Archive for the 'La Musica' Category
The other night, for no reason known to me, but one no doubt connected to Satan, some cat, or cats, upended a bookshelf, and spilled the poetry books to the floor.
The culprit has never been caught or confessed, and remains at large.
The bestained tomes, meanwhile: too many just too odd and obscure, and therefore not replaceable. So they remain in the collection. Ruint.
Cats are actually proud of their Luciferian penchant for drizzling urine. See the recent best-selling collection of poems, penned by cats, I Could Pee On This, pictured there to the left.
It is a known Science Fact that cat urine is so pungent that fresh spray let fly in, say, Albuquerque, can be smelled within moments on the Moon.
I am not really sure why, of all earthly substances, cat urine is the King Reeker . . . save for “the powerful and obnoxious odor of mendacity,” as Big Daddy puts it in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. (See: cat: there are no coincidences).
I believe it may have something to do with the fact that a cat’s natural diet is 100% flesh and bones. This requires stomach enzymes so powerful they can basically break down concrete. In their power, these enzymes are of stench.
Cats also use their urine as a territorial marking mechanism. And apparently it is necessary for a cat marking something in, say, Icepick, Minnesota, to olfactorily announce ownership to cats living as far away as Venus.
Anyway. Among the odd and obscure bestained volumes in the poetry collection is I Never Saw It Lit, which is pictured there to the right. This book I remember, and retain, because years ago it caught my father’s eye, when he and I were roving the old Berkeley wholesaler Bookpeople for tomes to retail in our modest bookshop up north, on the Russian River. He thought it a worthy effort. But then said, “though probably nobody would like it but me.” I put it in the cart. Because it wasn’t, it developed, to sell. It was for me to keep. To remember him by.
Another of the poetry collections that the other night spilled to the floor was a thing called Leaves of Poetry. This volume contains a poem or two written by me.
And this is where we naturally segue from cat urine, to my writing.
Apparently I wrote these poems when I was 11 or 12 years old. And they were then pressed into a book, together with poems by other wee ones, and distributed to the masses by the county school system.
One of the poems I wrote bears the wildly creative title “Summer,” and goes like this:
Summer is hot, dull, and dry
It’s when under the sun
Your skin starts to fry
And when, on beaches,
Boys like to spy
On girls in bikinis
Who might walk by.
I see that here I was not only already wedded to the Oxford comma, but also afflicted with the need to employ commas at every opportunity, even inventing opportunities that, to a Normal writer, might not exist. I was also then too aroil with these little mini-strokes that cause me to arrange words in odd order. I was grousing about the blasted heath of summer, a constant to this day. And, even at age 11, Eros was elbowing in.
I frankly do not understand how the bit about bikinis was permitted in a collection of poems by junior-high students assembled and then peddled across the land by school officials.
If, today, I were 11 years old, and submitted such a thing, the teachers receiving it would shriek and poke their eyes out. Then hustle me down the halls—patrolled by “school resource officers” bristling with mace and pepper spray and guns and truncheons and whatnot—to be taken into custody by the deans. Who would immediately and permanently expel me. I would then be placed in a cage, and paraded through the streets, pelted by the outraged populace with eggs, tomatoes, and full beer cans, condemned as a dangerous pervert. I would be thrown in a dungeon, and there be subjected to electroshock treatments. Until I had been transformed into a True American. One pledging allegiance to Thanatos. Rather than Eros. Hoorah.
Richie Havens was best known for an improvisation, a prolonged riff on “Motherless Child,” which he spontaneously transformed into a new tune subsequently dubbed “Freedom.”
This “Freedom” he in-the-moment created and performed when the hapless organizers of the Woodstock Music and Arts Festival more or less ordered him to remain on stage for more than three hours, as the artists scheduled to follow him were hopelessly stuck in snarled traffic.
More normally, however, Havens was a careful-craftsman inspired-interpreter of songs originally penned by others. That was his career, for more than 40 years. Until his heart retired—beating elsewhere now—on April 22. Below is my favorite medley of his. Go well, Mr. Havens. Into the light.
when the day goes down on watertown
when the sun sinks low all around
that’s when i know i need you now
yes you’re what i miss
every little kiss
every little one
I come from a place that is all light.
I see it now.
But here, on this planet, it is most commonly believed that there cannot be light, without darkness.
There is this pretty sad persistent duality disability here. Gotta have everything in oppositional twos. Light/dark. Yin/yang. Good/evil. Etc./etc.
Where I come from, there is no duality. But instead infinite multiplicity. Which resolves always into light.
