Archive for the 'La Musica' Category



Each Feather, It Falls From Skin

and under the boughs unbowed
all clothed in snowy shroud
she had no heart so hardened
all under the boughs unbowed

Miep, you say:

Blueness, did you hear about that poor man who got shot down in the hills by the ABQ police? My other friends and I were all very upset. There are people trying to arrest the ABQ police department now. It’s horrible. Firing squads dressed up in police suits.

You say:

Blueness, he was just up there camping in the hills, because scary campingit got to be too much for him. And our delightful asshole culture sent a bunch of dudes up there after him with a trained attack dog and assault rifles.

You say:

And they murdered him after they escalated the situation. After he agreed to surrender.

You say:

He was just camping.

You say:

Fucking shot him down. He turned away. I’ve had friends who were that upset. They fucking shot him down. He could have been a good friend of mine from earlier back in my life. They fucking shot him down. “Firing Squad Dressed Up In Police Costumes.”

Who knows who that man was? He could have been a lover, a painter, an artist. He could have been our best friend.

You say:

Fucking shot him down.

You say:

I love how you hew to non-violence, Blueness. That’s a tough road to travel.

And I say: how can I not hew to non-violence?

If I do not, then someday, in spirit, or in flesh, I will be up there, down there, just like them, them ABQ law-jockeys, knuckles drug all the way into the ground, fucking shooting someone down, because s/he did, basically, not sufficiently walk, like me, talk, like me.

and i will hang my head
hang my head
low

And I cannot do that, because, all those other all and everys, they’re me.

I know this. Whenever I ever encounter any other being on this, or any other, planet—animal, mineral, vegetable—I know that being is me.

How can people not see this?

How can people hurt and kill themselves?

Beats me. Beats us all. All us all.

I have arisen not from the dead. But from the living. And I am not a voice crying in the wilderness. For there is no winter here. No dark. No despair. The lights are going on in my house. For there is no darkness anywhere. I have all my lights on. And it is my own face, I see in the blazing windows of all the houses on earth.

Once upon an all and every, we were all of one undifferentiated consciousness, spanning all of space and time. Anything we wanted to be, any place we could be, we would be. All and every one of us. And always together.

Somewhere along the line, it was determined—probably by somebody like Satan—that such shit was, well, boring.

It was all happy and wrapped and loving and snug and snuggly and all, but, like, where was the great wide open?

What might it be like if one could shed the other 400 trillion beings clinging to the brain-pan, and live a life just as a one?

And so, some bored whole beings, decided—yeah, hot damn, let’s maybe, like, funincarnate into individual corporeal containers.

It’ll be, like, fun.

And so, they—we—did that.

And, from that, is where we, here on earth, get terms like “shrieking,” “ululating,” “rending their garments,” “biting through their tongues,” “scraping the shit off their skin with pot-shards,” “screaming till their lips bleed,” “blowing their brains out,” and other pleasantries.

I mean: think: why is the first thing a baby born into this world, do do, is cry?

Because that baby being, having moved from the collective consciousness, to the trapped caged lonely consciousness of singular, feels that hollowness and estrangement and alienation and radio silence, and then realizes: oh shit. I wanna go back.

All life. Of every human being. On this planet. Is about wanting to go back. To the undifferentiated cloud. To the great wide open.

All of everything every human has ever been about, here, is about that.

“Love,” always and every acknowledged in every culture as some sort of misty grail, is so acknowledged because it is the closest the scraped-off individualized human loonily marooned on this planet can get, to what it was, all and always. where they came from, where all were suffused in one, all were in touch, all were one.

Miep: the download, to this planet, from the collective to the individual: in this there are variables.

There are, like, the fucking rawboned mutant ruined Bill Gates 666 Windows downloads, which result in monsters like those ABQ cops, who feel no kin to anyone, ‘cept maybe pit bulls, and so slaver to kill, conquer, subdue, smile, smirk.

Whereas people like you and I, we are more suffused with something like the Eden-promise of Apple, when it was still but the gentle dream in Steve Wozniak’s soul, there in the puttering Palo Alto garage, long before the grasping money-souled Steve Jobs seized hold of it, and transformed it into Product.

It’s all going to be okay, Miep. Because we really are all one soul, and one being. And this all is just a temporary experiment, one disastrously launched upon because, up there in “heaven,” we got bored.

The purpose behind all this earthly suffering is that we want to be the one soul, like we yesused to be, but we also want to feel it individually.

That’s what all this all is all about.

In getting there, some of us incarnate as dumbshit pit bulls, like the ABQ cops. And some incarnate as people who, like you, pet tarantulas, and feel so much you can barely stand to wake each day.

We all, eventually, one by one, decided up there, that this was a good idea.

We have to trust that it really is.

I believe it is.

I believe we will all go again into the great wide open. And without bodies. Which is the way that we came here. But we will go back out with individual “minds.” Within the collective ones.

And I believe that, when we at last swirl really away, a la Childhood’s End, we will retroactively bring with us all incarnated corporeal beings ever sentenced to this planet.

Which is what, fumbling, people like Jesus and Buddha were trying to get to.

And now you know. Why, really, I no longer post on the cross of Daily Kos.

