized in shadowy networks that are difficult to identify and define..." sounds familiar. Who does it sound like? The American people. Particularly those that don't stand for something, and as a result, fall for anything.

I've started putting together a number of lists at Amazon related to reading.

Here's the first one: Recommended Reading List I

Comments are welcome :)

I don't know how the original pilgrims did it, but I am on a pilgrimage of my own. In our house, this is how one pagan gives thanks. This is a poem I wrote for First Harvest last year, and I like to think of it at every Harvest celebration.

As the seeds that sacrifice themselves
To change and so to grow
We give ourselves unto the Mother
Trusting we will sow

Our roots, the thoughts that keep us mindful
Stalks, the paths we roam
Leaves and fruits, the faith we nurture
Seeds, our coming home

Bless the harvest, and the reaping
At this time of year
Give to us your strength of purpose
Let our words ring clear

Bless us with your endless bounty
Of and from the earth
And as we are also seedlings
Teach us of its worth

Each seed and leaf and fruit and flower
Dies so we may live
So when it is our time for harvest
Let us likewise give

Our time, the measure of the seasons
Our minds, the gifts we share
Our hearts, the love we give each other
Souls, the journey there

Bless the harvest, and the reaping
Thanks we give to thee
Take from us this sense of longing
Let us simply be

Bless us with embracing union
With and for the earth
For we are the future's seeds
Awaiting its rebirth

Bless the fruits of this first harvest
Freely shared and grown
And may we, in growing onward,
Give back of our own.

01 AUG 2001

More from Henry Miller, Obscenity and the Law of Reflection:

The chances are that during this transition period of global wars, lasting perhaps a century or two, art will become less and less important. A world torn by indescribable upheavals, a world preoccupied with social and political transformations, will have less time and energy to spare for the creation and appreciation of works of art. The politician, the soldier, the industrialist, the technician, all those in short who cater to immediate needs, to creature comforts, to transitory and illusory passions and prejudices, will take precedence over the artist. The most poetic inventions will be those capable of serving the most destructive ends. Poetry itself will be expressed in terms of block-busters and lethal gases. The obscene will find expression in the most unthinkable techniques of self-destruction which the inventive genius of man will be forced to adopt. The revolt and disgust which the prophetic spirits in the realm of art have inspired, through their vision of a world in the making, will find justification in the years to come as these dreams are acted out.

And to think, his books were banned in this country for the longest time. I do not wonder why.

From Henry Miller, Obscenity and the Law of Reflection:

As civilization progresses it becomes more and more apparent that war is the greatest release which life offers to the ordinary man. Here he can let go to his heart's content for here crime no longer has any meaning. Guilt is abolished when the whole planet swims in blood. The lulls of peacetime seem only to permit him to sink deeper into the bogs of the sadistic-masochistic complex which has fastened itself into the heart of our civilized life like a cancer. Fear, guilt and murder - these constitute the real triumvirate which rules our lives. What is obscene then? The whole fabric of our life as we know it today. To speak only of what is indecent, foul, lewd, filthy, disgusting, etc., in connection with sex, is to deny ourselves the luxury of the great gamut of revulsion-repulsion which modern life puts at our service. Every department of life is vitiated and corroded with what is so unthinkingly labeled "obscene." One wonders if perhaps the insane could not invent a more fitting, more inclusive term for the polluting elements of life which we create and shun and never identify with our behavior. We think of the insane as inhabiting a world completely divorced from reality, but our own everyday behavior , whether in war or peace, bears all the ear-marks of insanity. "I have said," writes a well-known psychologist, "that this is a mad world; that man is most of the time mad; and I believe that in a way, what we call morality is merely a form of madness, which happens to be a working adaptation to existing circumstances."

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Jesse Helms.

The National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) recently revised its guidelines for supporting American artists with financial subsidies; as a result, there is no future grant money earmarked for visual artists of any kind, individual or institutional, while funding remains available for historical projects, musical and dramatic works, and the like.

This leads one to wonder - isn't ART an integral part of the National Endowment for the Arts?

While I believe that in fact is true, I also can appreciate several reasons why the NEA was forced to make this change.

First, the majority of the controversy in recent years concerning the NEA has arisen from its selected recipients in the visual arts. Mapplethorpe, the "Piss Christ", and so on have left a bad taste in the mouth of most "conservative, God-fearing" would-be patrons of the arts (they are, of course, the would-be patrons of the arts because the patrons of the arts have ALWAYS been the wealthy, conservative establishment - they are they only ones who can truly afford to be). The focus of a lot of "back to the basics", "family values" groups has been to gloat over and righteously point out the failings of the NEA to exercise good taste in its selection process for visual art. This doesn't happen quite so much with symphonies. They are not so blatantly political, nor are they as likely to be politicized. Visual art, after all, at least since Warhol, has been brought down to the level of public consumerism; not so with orchestral works, or even to a lesser extent, with plays - simply because they are still somewhat elitist enjoyments and divertisements.

Second, of all the arts, visual art is art of the individidual. No medium ever failed Socialism quite so completely as painting or sculpture has done - because Fine Art ultimately glorifies the individual. No GREAT work of art was ever created by committee, and clearly, not all individuals are capable of creating these works. While this is also true of plays, symphonies, etc., the different is that visual art is also intended to be experienced individually. Unlike a new ballet, where the audience is gathered together en masse, darkened in a room together, and given a collective sense-embalming, visual art must be considered one-on-one, painting-to-viewer. Further, unlike a play, which can be reproduced numerous times using different unknown cast each time (therefore, availing itself of the collective talent pool), or a book, which can be reprinted without losing any of its inherent individuality, a painting or sculpture loses its uniqueness and value if copied or multiplied. The basic problem, from a marketing standpoint, with the visual arts is that many of them cannot successfully be mass-produced. They MUST be individually acquired to be appreciated. An additional problem is that although art has historically been used by many political and religious machines to sell something, it ultimately is not the best tool for convincing multitudes of people to think alike. Unlike a song, poem or lines from a text, it cannot effectively be quoted in the third person. Therein lies its danger to the perpetuation of a dumbed-down, collectively brainwashed, equality of ideas but inequality of persons agenda (BTW, we used to have in this country an agenda that stated that all people are equal, but some ideas are better than others; we now seem to believe that all ideas have equal merit, but some people are just better than others).

Third, but probably a corollary to point one, the NEA cannot intelligently select "great" art to sponsor because we as a society are not particularly interested in either creating it, or defining what we think it is. Each year, the funding for Fine Arts in our public schools is less and less. We have become a culture that is focused on the technology of creation without embracing the reasons why that creation is necessary. The emphasis on a "return to the basics", of reading, writing and arithematic (ostensibly because we have 'fallen behind' and 'can not compete' with other nations who are also trying to follow the greed-is-good, capitalist world-view we taught them) has deprived our country of the one thing, the only thing, that can guarantee that our culture will, at minimum, survive, and at best, evolve - the Arts. This is less the case with music and writing - after all, while only 10% of Americans read books on a daily basis, there still is a great market for music - and the plethora of now "pop" classical musicians - Andre Rieu, Yo-Yo Ma, Pavarotti, Charlotte Church, etc. even helps those who are interested in NEA money. People still plunk down a lot of money to see "Cats" - so there is money in the theater, too. Granted, we're not really getting any "new" Shakepeares or Mozarts, but maybe we as a culture don't deserve them.

On the other hand, there is not much that can be done to salvage the arts of painting and sculpture from a plebian standpoint. Public funding for the arts has always been a double-edged sword to begin with - it's for those who aren't good enough to get a REAL sponsor, some might say. And unless you're dealing with Monets, Van Goghs, Rembrandts, you're not talking about a lot of money, anyway. The general public thinks the grand masters are over-priced - as a result, they certainly don't believe someone they've never heard of is worth $1000 a canvas. In the vernacular of those who think the cinema isn't worth it either, they'll "wait until it comes out on video." If your art makes it to prints, reprints, posters, etc., you'll see some return on your investment.

Fourth, and finally, artists exist and create to show humanity, culture and society the possibilities of becoming. It is a medium that is intended to foster the process of evolution, rather than stagnation. As a result, probably the "best" and "finest" art comes about in cultures that believe that their evolution is not finished yet. Michaelangelo's David doesn't show the human form as it is - it shows it as it could be. The culture that currently exists almost world-wide is not interested in evolution; for the most part, we as a species believe that we are the end of the food chain, that when mankind appeared, the world of the creation (whether biologically or theologically) was finished. We have not always thought this way, but our thinking has become more and more rigid in this respect over the past century or so. We have become convinced that such a thing as "prehistory" exists; and we are constantly trying to distance ourselves from the "history" that we claim is our very foundation. The distillation of our "inner core", so essential to the vision of the artist, is becoming quite an ugly and deprived thing. And although it may be true that the vanity of hope is the religion of the young, there aren't a lot of hopeful signs that we are as a culture interested in perpetuating any hope in our future generations. As a result, the role of the artist in society, this society in particular, has become atrophied. We don't want to know where we could be going, and so we go nowhere.

The bottom line with art appreciation (which is the problem with the NEA, in a nutshell) is EDUCATION. We aren't teaching kids (or their parents, for that matter) that visual art is important. At least, visual art that you can't create with a computer. As a result, there isn't much the NEA can do - they can't pick art for us. Nor can they tell us what we should think is great art - because in our current cultural backwash, praise of the mediocre has made most genius irrelevant. Why should we believe the NEA, when it comes to defining art? We don't have much reason to trust them. And after all, it is OUR money.

So I think the NEA did the only thing it COULD do. Back out of the art business.

Which I think requires that they change their name to NEMAMA:

National Endowment for the More Acceptable and Marketable Arts

That's my two cents. If you don't want it, give it back. I'd like to put a Rembrandt on lay-away so in 20 years I can prove that there actually were artists that were worth endowing at SOME point in human history.