And nobody needs darkness to define that light.
Long ago, we, from where I come from, said just this:
There is no darkness anywhere. There are only sick little men who have turned away from the light.
I have all my lights on.
And it is my own face I see in the blazing windows of all the houses on earth.
But that was so long ago. Now there is no darkness, no sick little men. Only light. And all our own faces, blazing in light, from every illuminated window.
Light is just all there is. All gold, all streaming, all forever. All, all right.
This past week, if you were an American, and if you were connected to America, the term and the town of Watertown came crashing into your consciousness. And not in a good way. It came in via violence, and mayhem, and unknowing, and fear. And it squatted like a nasty poisonous toad, across your life.
I love Watertown. The name and the idea of it. I have since it first entered my consciousness.
That was in 1986. I was walking down a street in the Mission District of San Francisco. And from a tiny sliver of a pizza parlor sounded a song I had never heard before, from a band I had never heard before. The song, “Every Little Kiss,” I later learned, by something called Bruce Hornsby and the Range.
I was in that instant transported. Not easy in a city. Cities—like money, and guns, and jobs—among those things that are, soon, going to go. They have to. For they are artificial and dangerous and de-evolved anti-life entities.
Still, if one must be in a city, San Francisco was one, then, to be in.
And, in that city, upon hearing that song, I was transfixed. Drilled to the sidewalk. I had one of those onrushing clarifying totally experienced experiences: that all is all right, and always will be.
Everything in that moment seemed open and possible to me. Because in every moment it always is.
I can recall that moment now, twenty-seven years later, better than I can recall what happened to me an hour ago. Because that moment was real. And so much of the rest of it is just slogging through the sludgy eyes-wide-shut motions.
And what I experienced then, twenty-seven years ago, of Watertown, as transmitted to me through “Every Little Kiss,” is what Watertown is.
It is not that recent-week fraught place of violence and fear. It is not non-ordinary brothers said to have careened through vomiting out every car door bombs and bullets. It is not stolid phalanxes of armed-past-the-tits security goons, in reaction, marching marching marching to Pretoria. It is not a place of darkness.
It is a place of light.
It is, like anywhere else, about somebody wanting to curl up next to somebody.
A man has two legs.
He’ll build a house—from cellar to rooftop, with his own hands.
He’ll put seeds in the ground.
He’ll watch the sun and the rain at work.
He’ll take a woman to bed.
He’ll find enough tenderness and love to get him through the day.
You’d think that man deserved a little something.
You’d think that man was worthy of a jot or two of sympathy and consideration.
You’d think that maybe someone would say,
Let’s just let him alone for a while, and see what he can do.
It is like every other town of human beings on earth.
Occasionally bad people will run through it. But it’s error to think the dark exceptions are the rule. Anywhere. Because the rule is the light. Everywhere.
Eros is always ascendant over Thanatos. Maybe only barely. But ascendant she always is. Else we wouldn’t be here. But we are. And always shall be. Unto The Great Wide Open.
You do realize that everything is connected. That there are no coincidences. And that all is leading into only light.
What more do you need. To know that there is a conscious universe. That it is willfully expanding all towards light.
Just kiss. With love. That’s all there is to it. Into The Great Wide Open. Into the light. Bring everybody along with you. With every little one.
Here’s how it works. In the video below, the sweet little white boy is missing his sweetheart. He’s out there in Watertown. But, in Reality, in all of his being, he’s anywhere she may be.
Nothing matters, not to him, but her.
He’s at this moment especially and intensely connected to her, through his presence in Watertown. Because of the four elements without which humans cannot live—air, fire, water, earth—water is the most sensual. And he is at present immersed in a whole town of it.
At 5:03 in this video, he enters the zone. Not Bach, not Beethoven, just earnest sloppy rocknroll, but he gets There. To where it could just keep going like that forever. All Eros, no Thanatos, anywhere around. And, in his smile, you know he knows it: is riding, so high, knows it could keep on going like that forever.
Because it does.
In the place of all light.
Where I come from.
As do you.
every little kiss
every little one
And everything would have turned out happily had not rumour of the komarinsky finally reached Foma Fromich.
“What is it? What has happened?” Uncle exclaimed, panic-stricken.
“What has happened? Do you realize he was dancing the komarinsky?”
“Well . . . what about it?”
“What do you mean, ‘What about it?’” roared Foma. “How can you say such a thing? You who are their master and, in a sense, their father! Have you any idea what the komarinsky stands for? Do you know that this song depicts a vile peasant in a state of drunkenness, who was about to commit a highly immoral act? Do you realize what this debauched yokel did? He violated the most sacred ties, and as it were tramped upon them with his huge peasant boots that are accustomed to nothing but stomping the floors of drinking dens! Do you realize that your reply has insulted my noblest feelings? Do you realize that your reply has insulted me personally? Do you realize all this, or not?”
“But Foma . . . it’s only a song, Foma.”
“What do you mean, only a song! And you are not ashamed to admit you know this song—you, a member of decent society, father of fine and innocent children and a Colonel to boot! Only a song! How can a person with a grain of propriety admit that he knows this song without dying of shame, that he has even heard of it? How, how?”
“Well, you have, Foma, seeing as you are asking,” Uncle replied in all simplicity and confusion.
“What was that? I know? Me . . . me, you really mean me! The insolence!” Foma Fromich suddenly yelled, jumping to his feet and choking with anger. He never expected such a stunning reply.
I shall not attempt to describe Foma Fromich’s rage. The custodian of morality banished the Colonel from his sight for the indecency and ineptitude of his reply. Foma Fromich now swore to apprehend Falaley at the scene of the crime, as he danced the komarinsky. In the evenings, when everybody thought that he was occupied with some task in hand, he would steal out into the garden and, skirting the vegetable beds, conceal himself in the hemp, from where there was a good view of the patch of ground on which the dancing was supposed to take place. He lay in wait for poor Falaley like a hunter stalking his prey, and gleefully looked forward to the distress he would bring upon the whole household, and especially upon Uncle, if ever he were successful.
—Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Village of Stepanchikovo
Dour British popster Morrissey (full name Steven Patrick Morrissey, but, like fellow luminaries Baloo, Boo-Boo, and Butthead, just Too Kool to have more than one name), has released a statement of appreciation in re recently passed former British prime minister Margaret Thatcher, a woman whose hair was a helmet, and who lived some 87 years with a stick rammed up her gluteus maximus.
Among the Morrissey remarks:
Every move she made was charged by negativity; she destroyed the British manufacturing industry, she hated the miners, she hated the arts, she hated the Irish Freedom Fighters and allowed them to die, she hated the English poor and did nothing at all to help them, she hated Greenpeace and environmental protectionists, she was the only European political leader who opposed a ban on the Ivory Trade, she had no wit and no warmth and even her own Cabinet booted her out.
As a matter of recorded fact, Thatcher was a terror without an atom of humanity.
Not many people know that I am a priest.
Not many people know more than nothing about me.
And that’s the way I like it.
And, hereabouts, we call our church this: Kneel Before Mary Holy Mother Of God Blessed Lubricious Wonderment Eternal Wet Waiting Willing Open Golden Flower.
So let it be noted.
So let her be noshed.
I am outing myself, as priest dude, because here, in this 2013 Passover and Easter season, members of our congregation are, more than usual, expressing Despair. As we wander through the wilderness of that time, in this world, when and where there is no god.
Did I mention—speaking of Passover—that I am also a rabbi?
Why, though—the fuck?—should I have to.
Because, as everyone knows, one cannot be a priest, without first being a rabbi.
Musical interlude. While, those unacquainted, strive to process.
Work it, people.
Science Men, they are always wanting to Know.
Which is a worthy pursuit.
Times are tough, these days, for Science Men. Because a lot of what a lot of Science Men want these days to Know, involves stuff the Science Men cannot see, or otherwise sense or easily detect. And/or that is, additionally, remote in space and/or time.
And so, they operate, most often, in the land of Guesstimate.
This can, and does, result in a lot of flipbook-rapid changing of opinions. As the Science Men seek to squint, ever finely, through a glass darkly. It also can, and does, result in bouts of belligerent bickering with one another.
This last is currently on display in the ongoing controversy over whether the Voyager 1 spacecraft has or has not left the local solar system. Some Science Men say it has; some Science Men say it hasn’t. But none of them really Know. Because Voyager 1 is out there some 123 AU from Earth. Where no Science Man has ever boldly gone before. Out there some 123 AU from Earth, Voyager either is or is not in the heliosphere. The heliosphere is a thing the Science Men think exists. Though they don’t really Know. Because they have never been there. And the boundaries of this heliosphere, these they don’t really Know, either.
But they sure have a lot of opinions.
To those of us who closely follow Science, the Science Men quarreling over the present position of Voyager 1 is amusing, in a “fighting in the captain’s tower” sort of way. To wit:
ezra pound and t. s. eliot
fighting in the captain’s tower
while calypso singers laugh at them
and fishermen hold flowers
This is because we, we wizened Science-followers, Know that the interstellar mission of the twin Voyager probes, has already been accomplished.