Earlier this year, someone approached with the notion that being a bard was a relatively simple undertaking; of course, I took a small bit of umbrage to that idea, and responded with the following poem:

Who is a bard, who asks, who claims
Such title, such a sorrowed fame?
There are poets, minstrels, clowns
And more that covet bardic crowns,

They'll study years and not begin
To grasp that song that cries within.
A Bard, why who would want the right
To spend too few a restful night

When chronicle the times he must,
And trace mankind from dust to dust?
The glory, what is that to thee,
When one imprisoned means none free?

The secret language of the bard,
Oft covers pain and life lived hard,
For royal poets all are gone -
We've lost the schools, the tools, the songs;

As minstrel singers take the stage,
And style, not substance, is the rage.
Who is a bard, who wants to be?
'Tis not a role filled easily,

For few can stand to see in mirrors
Their faults beside their wasted years,
While wielding still the two-edged sword
Of pleasing crowd, and self, and lord.

A bard am I, are any here?
'Tis not a calling, or career,
But endless years of toil and sweat
To write in words, lest all forget;

And still they do, for words will fail,
When there's a life, who needs a tale?
A bard is more than line and verse,
More than a song for coin in purse -

But more a sacred touching stone,
And oft, for this, he dreams alone,
For passing between death and life
May lose him friend, or work, or wife

Who is a bard? A slave to those
That seek to know why words be chose,
And those who want a glimpse of light,
While they themselves are still in night;

For these, the bard must ply his wares
And speak the truth, tho' no one cares.
The sacred silence we all find
In doubtful moments, kills the mind

And makes us wonder of the use
For shaping language into noose;
But still we write, because we must
Until we, like our words, are dust.

Summer 2002

For those who are interested, here is a link to an early one-act farce that I wrote while at college. It is in PDF format, so if you don't have the free Adobe reader, you'll have to download it in order to read this piece.

An Evening of Card Playing
Enjoy.

"Do not steal a minaret if you have not already dug a well to hide it in."

"If you do not have room in your house for an elephant, do not make friends with an elephant tamer."

"Never name the well from which you will not drink."

-- Sufi proverbs

a sonnet for my friend fool_in_spirit

The Tao that can be seen is not the Tao,
the obvious is never what it seems;
and often, what connects the who to how
is understood only by fools in dreams.

Still, once in a great while, a glimpse is seen
of balance, as it plays behind a cloud;
the light and dark and all points in between,
the word that vanishes if said aloud.

For only in the frame of the observed
Can our defining map much of the way;
And our illusions do naught but preserve
masks between it has been and come what may.

Both in our grasp and there beyond our reach,
The Tao embraces all, and defines each.

26 NOV 2002

The French ballade form

There is a quiet place where one may find
A respite from the bustle of the day;
Where silence soothes the worry of the mind
and with its echo, holds the world at bay.

In this majestic lull the muses play,
and come forth from the mist to seek my ear;
They whisper of enchanted, secret ways,
And offer inspiration bright and clear.

When seeing far too much has left me blind,
and history's sad lessons bring dismay,
then sacred wisdom's cloak around me winds,
to bring me peace and clear my doubt away.

And then, I turn back, strong, to the melee,
to fight against the shadows as they near;
with courage to withstand those who nay say,
And offer inspiration bright and clear.

Upon the right, the doubters may confine,
and on my left, authorities hold sway;
old friends may wonder at my new design,
while strangers at my doorstep wait in prey.

Yet on this course, I am obliged to stay
and ever forward, seek in spite of fear;
To search for truth, and find it where I may
And offer inspiration bright and clear.

So to this quiet place, I often stray,
When stagnant thought engulfs what I hold dear;
Where I can search my heart for what to say
And offer inspiration bright and clear.

27 NOV 2002

Wake up America and face the facts
Your roads are built on broken backs
And there's no way that you can track
The hypocrisy that against you stacks

There are storm clouds in those spacious skies
of which you sing, but do you realize
Your purple mountains and amber grain
Will disappear in the acid rain

Of time, there's no time, and the time is now
To turn our hawk-like swords into plows
And reap the seed that we have sown
The apathy that has destroyed our home

Wake up America and face the truth
There is no one standing in your voting booths
And the people in this country who run your lives
Are free to find your back with their forks and knives

You stammer, and you whine, complain that there is nothing you can do
But you and I know that this is not true
You've focused your attention on the world outside
Now it's time to take the board out of your own damn eye

Oh sleeping giant it's time to rise
And wipe the sleep out from in your eyes
You've enslaved your brothers to promote your creed
But you don't know what it is, because you can't read

And your huddled masses yearning to be free
Are as tired and poor as they used to be
They're dying of AIDS, selling, or trying to score
Wake up, the future is right next door

Around the world we act so proud
Americans, yes, and we say it loud
We rub our freedoms in everybody's faces
But we let the media run the presidential races

If we stood for equality, life and truth
Then the flag we fly would be fire-proof
It's our claim to fame, and our greatest shame
And we're running out of fingers pointing out the blame
If you're so proud, proud as you claim
Pick up the pieces ... and use your brain.

I pledge allegiance to the flag
of the United States of America
and to the Republic for which it stands
one nation, indivisible
with liberty
and justice
for All.

Wake up America, and read your history
So many have died for this democracy
The facts are clear and can't be ignored
There are strip mines where once eagles soared

It's time we started listening to "Yankee go home"
And went through our problems with a fine-tooth comb
Remember, just like Patrick Henry said,
Without liberty, we might as well be dead.

1985

awdl gywydd

I awoke glad for no cause;
but did not pause to reflect,
just smiled to myself in bed,
and instead of neglect

I gave myself attention;
didn't mention my great flaws,
but spoke kindness to my soul;
on the whole, quite nice, it was.

26 NOV 2002

This is a piece of "found" Poetry. That is to say, I found this to be TOO much, and so over-the-top that it is almost histrionically funny. That of course was not it's intent - I'm sure they were going for the Gurdijieff approach to structured language that discourages pattern thinking. Someone, anyone, help me to understand exactly what it is this band does, sounds like, or wants to be when it grows up ... Help me, I'd like to count it off, is it alright ... is it alright if I scream?

As a result of its perceived Gurdijieff connection, I like to call this piece "Meetings with Remarkable Idiots" ...
From an on-line entry at New Orleans Musician:

DRUMMER CRUCIAL! 18-26 need genius, talented, layered, complex, immense, versatile drums 4 sharp, tragic, ravaged, rasberry, sexy, urgent, shrill, contrast, young new rock we are so damn good and so damn anxious and ready, but we cant find a damn good enough drummer! would love huge sounding drums with large kit. none of that less is more little setup shit. MORE IS MORE!

we are 22. this is all we want to do. we bought a house for it, we are
quitting our jobs for it. we breathe and sleep it. and 100% know we are
the greatest. 100% worth it. no limits. no bullshit.

new, amazing, dedicated, over the top, into the clouds.

we're not indie, not emo, not hardcore, not postpunk, not garage, not retro,
not nu-metal, not postrock, not jaded. we are vast, shattering, delicate,
young, aware, asway, cutting, changing, pretty, and fierce. we need an
incredible drummer to pull this off with; to work with closely and
intensely.

i dont care where you live, if you know and love what im saying, do NOT
hesitate to write us! i could not be more serious, we WILL work something
out. there is absolutely no time to delay.

Oh PUL LEASE ...

A Shakespearean Sonnet

To write, and do it well, is my intent -
in idioms of verse and prose and play;
Success or failure will be evident
In how my critics judge the things I say.

I do not hope to be of world reknown,
I'd rather be a big fish in this pond
And let the words reflect thoughts all my own
than have them echo someone else's song.

The muses, let them find me as they may -
I court them with an honest, caring soul;
For false pretense will only bring dismay,
And lend me in disguise some leading role.

I write, and sing, and dance on my own stage -
for my heart cannot see life as a cage.

25 NOV 2002

A modified Spenserian sonnet

A precious gift is life, and how we use
Each moment tells just what we think it's worth;
A wasted dawn is reproof of our birth,
and consequences that we can't refuse.

There is no misplaced talent on this earth,
for with each voice a different song is heard;
And it is never useless or absurd,
So sing it out with joy and endless mirth.

To those who mutter, life is only merde,
I say, then fertilize your garden bed;
There is no point in living when you're dead -
So seize each day and give it living words.

For life is made of each of our intents -
Against which thought, none can bring evidence.

25 NOV 2002

A poem is different for me from a song
One takes a single image and distills its essence,
While the other takes a story and dissects its scenes;
Each has as its focus a sole point of view, most times,
That relies on the quality of perception, and perception of quality
of the individual who serves as the focal point.

A poem is different for me from a song
One takes the personal and makes it universal,
While the other turns the cosmos into an individual epiphany;
Each describes a lesson taught by life's strange instructors,
But one glorifies a failing grade, and the other,
Laughs at the curve-setter.

A poem is different for me from a song
One is a persuader, smooth talk and choice words,
While the other is crude and direct, to the point;
Each builds a case for a circus of peers,
But one prosecutes for the sake of the law,
and one defends indigent soul.

A poem is different for me from a song
One is written, an arrangement of words;
While the other is sung from the chest and the head;
Each speaks a language that doesn't quite translate,
But one knows the vocabulary of its speaker,
And the other, knows only the words.

25 NOV 2002

Ah, the Sunday evening movie hour approaches, and for probably the 57th time in my life, I will sit down and watch the Wizard of Oz. This time, however, I will not be tripping my ass off, nor will I be desparately sync'ing the soundtrack with Dark Side of the Moon. And this time, it will be the third time after reading Gregory MacGuire's wonderful book, Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West. If you are not familiar with this work, I highly recommend picking it up - particularly if the anti-witch propaganda presented in the L. Frank Baum version seemed a bit one-sided. Hear of the dear one, Elphaba, unfortunately born at birth with a VERY olive complexion, fighting for the rights of Talking Animals, trying to return power to Queen Ozma after it had been usurped by the dictator Wizard, and wonder over her interactions with a very insipid, vapid and over-the-top nincompoop roommate at college, Glinda. Mourn as she accepts the death of her sister thanks to a know-it-all meddler from Kansas.