So it don’t really matter, now, wherever the things might be.
You see, each of these Voyager craft were touchingly dispatched with a “golden record” aboard, one that contained pictures and sounds of Earth and its beings, and also directions on how to Get Here. It was hoped, by the humans, that some spacefaring strangers would happen upon one or more of these craft, spin the disc, and then come to visit.
It was so embarrassing. What was, and was not, included, on the “golden record.”
Because hide-your-head-in-shame knuckledragging ur-human retroverts succeeded in erasing from the disc accurate illustrations of the male and female human being.
They objected, these swamp-coolers, to the depiction of the reproductive organs, of male and female.
And so, these were eliminated.
The “golden record” thus went into the great wide open, showing only human “silhouettes.”
All the “naughty parts,” airbrushed out.
Leading any passing extraterrestrials to wonder: how the fuck do these humanoids reproduce? Since they lack the parts to fuck?
Fortunately, past the hang-your-head-in-shame knuckledragging ur-human retroverts, passed a recording, successfully placed on the “golden record,” of the Rolling Stones’ “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.”
That that alone, was sent out there into space, means the species shall survive.
For: ah—upon hearing this, would understand any passing extraterrestrial—I get it. One of those planets.
This, in fact, occurred. The interception of a Voyager. By an extraterrestrial race.
As set forth in the 1984 documentary film Starman.
There we learn that extraterrestrials scooped up Voyager 2, grooved to the pictures, words, and tunes contained therein, and then sent an ambassador to Earth . . . a being who, as soon as s/he entered the planet’s atmosphere, was promptly shot out of the sky by the yeehaws of ekpyrosis.
But extraterrestrials are not so easily extinguished.
The ambassador, abandoning the crippled craft, found nearby some stray human DNA, and so fashioned a temporary corporeal container. Of the young Jeff Bridges.
Not a bad choice.
The news clip below depicts the encounter of the newly incarnated Space Bridges with his first human, a female monikered Jenny Hayden.
Who, upon hearing the naked, and decidedly strange, Space Bridges, recite lines from the Voyager 2 “golden record,” loses consciousness.
Things get better.
Jenny Hayden assists the Space Bridges in traveling cross-country to the Barringer Crater in Arizona. This, it develops, is the traditional landing pad for the Space Bridges form of extraterrestrial (said pad, spacecraft descending, may be viewed in the image that inaugurates this here True Science story). There, at the Crater, the Space Bridges can hitch a ride back home.
The beings of the Space Bridges, we learn, have, over the millennia, monitored humans, from time to time.
They are hardly the only race of extraterrestrials to so indulge. As the documentary film 2001: A Space Odyssey amply demonstrates.
Of course, in order for Jenny Hayden and the Space Bridges to reach the Crater, they must many times evade the yeehaws of ekpyrosis. Who desperately want to lay hands on the Space Bridges. So they can avidly kill and joyfully dissect him.
Because the yeehaws of ekpyrosis can never be happy, so long as they are not avidly killing, and joyfully dissecting, any and all people, places, and things.
Which is why extraterrestrial beings like the Space Bridges do not straight-forward contact the whole of humanity.
Before the Space Bridges goes home, he and Jenny Hayden engage in tender and loving, Real, sexual congress. Which, in the course of things, results in a child, representative of both species.
Such a thing is not all that uncommon. In fact, as we speak, the Huffington Post, also known as the Weekly World News of the intertubes, is canvassing for people willing to tell all about engaging in sexual relations with extraterrestrials. So far, it is said, there have been 15 respondents.
But all these people lie. Because humans, and extraterrestrials, who join in Desire, do not kiss and tell.
Those who Know the true-life documentary film Starman are aware that the Space Bridges arrives on this planet equipped with a number of silver balls, what humans would consider more or less magical and/or transformational objects, which he may deploy, from the palm of his hand, if needful—and the need several times arises—to protect him, and his, or project him, and his, from the extreme and unnatural Danger and Weirdness that is this Earth.
I don’t suppose that it will come as a surprise, to anyone who has long been on this blog, and in anywise Aware, that I am not unfamiliar with these balls.
And that, as shown in the photo there above, I, from time to time, come to hold one, in the palm of my hand.
My brother, in the last years of his life, pretty much lived for cats.
He expressed this explicitly.
But instead he was Here. And, so far as he could figure, but for cats.
When he died, there were 19 of the beasts, that he’d brought in, to his karass and his care, and who were dependent upon him.
When I gazed upon the face of his refrigerator, cleaning up after the mess of his death, I saw this, in note handscrawled: “Am I here just for cats?”
Well. Sure, you were, Steve. And a bodhisattva, in all those years, for that.
I’m not, I don’t think, circling quite the drain, these days, as my brother, in those years, did do.
But I nonetheless need to write about him.
Because my brother, he’s dead.
listen to the wind blow
watch the sun rise
listen to the wind blow
down comes the night
wake up in the mornin’
see your sunrise
you don’t want to see it
baby baby baby baby baby baby baby baby baby
you should see me now
you should see me
(this one writ by our Alexa)
Would you believe in what you believe in if you were the only one who believed it?
I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t exactly go looking for a fight, but everywhere I am, the war on Kanye West is there first. So here I am to Justify My Thug.
You want to hate on Kanye? Want to talk about the kilt, the Kardashian, the fact that not one but two Presidents have spoken out against him? Go on. Knock yourselves out. I’ll wait and just savor the moment here with my My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. Please proceed.
Feel better? Let me just ask you: At the end of the day, are you bringing home what Kanye West does?I didn’t think so.
Can you write poetry like Kanye West:
I ain’t here to argue about his facial feature
Or here to convert atheists into believers
I‘m just trying to say, the way school need teachers
The way Kathie Lee needed Regis
That’s the way I need Jesus.
Post Hurricane Katrina:
George Bush doesn’t care about black people…
They’re saying black families are looting and
white families are just looking for food…
they’re giving the (Army) permission to shoot us.
You wonder why Moms don’t want any Drizzy, Breezy, Whizzy or other names from Snow White and the MC Dwarves? Your momma knows. There is only one Yeezy.
I’ve known my mom since I was zero years old. She is quite dope.
― Kanye West, Raising Kanye: Life Lessons from the Mother of a Hip-Hop Superstar
Now I’m gonna need for y’all to leave my boy Kanye alone. Do not make me take this to YouTube, and you know I will.
It occurs to me that I should link here from time to time to the writs of a couple of fellows who weekly pour forth words round this dirt patch.
The first is Dan Cohen. His legend begins with the fact that he invented punk music, way back in 1961, down (naturally) in Los Angeles. Fronting a band called Charleston Grotto. Which quickly found itself banned from area venues, for offering songs like “Kill The Teacher.”
Though, truth be told, Cohen’s music is less like punk, than the Bernard Herrmann score to Vertigo . . . if Bernard had felt compelled to aurally illustrate “the true story of a visit to Hell after the subject loses his virginity to a gorgeous Laurel Canyon witch.” With a lyrical sensibility upbubbling lines like “iridescent rectums that resemble marine life.”
In recent years Cohen has released five more-or-less “solo” albums, some of which are even available at places like Amazon and iTunes. If one must have a comparison to a personage a sizable number of folks have actually heard of, try long-time Cohen companero Tom Waits.
Cohen also produces words without discernible sound, writing weekly for a little arts paper called the Synthesis. I hired him for this gig, back at the setting of the last millennium; I hope he gets paid these days more than I was able to offer him then. Though, things being what they are, I doubt it. Cohen’s most recent effort is fully representative of his oeuvre: he is, for No Sane Reason, stalked by an elderly woman, determinedly pursuing him from within a walker, a being Cohen fears may be a “haint” of his recently deceased mother.
Anthony Peyton Porter I did not hire, though I did help found the paper he today labors for. While he is by far the finest scribe in what we used to call “the treesheet,” his work unaccountably appears weekly in the very back of the paper, beyond even the legal notices and the ads for the Potemkin “medical-marijuana” dives and hormonally charged “gentleman’s clubs.”
We will here resist exploring the symbolism of the seating of this black man at the very back of the paper bus.
Like Cohen, Porter is multimedia: he first came to local attention with commentaries aired over the community radio station, KZFR. While immured in the land of snow, he had previously engaged in, as he puts it, “muttering on KFAI, Twin Cities Public Television, and Minnesota Public Radio.”
Porter has an enviable gift for delivering, in 400 words or so, insights that require others to wail away for 400,000. As in this exploration of the same-as-it-ever-was twinning ancient Rome and today.
And, like Cohen, Porter fearlessly plumbs the personal. As here. Wherein—another of his gifts—open to whatever the universe may present, he finds, amid great grief, telepathy.
Read these guys. Send them some love. And money.