Ah, the humanity ...

a villanelle

I have sought among the trees for peace,
And found in their shade a quiet knowledge;
There is a humbling silence in their ancient speech.

The echoes of time are within their sky-bound reach,
And to find my own small sound in their endless song
I have sought among the trees for peace.

The many years I spent, wasted, in universities,
and the words I threw, mindless, at the world, seem trite;
There is a humbling silence in their ancient speech.

And all the wild students I thought I could teach,
Have grown apart from me in spite, and so
I have sought among the trees for peace.

Between two worlds I often stand, unsure which way to leap,
And listen to the oak and pine, their quiet words of wisdom;
There is a humbling silence in their ancient speech.

While other fools proselytize and in their sadness, preach,
I have found solace in the branches of another school.
I have sought among the trees for peace;
There is a humbling silence in their ancient speech.

24 NOV 2002

a sestina

Under the carport, inhaling from my last cigarette another drag,
I listen to the voices rise and fall through the window,
their cadence and cascade a soft counterpoint of sound,
muffled through the closed glass;
here and there I catch a word, a phrase, a hint of mood -
then it slips away, like quick smoke, through the air.

There is a persistent chill present in the evening air,
that causes my blood to slow and my body to drag;
it brings a quiet, calm that soothes my work-weary mood,
and a slight hint of frost to the closed house windows.
The echo of the city slides by like marbles on a plate of glass,
leaving an empty hollow space without sound.

In this quiet place, small ideas seem so great and sound;
they shape themselves from the shadows and take in breaths of night air,
and build great reflections of themselves in the dark glass.
An hour passes quickly, as the sullen minutes drag
and flicker like flames against the frost-covered window,
and abandon all sense of order in response to this mood.

Then, suddenly, I am struck by a most melancholy mood -
I hear the futility of harmony in every passing sound,
and the anger in those voices on the other side of the window
seems to convulse and fold the now chilling air.
time has recovered its momentum, and the seconds cease to drag,
as a passing car stereo throbs by, rattling its cage of metal and glass.

The song of my heart is a symphony of broken glass,
and the chill of the night wind reflects this strange mood;
once the manic cycle ends, the valleys seem to ebb and drag,
and silence overtakes each song and swallows whole its sound.
Even my practiced lungs seem to have an aversion to their diet of air,
and there is a sad, lonely face peering from my window.

I listen again to the voices seeping through the closed window,
and wait patiently as they decrescendo against the cold glass;
I take in a deep breath of the cold, night air
and let the biting, bitter taste of it influence my ponderous mood,
let the chilled rasp of it linger, savoring the whispered sound;
then, from that cigarette, a last, longing drag.

Shivering slightly, I let my feet drag toward the door, put my hand against its glass,
watching my breath steam the screened window, letting it cast off this somber mood;
With a gentle sound, I release this poem into the air.

23 NOV 2002

Okay, okay, so it's another throwaway song. Maybe it will work as the theme song for NORML ... LOL

Out on a limb, you've got to sink or swim
And either one is a political act
There on a whim, it's much to late to begin
To separate what you have learned from the facts

Poised on the brink, your neck in the drink
You've got to improvise the skill that you lack
After a while, you start to fake it with style
And then there's not much chance to turn back

Nothing left to lose, maybe then you'll choose
The 4:20 blues

Out on the lamb, it's hard to give a good damn
Beyond the next turnaround of the wheel
If you're in on the plan, you fall for the scam
Or figure out the safest way you can deal

Poised on the ledge, or stuck in the hedge
You've got to subliminate the way that you feel
After a while, you start to take it and smile
And then there's not much hope for appeal

Nothing left to lose, how can you refuse
The 4:20 blues

Out on the line, you start to thinking it's fine
And then the tug starts reeling you in
If you've got enough rope, you may think you can cope
Until the hook pulls under your chin

Poised in the net, you start to feel a regret
But it's a little late for struggling then
After a while, your bones will be on the pile
And you can start all over again

Nothing left to lose, might as well break through
The 4:20 blues

22 NOV 2002

I've decided to try and write a new poem each morning and post it, just to "wet my beak" so to speak, to keep my hand in and make sure that I continue to focus. Some of these daily poems will follow a specific regimen of meter, theme and structure, and some will not - so it is likely to be a grab-bag of varying quality and interest. Ah, well. At least it will be all new work, if the subject line says Poem of the Day, it will be that day's creation.

the chai boiled over this morning;
and the milk had soured overnight,
leaving me with half-empty cups, unfilled,
and loose leaf tea stains on the stove top.

unfinished chai is an incomplete work,
caffeinatus interruptus, bleak and bitter,
a reminder of other things, undone,
that grow strong and dark on the soul's cold stove.

like the bipolar nature of any true artist,
its stimulating effects were suffered to wait,
as the mundane and tedious tasks of commerce
cut short its rhythm like an unwanted visitor.

but the waiting builds character, and soon enough
the half-empty cup will be filled;
and, then, in a triumph that staggers the senses
it will waken the slumbering world.

22 Nov 2002

or The Inside Scoop on the Breakup of the Greatest Band in the World

For a time, we thought we were the greatest band in the world; and because we did, we were. - Ringo Starr

The Beatles are bigger than Jesus Christ right now. - John Lennon

The following is an interpretation of the songs of the Abbey Road album as a psychological justification for the breakup of the Beatles, or why it had to happen, in their own words:

Here Comes the Sun - Finally, things are looking up for George Harrison. He?s had a creative breakthrough, probably due to the new vegetarianism and positive outlook on life. Plus, he?s hanging out with other Musicians like Eric Clapton and having a bit of fun. He never seemed to have too much, you know, and was always so damned depressing.

Something - But all good things must come to an end. She is the Beatles, and while George loves her, he just doesn't know about the future. He's undecided, as well; does he side with John or Paul? That's always been his question, I think.

Maxwell's Silver Hammer - I think Maxwell is Allen Klein, the doctor they all brought in to fix up the Beatles. Maybe they should have considered Doctor Robert. This one is obviously about litigation and the courts, and Paul's never-ending battle to prove he wasn't the one who broke up the band. Further, I think he's making a comment on his recent drug busts, and John?s forays into obscenity with Yoko Ono (i.e., Two Virgins, etc.).

Oh! Darling - Paul's frantic plea to John: Don't leave me. You seem to have it all together, but I need you as a foil to spur my creativity.

Octopus' Garden - This is Ringo's attempt to reconcile all the involved parties. But he's drowning, and the ship's sinking, and everybody knows it. Meanwhile, he's getting drunk with Keith Moon and playing Frank Zappa in the movies. He's ready to move on, just like the rest, and he's getting tired of being "the funny one."

I Want You (She?s So Heavy) - John wants to move beyond the Beatles. The social and emotional responsibility of fronting the world's most popular band has gotten a bit much. Further, he wants to play styles of Music that the Beatles could never get away with (i.e., biting social Commentary and the blues). Further, he wants to distance himself from the hippie movement and free love; he's more into revolution and visible social change at this point (witness his "Power to the People") demeanor that follows shortly hereafter, etc. Witness John's disillusionment with the flower power movement (i.e., Strawberry Fields Forever). He doesn't want to be anybody's guru...his whole "bag" has been for people to think for themselves. It's easy to see misunderstanding with your eyes closed, he says. Let me drag you down with me. If I say jump, does that mean you do it?

Come Together - The visible exponent of the sentiment expressed in I Want You (She's So Heavy). John is not only writing a campaign slogan for Timothy Leary and San Francisco, showing his affinity for the intellectual revolution over the non-violent peacenik thing, but he's saying, "Look, people, if you let me do this, the Beatles might still work."

Because - Why do shitty things happen? Why do bands like the Beatles break up? It's nobody's fault, regardless of what they say in Melody Maker. Just because, baby, just because.

You Never Give Me Your Money - Paul's most direct statement to date on the fact that the other Beatles sued him. Paul obviously wants to keep the band together, but they keep serving him summons ("funny paper") and breaking off the negotiations. He doesn't want it to be about money, but he's trying to keep his shirt and forget the Apple fiasco. In the beginning, he says, we were unemployed, undereducated. If not for this band, we'd be driving trucks. This was our dream, guys, he's saying. Now, with the dream come true, I think Paul realizes that the dream has got to die. It's just not working anymore. Like Albert King said, "Everybody wants to go to Heaven, but nobody wants to die." And that hurts Paul like nothing else could.

Sun King - What's all the nonsense, says John. Why should anybody care but us, says Paul. It?s our business. Lead your own lives - we can't protect you forever. Further, the whole thing has gotten a bit ridiculous. No matter what we say, it is interpreted as something "deep" and "cryptic." Check out Charlie Manson's take on what we did in 1968, for example. John says, "All I want to do is play the blues." Paul says, "I want to write Musical theater." George says, "Hare Krishna." Ringo says, "Where is Buck Owens playing tonight?" The press says, "Paul is dead." Go figure.

Mean Mr. Mustard - Another interpretation of Allen Klein, I think.

Polythene Pam - Look, everyone, it's the incredible marketable Beatles, shrink-wrapped in plastic and ready for distribution! Where's Colonel Tom Parker when you need him?

She Came In Through the Bathroom Window - "She" is the Beatles. She's come up on the Fab Four by surprise, with her silver lining exposed, and now they all just sit around and wonder what the Hell they're going to do about it. Further, I think Paul is tired of being the "policeman" and trying to get everybody together and play. Another interpretation might be that "she" is Apple Records. After all, she could "steal, but she could not rob." They were all losing a lot of money in that little venture, you know. Interpretation #3: "She" is Phil Spector, and she couldn?t really do much to save the sinking ship. Plus, Paul didn't really appreciate the external input and loss of creative control.

Golden Slumbers - Finally, I think Paul just comes out and says it. This used to be a great band, we used to have a lot of fun, and each of us achieved somewhat of our own Nirvana when it worked. However, the real good thing is about to come to an end. This is also could be seen as a farewell to Brian Epstein, who'd been with them since they were "home" at the Cavern, and always seemed to be a link with their roots.

Carry That Weight - And of course, it's easy for the rest of the boys (and the media, and the fans) to blame Paul. He seemed to be the most realistic (therefore, the most calculating, cold and cynical) about the Beatles' situation. And he got most of the heat in the press. Nobody took him seriously as a solo artist until "Band On the Run" took off so splendidly. Plus, he lost his best friend in the bargain. In another view, he's also the one who had to perform most of the Beatles' repertoire throughout the following decades. This, of course, has its benefits.

The End - And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. And they weren't making love anymore; so it was only fair that they stopped taking it. They weren't even sleeping in the same room at that point. Witness the angry solos from George, Paul and John.

Her Majesty - Paul, of course, was desperate to have the last word. He was going to get the brunt of the blame, after all. Once he made the decision to quit, there was nothing else to do but crawl away and get drunk. She (the Beatles) was a pretty nice girl, but there was no way she was going to put out again. Someday, however, Paul was hoping, it might all work out again.

"As a result of this overwhelming choice and the ease of going elsewhere, web users exhibit a remarkable impatience and insistence on instant gratification. If they can't figure out how to use a website in a minute or so, they conclude that it won't be worth their time. And they leave." -- Jakob Nielson, Designing Web Usability

And this is the audience to which our web-based creative endeavours are being presented. No wonder there is such a plethora of easily digestible art on the web. It provides instant gratification, and sensation that you don't have to think about, or work at, or become involved with in any way except superficially. After all, relief from awareness is only a click away.

Well, my friends, I just found out one of my poems is included in a published anthology, The Pagan's Muse: Poems of Ritual and Inspiration, edited by Jane Raeburn. The poem included is As We Are But Travelers Here, a poem I composed while dabbling with the Ár nDraíocht Féin: A Druid Fellowship (ADF) Dedicant Program. It's intended to demonstrate my understanding of the Nine Noble Virtues (tenets of druid life for ADF): Wisdom, Piety, Vision, Courage, Integrity, Perseverance, Hospitality, Moderation, and Fertility.

As we are but travelers here,
beneath this canopy of sky
and rooted to this mount of earth,
step gently as your path goes by.

Remember that beyond the sight
that links us all as kin,
and thankful, lift your voice in praise
to gods without, divine within.

Tho' we may walk for many miles,
the journey is itself an end;
so, when you pause to rest, reflect,
and when you can, assist a friend.

Give caution to stray thought of might
and careful tend the fire;
for once unloosed, the thoughtless flame
knows not between the rose and briar.

Your word is but your only wealth,
and as the coin, the source;
spend wisely, know that your needs are few,
and oft a want may lead to force.

And walk ye proud, but not in spite;
resist the urge to shun ---
for who among us truly knows
when paths are ended, or begun?

Seek out the truth, where it is found,
and finding it, rejoice;
and when the darkness hides that truth,
give light with steady voice.

Again, give thanks for gifts received,
as chance has made them yours;
for when the gift reflects the giver,
that is its reward.

As we are but travelers here,
take heed to tread a gentle way;
for each step shows a different path
where wondrous journeys lay.

17 OCT 1999

After seeing a special tonight on PBS on the life of Benjamin Franklin, I thought it was appropriate to pull out of the archives a little meandering piece I wrote about 10 years ago on the Declaration of Independence.

Here's the first bit ...

We
Meaning the authors who have written this document, or in a greater sense, those who have affixed their signatures hereto, and even in the largest possible sense, each of us who exist upon this planet (and even, perhaps, on others) who fosters within their heart - and even those without a sense of compassion and understanding that the authors may assume to be an integral part of the human makeup, but are quite willing to admit that such an assumption is a dangerous but relatively forgivable oversight, and such creatures who are bereft of the benefit of such emotion may arrive at similar conclusions using only pure reason, logic, and process of elimination - the belief that all creatures that exist have intrinsically similar instinctual processes and needs as related to survival, coexistence, and codependence

Hold
By which we mean to say believe, have great faith in the humble truth thereof, want to pretend that it somehow makes a difference, or even in our darkest moments clutch fast to a modicum of hope which allows us to assume that by so holding we cannot be severed, swayed (by any means of coercion, be they physical, monetary, emotional, intellectual, or the suggested patterns of acceptability as presented by a so-called, self-righteous and for the most part, logically defunct majority), taken from (as in given in times of convenience and for short-term benefit, and taken away in times of duress and so-called national hardship as perceived by those in whose hands the balance of power may tend to lose its calibration to the detriment of any who have not immediate and useful access to those who have been designated and in fact have no other authority save as agents expressing the direct will and opinion of their constituents

These Truths
Meaning, rather, ideas and fixations which we hold in such high regard that they are assumed, wished, or hoped to be true and binding over all creatures great and small, rich and poor, able-bodied and minded or otherwise disposed. Truth, which has been variably defined as conformity to fact or actuality, fidelity to an original or standard, reality or actuality itself, a statement proven to be or accepted as true, sincerity and integrity, or even by process of elimination of lesser powers, to actually be the expression of the mind of God, the Creator, the Supreme Being, the Life-Force of the Universe, the Universal Greater Than, and even the expression of that which at this present time (and in fact, throughout the history of Earthlife and existence) is undefinable and may in fact not exist as a greater, all-powerful, all-encompassing, meta-metaphysical, super-physical, psychological, physiological, actuality or understanding

To Be
To be, meaning, not created, resurrected, or at any time forced upon the world by beings mortal or divine, not intended to be created at such time in the future when convenience and the differing opinions of creatures vegetable, animal or mineral may see fit to put into being, but here and now existing without question or pause

Self-Evident
Meaning obvious, without exception; once again, an assumption on the part of the authors that any creature giving thought to such a proposition will logically, emotionally, and basically without hesitation accept these precepts as a given.

That All
All, not part or sum, but the entirety, not to be segregated or considered different, lesser or greater based on any criterion, be it color, creed, race, educational background, income, neighborhood, sex, character, beliefs, etc. In other words, there are no exceptions. Any infringement of this basic concept of all-inclusiveness should be considered treasonous as applied to the truths presented within.

Men
Well, all men, women, children, ambisexuals, seniors, middle-aged and adolescent, able-bodied or not, dogs, cattle, sheep and chickens, tree and bush and flowering plant and mossy tendril, cat and mouse and rat and peacock, including but not limited to all things existent on this planet (and others), as well as that which we have never seen and may in fact doubt the existence thereof - a personal opinion of the authors, which is not be misconstrued or otherwise assumed to be a suggestion, recommendation, directive, imperative, etc., that anyone be taken seriously who may or may not hold these truths to be self-evident.

Are Created
Whether we consider Creation to mean brought and gathered from the dust to resemble our current form, or whether evolved over generations from apes or lung-fish or other such creatures as may be determined to have at a minimum a million to one chance of becoming whatever creatures they currently have become, or spawned from the remnants of outposts of alien invasion, or if we simply mean born into this world due to the interaction of a male and female of their respective species, or by windborne spore pollination, or any other means by which one cares to classify.

Equal
Having the same quantity, measure, or value as another; being the same or identical to in value; having the same privileges, status, or rights (equal before the law); being the same for all members of a group (gave every player an equal chance to win); having the qualities, such as strength or ability, necessary for a task or situation; adequate in extent, amount or degree. Old meanings for equal run the gamut from impartial, just, and equitable to flat, level and smooth to tranquil and equable.

That They Are Endowed
Or provided with, property, income, or a source of income, or more appropriately, equipped or supplied with a talent or quality, or even a dowry, as it applies to gifts that are provided free of charge, no interest, no hidden clauses or small print.

By Their Creator
Whether the Father or Mother Creator, the Chaos of the Cosmos, the Father, Son, Holy Ghost, Earth Mother, Great Spirit, Brahma, Vishnu, that which shall remain nameless, the eternal spirit of life, etc., etc., or just simply your own parents,

With Certain Unalienable
Unrevokable, untakable, unswappable, unstealable, unsaleable, unmistakable, unseparable from the creature so endowed; one might go so far as to say that even if a creature were to wish to part with said unalienable properties, that they are such an intrinsic part of the body, soul and very being of every creature that it is not possible to remove them from a creature, even at their own request. This, of course, implies a great deal of responsibility - whether it is known or unknown, wanted or unwanted, exercised or not, these unalienable properties will continue to exist.

Rights
Or right, privilege, prerogative, perquisite, franchise, birthright, title, etc., meaning a just claim, legally, morally, and traditionally.

That Among These
But not only these, not limited to, or to be assumed to include any less than these

Are Life
The property or quality that distinguishes living organisms from dead organisms and inanimate matter, manifested in functions such as metabolism, growth, response to stimuli, and reproduction; also, the physical, mental, and spiritual experiences that constitute a creature's existence; and further, actual environment or reality, as in nature.

Liberty
The condition of being free from restriction or control; the right to act, believe, or express oneself in a manner of one's own choosing; the condition of being free from confinement, servitude, o
r forced labor; freedom from unjust or undue governmental control; a right to engage in certain actions without control or interference; or even if a creature should choose, not in confinement or under constraint, free, not employed, occupied, or in use.

And The Pursuit
Which is the act or an instance of chasing or pursuing; the act of striving toward; or a vocation, hobby, or other activity regularly engaged in. It does not mean that what is being pursued is ever actually achieved, caught, or realized, nor does it imply that it is possible to achieve, catch, or realize such a goal, target, or objective.

Of Happiness
Or good luck or fortune, which leads to enjoying, showing, or being in a state of pleasure or joy. It can also mean a well-adapted, appropriate attitude, or a state of cheerfulness and willingness. The dark side of happiness, however, includes a spontaneous or obsessive inclination to use something, or enthusiasm about or involved with to a misappropriate degree, as in money-happy.

"As long as mankind shall continue to bestow more liberal applause on their destroyers than on their benefactors, the thirst of military glory will ever be the vice of the most exalted characters." -- Edward Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Vol. I

To think that it has been two hundred and twenty eight years since that observation was made. So many have been the advances, so far have we traveled, how much cleaner are our streets now ... and how much we have forgotten, forgotten to remember. Santayana said that those who do not learn from the past are fated to repeat it. Lo, how our great and wondrous empire stretches and cracks at the seams, this great and mighty ship, this grand republic, festers and rots from within from its self-inflicted, neglected and overlooked wounds.

What price freedom? Is the individual or the state more important? These are indeed quite rapidly becoming Orwellian times, my friends.

Here are a couple of scenes from one of my plays, written a few years ago.

PROLOGUE

As the curtain opens, CHORUS enters and assumes position center stage. The stage lights are low, and a spot follows CHORUS. He pauses, looking off into the wings expectantly, then turns to the AUDIENCE.
CHORUS: Strangled by the definitive, in its last great hope, the word begins its slow descent. Alone, its sentence yet to be served in some once upon a future time, it crawls on scabbed and bloody knees to make its mark, to pass itself off as a living being.

As CHORUS is speaking, SELF enters from stage left and begins to circle curiously around him. When CHORUS is finished speaking, SELF begins, turned half to CHORUS and half to the AUDIENCE, within the circle of the spot on CHORUS.

SELF: You don't begin to think about a noun until it verbs. Until and unless you see, notice, or run into a tree, does the tree have meaning or even existence? Likewise, unless you give yourself attention, do you exist or even matter? The hypocrisy of Hamlet's church ...

MAN (enters and walks across stage): "...its canon raised 'gainst self-slaughter..."

CHORUS: A ha!

SELF: ...lies in the fact that the church/state wants no one to take its birthright from it - its claim to ownership of self. Yet, once the individual begins to come into their own, to recognize that it has no debt to be repaid, no original sin, that is has worth in and of its self, separate and equal to its worth to the state, then the self's usefulness to the Heavenly Host is no more. In fact, the self-martyred soul is a reproach. The church has failed, the walls of its Jericho crumbling onto its crimson-stained feet - feet marked with the stigmata from the shattered stained glass field where angels fear to tread. Indeed, as may be surmised, Judas was the only disciple strong enough to serve the Messiah as was required.

MAN: Let ye be judged in the last days by your works!

SELF: By your verbs, in other words - by the motion in your sentence.

CHORUS: Only the verb "to be" has not definable action. If I am "being" a tree, what action is taken? What visible, outward action, that is?

During SELF's last monologue, the stage lights have come up slowly. MEMORY enters, slowly, twirling around and self-absorbed. She bumps into CHORUS, who has not seen her approach. They both jump, startled.

MEMORY: Am I a tree?

CHORUS: Don't you remember?

MEMORY: I am not what is, you know, only what has been.

SELF: The ticking clock slows with being, its senses dulled into ecstasy. Ecstasy! That mud-brown nightingale song that completes itself in the ending of the sermon, while Father Status Quo (and the Buddha) languish speechlessly in the corner, cracked lips foaming with a murmur.

MAN: Love me, tinder box; strike your match against my heart, and level this body-house of nothingness and false promise to ashes!

CHILD comes skipping across the stage, singing. His song begins before he is seen on-stage and ends after he has left it.

CHILD (singing and skipping): Sixpence, sixpence, a pocket full of rye / Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie / When the pie was opened the birds began to sing / Wasn't that a lovely dish to set before the King?

CHORUS turns to look wistfully at the child, now off-stage, then looks off into the distance beyond the
AUDIENCE.

CHORUS: Oh, you of four-and-twenty, youthful and exuberant, sing from beyond your graves! You blackbirds and ravens, crows with harsh croaking laughter, feed upon the corpse of your grandfather's memory, taunting the kings of this world to turn you into pastry filling or cannon fodder, and thereby preserve your immortality through their churning bellies. The goldfish and the rabbit will devour their young to prevent them from experiencing their own fear and sin. Like the jackrabbit confronted with the unknown, we absorb the unborn into our own flesh before they are free from the womb. Indigestion is the prize of parenthood, its glory. What mother doesn't yearn to wake the sleepless night with her cry!

WOMAN (from the side of the stage): My children, now departed, how you cause your source to suffer! How you feed my disappointment with your merciless beaks and ungrateful claws!

CHORUS: While her haggard, tear-stained cheeks are illuminated by the light of a candle forged from the tallow of the tender babe's flesh! Rise, oh mothers, and drink your purgative forgetfulness! Remember not the cries of youth that broke the morning still of your husband's table when first you thrust in the knife! The first wound: Responsibility. The second: Conformity. The third: Obedience. The fourth, and most hurtful: Respectability.

MEMORY slips quietly beside CHORUS and begins to speak softly and firmly.

MEMORY: The dream of history is a wellspring of amnesia. Drink deep, then, oh mothers, from the fountain of continual youth - let the waters from this well smooth the worry-lines from your ancient eyes and gift you the illusion of endless childhood. For if you yourselves are newborns, there is no need for history, its hard lessons and the hateful memory of your own evils. Age without sign, and reap your just desserts, content and smug in Housman's temple ...

WOMAN (quietly, reverently): "..Alone and afraid - in a world we haven't made ..."

CHORUS: Feeble senility in your conquering smile.

WOMAN begins to weep; she moans, grieving.

WOMAN: I was right all along! After all I've done for them, they leave me alone to die. I am vindicated in my sorrow - there is no justice in this world! Woe is me!

CHORUS (to AUDIENCE): Justice? Oh, mother, let your moral view of justice perish and return to the dust made mud from your children's tears! Let it end with you, return it to the bosom of your martyred prophets, where it may seep and burrow into the rotting flesh of your Heaven like maggots into an unwashed bowl of half-eaten soup. It is not the times, perhaps Godless and slipping headlong into change though they may be, dear Matriarch, nor the decay of civilization, unless you consider the time from birth part of the cycle of decay. It is civilization itself, now sprawling beyond its cradle-cage, gangly-limbed and clumsy, the globe that once hung peacefully spinning above its infant head crushed in between two sets of curious and grubby fingers. It is your own child that grips your heart with fear, mortifying you as it grasps your wrinkling hand with its miniature clamp, greedy and unable to voice its true needs with its untrained voice. Through the centuries you have watched it grow, first to cut its teeth upon your suckling breast, then to throw its gruel upon the walls and murmur satisfied to itself, as the thin paste you mixed together to hold its sides in stretched floorward to the threshold where conception was begun. 'Tis a shame you never coaxed it to speak except in cooing, slobbering nonsense intended to quiet its inquisitive mind. Now you marvel, aghast, as its tongue begins to work against temporary teeth and from the words it learned from the milk and its maker ...

INFANT: No! Want that! Me, me, me!

CHORUS: And more, the reproachful, sly drool of ...

INFANT (slowly, sweetly): Ma ma.

CHILD enters quietly from offstage and stands looking at WOMAN.

CHILD: Each child knows well the face hidden behind the mask of its executioner. At four-and-twenty, the young rebel whispers ...

MAN (in a hoarse whisper): Mother!

CHORUS: As the rope stretches his neck and the hangman's daughter lets him through her trapbox into the pleasures of her timeless womb.

WOMAN (weeping, yet smiling triumphantly): He was a good boy - always thinking of his mother.

CHILD: Yes, mother, with every waking breath ...

MEMORY: ...and every inhaled dream...

SELF: ...and every exhaled ejaculation!

CHORUS: So we confront the mother with her sin at the breakfast table, in the presence of her husband. For the king, the father, the government, is constantly in need of the service of his wife, the Mother Church. When the king becomes apostate and turns to the charms and beckoning void of the harlot Godlessness (or Freedom), when he realizes that the ring holding his hand, the band that chafes at his sex when he takes matters into his own hand for a brief moment of peace, is held in place by the cement that once was gruel sticking to his ribs, then he becomes desolate and angry. With this anger and the seed of his life, he takes his wife, Religion, and breeds sleep's tiny monsters. For if the mother's crime is amnesia, the father's is a lack of wakefulness. Where the mother forgets, the father sleeps.

FATHER and CHILD: The king is in his counting house / Counting out his money ...

MOTHER and CHILD: The queen is in the parlor / Eating bread and honey.

CHORUS: But the father does not know where the money comes from, and in fact has no idea where it goes. He rises each morning, sleepwalking through meals and traffic and endless transactions, paying little regard to the consequences and even less to the promises he made his wife.

MEMORY: Promises she only pretends to have forgotten.

CHORUS: She is married to a ghost, and only allows their union to produce children, since she knows he will not recognize them as his own. She knows the children belong to her, a hateful legacy that will provide her with little but an excuse to be forgotten.

SELF: Heaven on earth is the last thing a parent wants. To perpetuate the myth is the sole desire; and yet, the truth will out, as evidenced in our prayer ...

MOTHER, FATHER, CHILD and INFANT: Our Father, who Art in Heaven.

CHORUS: In the Heaven of dreams that is sleep, the King can remember the knife of his own mother, and slip beyond the chains of respectability to which she has him consigned. The King, his pocket full of rye, sleeps on. How else could the stepmother of his children, the harlot Religion and her ill-favored breed of Churches, torture his true children and fear no reprisals from the court of his Reason?

All exeunt quickly except CHORUS, who lingers for a moment after the others have left, then spins on his heel and slowly exits stage right as the stage lights fade to black.

ACT ONE: MOTHER NATURE & FATHER TIME

Scene 1 - The Shoe Drops in For Tea

A downtown apartment.

MAN, WOMAN and CHORUS are sitting casually around the room, in chairs and on the sofa. They hold drinks, and a bowl of pretzels is present on a coffee table conveniently located between them. MEMORY, SELF and CHILD are leaning against the backs of chairs and the sofa. MAN and WOMAN do not notice their presence, but each time they speak, CHORUS tilts his head to listen.

MAN: My earliest memory? Let's see - oh, yes! I was hungry ...

MEMORY: Happy!

CHILD: Frightened!

SELF: Lost in a world of overwhelming light and sound!

MAN (continuing as if not interrupted): ...and wondering where I could find the pantry.

MAN looks at WOMAN, leeringly. WOMAN turns her head and looks to CHORUS.

WOMAN: He's like that, you know. I often wonder how his mother put up with him, always thinking of the dirty joke in everything.

CHORUS (takes a drink and sits back, thoughtfully, then speaks to AUDIENCE): Already, they're disagreeing. Masks within masks, the bear and the honeypot, the bee and the hive, the arrow and the bullseye ...

MAN (continuing his conversation with WOMAN): Actually, I've never really thought about it.

CHORUS: Ah, for the simple bliss of childhood! All your needs seen to, a place to slee
p and laugh and explore, regular meals, the warmth of mother's naked breast.

CHILD: A cage! An uncoordinated tongue! The warmth of shit!

INFANT walks on-stage and takes CHILD's hand.

INFANT: It will be all right, you'll see. Somehow, the tongue will learn to move against these gums and I will learn to push the air from my lungs. The words will come soon enough ...

CHORUS: And with them, identity.

MEMORY: And with that, pride.

SELF: And with that, loneliness.

MAN (talking as if he enjoys the sound of his own voice): I think the most important thing a man can do is stand up for what he believes in. Pride, damn it! That's what's missing from people these days. Anyone with an ounce of backbone would be fighting mad to see the shape the world's in right now - and I'm not just talking war, and poverty, and all this crime and whatever else you see when you turn on the tube! It's a spiritual crisis, you know. There's no sense of dignity left a man at the end of the day. He comes home, tired, fed up with the rat race, and does he get sympathy and understanding? No!

WOMAN stands up and goes to the door, opening it as SHADOW comes in.

WOMAN: How was your day, dear?

SHADOW walks past, ignoring her, takes off his cloak and hangs it behind the door. He walks over to the chair where CHORUS is sitting, and sits down after CHORUS hastily gets out of the way. Once seated,
SHADOW closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

WOMAN (speaking to CHORUS): Just like his father!

CHORUS (inquisitively): Isn't that what you wanted?

As WOMAN begins to speak, MAN crosses and exits out the apartment door, closing it behind him.
WOMAN (looks longingly after MAN exiting, then turns indignantly to CHORUS): No! Not at all! That's not the way it's supposed to be, you know. There's supposed to be communication and common interests and life goals and shared experiences and ...

SELF (shouts joyfully): Joy!

There is a knock on the apartment door. WOMAN goes to answer it. As she opens it, MAN enters, takes her in his arms, and gives her a kiss.

MAN: I'm so glad you're home!

WOMAN: Mmmmmm?

MAN (excitedly, out of breath): I forgot my keys at the office - but that's not why I'm glad. Let me tell you what just happened! You're not going to believe it ...

As they turn from the door and walk to the couch, arms around each other's waist, the lights begin to dim. MAN and WOMAN sit on the couch and pantomime talking excitedly to each other, as CHORUS steps to the front of the stage and addresses the AUDIENCE.

CHORUS: But the real man sleeps, his life a shadow world. Pride? The revenge of shame. His frantic longing for peace keeps his nose to the grindstone. He thinks the world owes him a living, sometimes - and her? When she asks about his day, she doesn't want to know. What's there to know about that? She hears him snoring at night, his breath caught in his throat, fighting to escape the mortal coil his lack of faith won't let him see beyond.

MEMORY: I won't let her remember any more...

CHORUS: Deny your self, the voices scream - from the television and movie halls, from the covers of magazines! You cannot keep fighting, the priests and the charlatans both recommend. There is nothing to do but surrender and smile.

SHADOW (rising from his chair, eyes still closed, he reaches blindly for CHORUS): There is nothing to be afraid of!

SELF: There is the lack of everything.

All lights to black. All exeunt, quietly.

Scene 2 - Nature vs. Nurture

The same apartment as in Scene 1, except the chairs and couch are arranged to resemble a psychologist's home office. SHADOW is seated with a pad of paper and pen, writing, and MAN is reclined on the sofa.

SHADOW: What is it I can help you with?

MAN: I feel sometimes as if my life is not my own. I have trouble keeping track of money, and being organized - but I feel it's all tied in with a lack of self-esteem and low self-confidence...in fact, I seem to have lost my sense of self altogether ...

SHADOW nods, making notations on his pad, but says nothing. After a brief silence, MAN continues speaking.

MAN: And I'm sure it's all tied together somehow. I feel as if I'm sleepwalking through life, as if it's just passing me by, and I just can't seem to jump on, you know.

SHADOW: You say that you feel lost, and at the same time, that you've got no self-esteem. Hmmm...and yet, when you talk, it's like you find it amusing, in a way, like you're above it, looking at yourself like an observer. Your mind is in complete control, and it is telling you it is who you are. You're not, you know. The you that you are is not your mind, not your body. You have a mind and a body, but you are not your mind, not your body.

MAN: OK.

SHADOW: In fact, and I'm just picking up on this now, you know, you're whole attitude is one of smugness, of knowing, intellectually, that is ...

MAN: I consider myself an intellectual snob.

MAN gives a short laugh.

SHADOW (laughs, then speaks seriously): Yes, I think you do. If I had a checklist, though, and intellectual snob was listed, I would check 'proud' rather than 'ashamed' or 'saddened.'

MAN: That's right.

SHADOW: An intellectual snob, and proud of it, by God. That's your mind talking. It has convinced you that it is all there is to you...and that can take you to a certain point, but no further. Now you're beginning to see that the world it has created for you is falling apart, coming in at the seams, so to speak. You're confused, because you can't operate without the masks your mind has built for you to stand behind. I would venture to say you've never finished anything - is that correct?

MAN (sadly): That's right.

SHADOW: I'd like to try to little experiment, if it's OK with you. I'd like to try to get you to relax, to let down your shields a bit - to notice a little of the nothing that's going on all around you.

MAN: OK.

SHADOW: I'd like you to sit comfortably, as symmetrically as you can - wait, why don't you sit in this chair here by me. You'll be much more comfortable.

MAN gets up from the sofa and goes to sit in the chair next to SHADOW. SHADOW turns his chair to face MAN. As MAN sits up in the chair, hands on his knees, SHADOW begins speaking slowly and calmly.

SHADOW: Now, close your eyes and relax. Breathe normally, and listen to the sound of my voice. This is just relaxation - I'm not going to deep trance you or anything of that nature. Just relax and enjoy the exercise.

As SHADOW beings the next monologue, he gets up slowly and quietly from the chair and goes over and lies down on the sofa, still speaking gently and calmly.

SHADOW: There. Now feel your skin. Let it relax. If you can, relax your eyes, keeping them closed but quiet. Now feel your neck and shoulders. Let them hang loose and relaxed, the tightness slipping away. Let that warm relaxation move to your chest, your belly. Relax your belly, your genitals, your anus, your legs. Breathe slowly, quietly, surely...there is nothing to do...nowhere to go...no one to see...

SHADOW relaxes into the sofa, closing his eyes as MAN breathes slowly and deeply. They sit in silence for a minute or so, then MAN sits up and peers intently at SHADOW.

MAN (in the role of the analyst): Tell me about your childhood.

SHADOW: Well, my father was a strong-willed man. He ran the house with an iron fist, so to speak. There were two ways of doing things - the wrong way, and his way.'

MAN (pantomiming note-taking): I see - and your mother?

SHADOW: She was quiet and subdued - well, that's not entirely true. I suppose one would like to say she lived a life of "quiet desperation" in submission to the will of my father, but that's not the way it was. She was controlling, negative, always look to stir up ...

MAN (interrupting): To stir up - feelings?

SHADOW (annoyed at the interruption, continues): Yes - but that's off the point entirely. I always felt like my father was a loose cannon, unpredictable - almost out of control. One minute he'd be jovial and laughing, and next minute - crack! That slap to the face or bellow that scared the shit out of me.

MAN: Was there physical violence?

SHADOW: Yes. I was beaten for minor infractions as well as larger ones. But the physical pain was never as bad as the threat of violence. It was a world of non-reality, I suppose. I've often said I learned not to lie because the beatings would come whether I lied or told the truth. It made no difference, so why not tell the truth? It required less cleverness, less thought, less intelligence to be truthful.

MAN: Do you think Truth is a relative term? That it changes depending on the situation or circumstance?

SHADOW: I don't know. I've always wanted to think about it as a constant, unchanging thing...a beacon of light in an otherwise clouded and dark world.

SHADOW gets up from the sofa and returns to his chair and begins taking notes on his pad. As he begins speaking, MAN resumes his relaxed position, hands on knees, closed eyes. SHADOW begins to speak in a slow, calming manner. As he begins, CHORUS enters from stage right and takes a position at the edge of upstage right, listening to the conversation between the other two and nodding thoughtfully.

SHADOW: Now, once more. Take another breath, whenever you're ready, even deeper than the last one. Slowly take in the air and as you exhale, relax your eyes, tongue and belly. Then, when you're finished, open your eyes and come back. Take as much time as you need.

CHORUS (speaking as lights fade on MAN and SHADOW): You want to learn about someone else's personal problems, their solutions, their failures and victories? Try analysis. The best way to find out what you're not, of course, is to ask yourself what you are. Want to find your best qualities? Ask someone else - your boss, your ex-lovers, your parent, your brothers and sisters.

MEMORY enters from stage left and takes a position at the edge of upstage left, turned half to the
AUDIENCE and half to CHORUS.

MEMORY: I suppose people you are orally-fixated, who fantasize about their mothers, who want to kill their fathers, who operate at best at the gut level all want to become Freud ...

CHORUS: And those that dream of commonality, of archetypes and fairy tales, symbols and chakras split from Vienna and move to Zurich. But the truth is, archetypes and common mythologies aside, all that Freud really explained was the way that Freud's mind worked. All that any psychological or psychiatric theory unravels is the mind of its creator - and the mind is not in control. There is no such thing as control. There is no "out of control." There just is. Further, one might go so far as to say that people who say you're either part of the problem or part of the solution are part of the problem.

CHILD enters through the door of the apartment and walks slowly to front center stage. As he passes SHADOW and MAN sitting in the darkness, he turns to smile gently at each one, then as he reaches front center stage, looks out at the AUDIENCE, laughs joyfully and begins to speak.

CHILD: We experience each other experiencing each other. We experience the experience of the other experiencing us experiencing them. We experience the experience of the other experiencing our experience of them experiencing us experiencing our experience of their experience of ...

CHILD suddenly starts laughing, giggling, aware of the continuing loop of his own statem
ent.

CHILD: Humpty dumpty sat on a wall ...

CHORUS: But he wasn't just sitting idly watching the world go by. He was sitting, catching his breath, after having climbed out of the castle he found himself inside. The walls of his perception, of his experience, of his education ...

CHILD: Humpty dumpty had a great fall ...

MEMORY: And suddenly, seeing the world outside, on the other side of the wall, he realized that once on the other side, he was no longer safe, no longer sane ...

CHORUS: According to popular belief.

CHILD: And all the king's horses and all the king's men ...

MEMORY: Our dreams and heroes, the unicorns and knights, the saviors and saints.

CHORUS: The recollected justifications of the conqueror.

CHILD and MEMORY exit. All stage lights to black. A spot comes up on CHORUS.

CHORUS: Indeed. Once the individual loses its sense of self-importance, it becomes ...

ALL CHARACTERS except CHORUS, from offstage: Unique but not special!

CHORUS: Once the man-boy, woman-girl, child-infant can see that it is what it is because the mind passes judgment on what it is not, then the self is free to be itself, to be nothing, to be everything. There is an end to endings.

Spot goes to black. CHORUS exits stage left.

There is a book by Kenny Werner called Effortless Mastery: Liberating the Master Musician Within that I cannot recommend more highly to anyone who thinks they ever were, ever wanted to be, or ever will be a Musician. The introduction to this book is so personally moving to me; it describes almost exactly what I feel being a Musician is all about. I don't think Kenny would mind if I shared it here with you - perhaps it will convince you to purchase the book (and its accompanying CD of guided meditations) for yourselves.

There is an ocean. It is a drop of consciousness, an ocean of bliss. Each one of us is a drop in that ocean. In that sense, we are all one - or as a famous American television commercial states, "We're all connected." Illusion would have us think that we are all separate entities, separate drops. But if that were true, we would all evaporate rather quickly.

As we expand our limited selves into this infinite consciousness, we tap into a great network of infinite possibilities, infinite creativity - great, great power. Carried by the waves of this ocean, we swirl past all limitations and maximize our potential. Everything good that can possibly happen to us, from within and without, does. Our abilities expand beyond all reasonable limits, and we become a magnetic force for abundant light and all that that implies.

We are all part of a universal game. Returning to our essence while living in the world is the object of the game. The earth is the game board, and we are the pieces on the board. We move around and around until we remember who we really are, and then we can be taken off the board. At that point, we are no longer the game-piece, but the player; we've won the game.

As Musicians/healers, it is our destiny to conduct an inward search, and to document it with our Music so that others may benefit. As they listen to the Music coming through us, they too are inspired to look within. Light is being transmitted and received from soul to soul. Gradually, the planet moves from darkness to light. We as Musicians must surrender to the ocean of our inner selves. We must descend deep into that ocean while the sludge of the ego floats on the surface. We let go of our egos and permit the Music to come through us and do its work. We act as the instruments for that work.

If we can live in this realization, we will constantly have deep motivation for what is played, never getting stuck in the ungrateful consciousness of good gigs/bad gigs, out-of-tune pianos, low fees, ungracious audiences, and so on. Instead, our minds will be consumed with what a very great privilege it is to be the one selected to deliver the message to others. We will no longer be caught in the mundane world of good Music/bad Music ("am I playing well?"). Instead, our hearts and minds will be focused on the task of remaining empty and alert to receiving this inspired information and translating it faithfully, without any coloration from us.

- Kenny Werner, Effortless Mastery

Enjoy the day, ya'll...

This is a poem that I wrote while in Boston, studying to become a jazz Musician (LOL). Composed a day or two after Miles Davis died, I like to think of it as my Jazz Impressions of "Prufrock", or daring to disturb the universe that is professional musicianship; wondering why we do the things we do in the name of artificially inseminating a culture. I also was thinking of writing a longer piece, like "Howl" or "The Wasteland".

The siren's song bleeds forth through tenement crags;
The plaintive wail of mad dog penguined Perseus
Hunting down in ancient rites street Circe and her rabid whores.
Along this path, this street of more than visions bust wide open,
Broken alcoholic remnants sing their way through chartless waters,
Their beatless feat marauding innocent tattered papyrus

(Who will play the amphitheater tonight?)

In dreams of sessions with the kings.

No Nirvana at each or any egress here, yet here the many ways are becoming:
The way of light, of fire-bombed boarded sanctuary,
Of semen dreams and sweat-stained prophylactic idols;
Illuminated cubes of frozen water stained by grease and yellow sticky air;
Petroleum distilled and consumed by combusted, rusted alcoholics.
Pupils of the raven cult and pots-flesh with the ague of morning slip the steps -
The eightfold path - and leave their standards dog-eared, tattered, spiral-bound and out of context.

Across the way, in sheds of glass and steel and concrete linoleum we exchange choruses -
Like cardboard heroes of America's pastime or faded glues of philately -
I'll consider swapping one of Shakespeare, two of Marlowe, maybe a faded and torn Goethe
For a single mint G.B. Shaw or Aristophanes.

What'm I bid?

Some lukewarm geezer cat expands, and presents in trade a wisp of the Marquis de Sade -
'Stella' badly improvised or 'Nigeria' backwards.

Hardly hearty, hurling hardy-har-har hauntings
in language that recalls the Septuagint,
If not in content then in form,
Our twisted Greek-inspired language compresses life
Into steps of seven and its halvings.

Salaam alaikum

The spirit of darker men with darker pasts slides smoothly off the windexed glass.
Who will hear, and who will know the difference if we, careless, mutter
tempus fugit or reducto ad nauseum?

Homo Africanus

Where is your champion,
cut from pagan games we liken to our ritual dances?
Death, where is thy tag?
thy who is it?
and beat the time and tabulated circumstance
For whom the olly-ox is free?

This place exists, but oh, where is it?
Trust an atlas, or go visit.

Who walks these naked, hard, forsaken, bliss-infected, dead-end streets of time
and space and each? 'Tis Perseus again, in winter's cap and caftan

(Each enclosing like memory's hard and bitter lovers).

The Father Quest, the Mother Envy, vagina lust and penis frenzy,
Copulated in Circe's graven image while Tiresias looks on,
Flaccid and overcome with bored secrets.

Tanked (entanked) we plexi-flex our sinews and synapses;
Breathe our last condition exhalation then replace our ears with diaphragms
Of extra-chambered artificial percussion;
The drums of my sonic perception have received the mark,
VU needles driving through the flesh of my waking self and scarring the inner child
With rhythmic tattoos.
Later, hands with nimble digits, dexterous in equal tasks:

(nicotine embalming, flower picking, moist and sticky sweet oh shall we load the pipe again and inhale dreams of lethargy and ends-of-clocks and magic lantern slides in Ginsberg's etchings on the skull?)

Seek sweet release in telephone's substitution code -
A number for a name for a face for a person for a bag for a few more dollars.

How's my credit, slick?

This time exists, but oh, when is it?
Trust chronology, or visit.

The siren's song surrounds us as we, restive, banter;
Lined on sandless beaches seeking something, nothing, waiting.
Grins through crooked lips as officers of peace and oxymoron
Seek their secret seeker out among the pelicans that form our ranks,
Quaffing salted tears and sucking in the saltpetered herrings at our lips.

Nueve uno uno?

Who has summoned from the magic circle spirits of authority
By chanting the mantra of tardy rescue?

Ladies of the evening, biology, chronos, and welfare wrought, bring forth
Their solid wombs of sorrow in mid-morning, or at any and each time the call is weaker.

How our sweet Aegean island beckons yet repels the cyclops who is ruler in his own blind land!

Who has heard the rasping, muted chorus of the dark,
When Perseus claims his pyrite fleece and we become lambs?

Choruses are still exchanged,
Like cards on Federal holydays that cannot be delivered;
Like blows that turn to kisses in the light of Armageddon;
Like oxygen that unites with Hydro's fire and then is drowned,
Gasping for air or the last of a cigarette.

Sophocles?

I'll give you Jonson, hard to come by as the Beckett,

hard as nails
or steel
or time
or luck
or rock
or comprehension.

What?

Homo Africanus

Speaks unfettered, bound and packaged for the holydays
In sweet, suggestive, sullen streams of soft, seductive slavery.

A homeboy (mind exploded from an implication) wreaks his private havoc on a world
That blind says, 'now I see.'

Reversed names become institutions while the real school swelters
In the carbon frost of glazed and bitter days;
Perseus and his Father are One, the myth of becoming has ceased
To believe its own symbolism.

This me exists, but oh, who is it?

There are more than empty halls of rooms that dream of exits,
Each and any and all times of passion,
Reaching out once cold and malevolent fingers
In the massage of ivory of hardened plastic of brass of wood of fate.

Solomon sings the sirens' song with technical prowess;
None of the notes escape the wise man save for each and every one.

Liar, lyre, parts afire,
can you bring me wood that's drier?

Solomon sings
the sirens' song - 
but he's got
the changes wrong.

1992

Some people like Mozart in the morning to get their brains going (at least, that's one of the prevailing theories, that in particular Mozart's quartets and quintets are counterpoint that causes your neurons to fire in an order conducive to enhanced synapse activity - on a par with getting a processor accelerator for your PC, which is what the brain is, albeit its artificial intelligence we as OEM installations tend to think is less artificial than other types of intelligence). Oh, how I go on ...

Anyway, while some prefer Mozart, I think it's essential to swing a little early on, and yet find something that will jerk you (gently, of course, it is the butt-crack of dawn) out of your alpha-state. For this delicate task, I have found there is nothing better than a little Dave Brubeck - in particular, his quartet's classic albums Time Out and Time Further Out. The former, of course, is almost immediately recognizable; the latter is more than more of the same, and I in particular like the Maori-influenced selections. Not quite as culturally-savant as, say, Jazz Impressions of Japan ... when I saw Bru in 1994, he and his current group played some selections from that overlooked gem ... quite wonderful indeed.

Something is missing from the stereophonic records of the present ... something that, if you listen to older rock records, and most jazz from the 50's and 60's, you'll find in spades. That is, of course, STEREO separation. Different instruments on the right and the left, without bleed over; you know, the kind of recordings where if your left car speaker is out, you don't hear half the tune (only, for example, the "spangle-lang" of Elvin Jones without the cascading sheets of 'Trane). The Beatles albums had this wonderful feature; most great psychedelic era bands knew how to use it (although not always judiciously). It gives your brain something to think about, separate chunks to process, different paths to interact with. And there is, as a result of this ONLY REASON TO RECORD IN STEREO, something that is so definitely, desparately and sadly lacking from most modern recordings --- space.

Oh, but I digress (actually, how can it be a digression when it is the tangent that is more satisfying than the main course) ...

Morning, ya'll...

or stretching out, otically speaking...

When in doubt of where to go, Musically, when questioning one's ability to hear harmonic structures, to find the "in" groove or chord, or if just in need of a general aural cleansing, there is nothing that will substitute for Ornette Coleman.

I first experienced Ornette's harmolodics at Berklee, where often friends and I would spend late nights "with the double quartet of Coleman's Free Jazz: A Improvision by the Double Quartet barrelling forth from the speakers like the Mongol horde" (a quote from my journals at the time). Now, when you want to learn about phrasing, you turn to Miles' Sketches of Spain; when you want close-knit harmony that weaves in and out around the beat, I always like to put on The Gerry Mulligan Songbook; and when needing to hear just how much you can do in just two choruses (and how anything more than that is simply unnecessary, if you do it right), there's nothing like Charlie Parker. Doesn't matter what your instrument is, or what style you think you play. If you want to focus on these aspects of Music, here's where the clues are.

But if you want to know the secret of space, to stretch your ears, to cut to the bare bones, there's no substitute for Ornette Coleman. Just like James Brown can teach you, particularly on Love Power Peace (live in Paris, 1971) that there is nothing outside of a groove, Ornette can help you understand just how melodic the entire world is. Ah...but I digress...

Did I mention that it makes great headphone Music?

Back to my wonderful cup of tea, a darkened room, and that plastic saxophone ...

Here's a poem that I wrote after listening, one evening in Memphis, to Ornette, while discussing Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein over endless strong coffee ...

plastic pocket harmolodics

run down changeling boots the funk
improve the shunned extractionary
stove in traction rips rough ready
pockets not for inner sanctums

cherry cola cough surrender
queasy compton did the mother
freaking heat in slumber tumble
xray eyelids slip the winking

bop the bird the sticky finger
fallen anglos sin cojones
open quiet quick and greasy
down the town round wound up lounging

run down starlings cop the mutants
the groove pontificates for shiva
flip the whip trip banned in boston
coleman-nation green and hunchbacked

cherry copper coated kicks
mazaltov and off the mother
speaking shit in rumble mumble
x the spot where malcolm put it

stop the word the slippery jungle
pent up houses of the holy
open skies bleed hard and humble
central busts the changes open.

1993

I've been thinking about the differences between my friends who are optically-oriented versus those who are aurally-inclined, and the variations in perception (a visual word) that result from that dichotomy. As a Musician, I have found that more often than not, I process the world based on what it sounds like, rather than what it looks like. A lot of other Musicians (at least the ones that tend towards inclusive, more positive works) also seem to be aurally inclined, whereas many artists tend to the visual (which seems to make some sense to me). In his book The Third Ear: On Listening to the World (which I have learned is unfortunately out of print), Joachim-Ernst Berendt talks about the differences between a world in which the truth as conveyed by the ear and one in which the primary information gathering device is the eye. One of the things that his research has found is that most of the words in our language (English) that relate to deception, misperception, illusion and doubt are eye-related words (words that find their etymological origin in vision metaphors), whereas there are few, if any, that are ear-based. In other words, the eye may lie, but the ear is much more unlikely to do so. He also indicates that the mechanisms for information-gathering are quite different - the eye takes us out into the world, while the ear brings the world into us. Another fascinating aspect is that the spectrum of light that we can actually see is a much smaller percentage of the whole than the audible range of sound that we can process. And so on.

Anyway, I thought I would take a poll of those who happen upon this entry to see what the consensus is.

Couldn't resist using the title from one of my short stories ...

Perhaps this is continuing more of my mental somnambulism (see my previous entry for an exploration of thought-reducing politics), but I am perplexed with a number of things today.

First, why is it that after an election, if you vote Democrat, that you are immediately inundated with solicitous mail from any number of "liberal" organizations - Greenpeace, Sierra Club, ACLU, People for the American Way, Amnesty International, etc...all looking for money? Do they have some in with the exit poll people that gives them insight into which voters are "dirty pinko commie fag junkies" and therefore are susceptible to their particular brand of propaganda? Perhaps it's just that as of late, I've become more and more sensitive to propaganda, but to use an older expression, this sticks in my craw. I know these organizations do things that I approve of, as a whole, but I also realize that programs won't solve the problem. The problem is a societal bias against intelligent and inter-connected existence. The problem is that our culture believes that such a thing as "prehistory" exists. We all labor under the delusion that while Darwin was right about oh so many things, suddenly and miraculously with the appearance of homo erectus erectus the two million year chain of "moving towards" and modification and growth suddenly ended. Lo and behold, humans were created and it was finished. For all you anti-Christianity mavens out there, your story is starting to sound a bit familiar. End of the food chain, eh? Immune to the laws of selective, natural competition, are we? Sounds a bit like man was created to rule the earth, to have dominion over all its creations. Hmmm...

Second, with respect to the election, again, I suppose...

If I were to run for public office (which I guarantee you will NEVER EVER happen, despite of the Sufi proverb that says 'Never name the well from which you will not drink'), the only way that I could ethically, morally and spiritually do such a thing is to state, upfront - my agenda is not Republican, Democrat, Green or Reform. I do not represent, nor do I wish to be constrained by, the limited vision of a national agenda which cannot by its very nature take into consideration the local, individual, personal and unique people that I represent. Neither am I an Independent - rather, I am an Interdependent. I hereby state that I am forming a party that is not a party, with an agenda that is not an agenda. Political action committees - I know your nature. Nothing was ever created, solved, invented, improved or mitigated by committee. I cherish the individual, but that does not make me a Objectivist, Libertarian or any other joiner. I represent the individual people in my jurisdiction, those who have trusted me to represent THEM, and the community they represent. Now, this may not always be easy - for change is the only constant, and this is a world in which what yesterday was secure and steadfast is tomorrow tattered and rusted. We MUST grow as a people, as communities, we must accept personal responsibility for the lives that we are living. And we must accept personal responsibility for our actions. Those that heal, and those that harm. Those that build, and those that destroy. Those that we are willing to parade in public, wrapped in flags, and those that we hide beneath sheets, behind closed doors, in our closets and under our breath. We cannot survive without each other - that is a great risk to have to make, to TRUST. And it is a great responsibility. It is NOT a national agenda, it is a personal agenda.

Oh, how I ramble ... somebody, give me a melatonin and put me to bed....

Dear readers: It has been a long time since my last confession (i.e., entry) ... oops, sorry, wrong forum.

I am finding it difficult to carve out time to make any sort of meaningful entries in this journal. Perhaps it is true that when you have a life, you don't need art. After all, to paraphrase Stanislavski, the stage, the arts, and all that is merely an imitation of life. If you have the genuine article, then there is no need to fabricate alternatives. Or perhaps that is all just bullshit. Is it that my busyness is that consuming, that I don't have time to sit and reflect upon it, or that I find myself slowly but surely sinking into a state where even grasping at coherent, intelligent thoughts that can be conveyed in sentences is becoming a chore?

Truthfully, I have to state quite bluntly that the only thing that being an intellectual has ever done for me is to get me in serious life-threatening situations (most of those self-imposed due to the self-medication that was required once I started seeing the big picture in Technicolor). Now, as my vices pathetically dwindle to a slow stream of cigarettes that must be smoked outside, under the carport, I wonder.

What exactly I wonder about is in question, I suppose. I do ponder why Republican candidates for the Senate think that my e-mail address is a good target for their non-inclusive, education-denying, class-identity, self-righteous and finger-pointing propaganda. I also wonder why there are so few heterosexual, non-polygamist male pagans. Something I also debate, with myself, is that there seems to be no virtual alternative to the literati coffeeshop, where one can share Poetry, thoughts on the intrusion of chaos theory into the entrophy that is American life, observations on Music and so on. Or maybe that is just my perception.

I am immersed right now in reading Collected Fictions, by the Argentine Jorge Luis Borges. He is one of my favorite authors of all time -- it almost makes me want to revisit all the Spanish I learned in high school so I can read, understand and appreciate him in his original language. I have known a couple of Argentinians in my life, and they seemed to me to be a people with a very diverse set of interests. Borges, of course, is no exception to that generalization, and he constantly refers to sources that I also have interest in - the Sufis, Taoism, etc. I would have to say that Borges and Henry Miller are my two greatest literary heroes at the moment. Whatever that means.

More later, one can only suppose ...