As neither do you.

you can take
all the tea in china
put it in a big brown bag for me
sail it right around
all the seven oceans
drop it straight into the deep blue sea

What It Is

Not Finished

yet will I sing
bonny boys
bonny mad boys
bedlam boys are bonny

for they all go bare
and they live in the air
and they want no drink nor money

i went to pluto’s kitchen
to break my fast one morning
and there i got souls piping hot
that on the spit were turning

bonny boys
bonny mad boys
bedlam boys are bonny

for they all go bare
and they live in the air
and they want no drink nor money

Sitting Still Moving Still Staring Outlooking

Heart’s Broke Eating Dripping

Wherever He Goes The People All Complain

The Noahs Have Always Been Assholes

“Noah was an asshole.”

“Why Noah?” Arkady asked. This holewas a new indictment.

“He didn’t argue.”

“Noah should have argued?”

Yakov explained, “Abraham argues with God not to kill everyone in Sodom and Gomorrah. Moses pleads with God not to kill worshippers of the golden calf. But God tells Noah to build a boat because He’s going to flood the entire world, and what does Noah say? Not a word.”

“Not a word,” said Bobby, “and saves the minimum. What a bastard.”

Martin Cruz Smith, Wolves Eat Dogs

Inventions

Until today, I believed absolutely that a nun invented barbed wire.

Then I was informed, by the intertubes, that this was just some shit made up by James Joyce, in Ulysses.

That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited her small head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was truecrossed in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with that sort of a woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that morning. But glad to communicate with the outside world. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet name too: caramel. She knew I, I think she knew by the way of she. If she had married she would have changed. I suppose they really were short of money. Fried everything in the best butter all the same. No lard for them. My heart’s broke eating dripping. They like buttering themselves in and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the pawnbroker’s daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed wire.

According to the intertubes, barbed wire was actually invented by some farmer in Illinois named Joe.

Sorry. I’m not buying it.

For the intertubes is an ever-roiling snakes’-nest of lies.

Anybody can post any nonsense, balderdash, barking-mad insanity to the thing.

I know. I’ve done it myself.

For just one instance, the intertubes would have me believe that when Lindsay Lohan was sentenced to community service in a morgue, it was a tip-off that she is an MK-ULTRA-like sex/drug slave embroiled in Call to Chaos rites by a Freemasonic conspiracy involving US intelligence agents who also controlled Marilyn Monroe and directed “Manchurian Candidate” assassin Sirhan Sirhan.

So this Illinois farmer Joe guy: he’s a figment. Joyce had it right. It is just too perfect: that a nun i'm sorryinvented barbed wire. So I am going with that. It is Reality.

Then there’s this sadsack over to the left. He is the guy who invented the typewriter. He later disowned the machine, refusing to use it, or even recommend it. He was a newspaper publisher who was an indefatigable advocate of the abolition of the death penalty. This was in the mid-1850s. Clearly, ahead of his time. His typewriter had ivory keys, and ebony keys, like a piano. He lived in Wisconsin, land of cheese. He, in the course of things, sucked in TB, and eventually died of it, some nine years later. He was 71 at the time, which was pretty old for somebody dying in 1890. He may have soured on the typewriter because to test it he kept shipping it to a crazed maniac who delighted in destroying it. The maniac would ship it back in pieces. The maniac kind of like that ape in the old TV commercials who used to jump up and down on the luggage. The eschewer-of-his-own-invention sadsack was the doyen of QWERTY. And though he turned his back on it, QWERTY controls Anglo scribblers to this day.

The internet, of course, was invented by insane people who sought a means by which serial killers in nuclear missile silos could continue to communicate with one another after they had let loose their missiles and incinerated the whole of the globe.
Tom Robbins intuited that “human beings were realinvented by water as a device for transporting itself from one place to another.”
In Sirens of Titan Kurt Vonnegut revealed that the whole of human history was invented and controlled by beings of the planet Tralfamadore, subtly but firmly arranging things so that eventually a small metallic object, something like a can opener, would unknowingly and naturally be brought, in the fullness of time, from Earth to Titan, moon of Saturn, and there would replace a disabled part in the grounded spaceship of a Titan-marooned Tralfamadorian ambassador, allowing this Tralfamadorian-being to then continue his mission into the great wide open, charged with transporting, from one end of the universe to the other, a message that read, simply:
Greetings.
If there is one thing that we know, in the all and every of this universe, it is this: this story, vouchsafed to us by Vonnegut, is Absolutely True.

I Hear You Moan

Chris Christie—let’s face it—weighs in at about 400 meaty beaty big & bouncy pounds.

We know from Einstein that mass—and 400 pounds is a lotta mass—can fuck, sometimes seriously, with both space and time.

And so we know that when the fat man screamed till his lips bled that all New Jersey/New  York roads must be closed that might in any way be connected with any Traitor that did not support his meaty beaty big & bouncyness swallowing whole gargantuan a second gubernatorial term, he ripped with his massive mass a massive hole in space/time.

He in this way became Responsible for much of what now recently Puzzles people.

As they scratch their heads in befuddlement, the people . . . well, the fat man, he but splashes, frustrated, impotent, in the tub . . . .

Let’s take a for instance, of what the fat man has wrought.

Malaysia Flight 370. Where do it be gone?

It went clean out of this universe. Sucked through a ripple opened via the space/time rupture of the fat man.

It may still be flying on. That plane. Out there, in some other universe somewhere.

Or, as I earlier suggested: in my universe, it landed, gently, just across the street.

Then there is Ukraine.

The fat man’s bodaciously lardalicious buttocks struck the earth of that nation, and thundered it into pieces.

Already the people of Crimea have retrieved and clung to a wild hair, and remembered that from 1917-1954 the Crimea was part of Russia: until Nikita Khrushchev—himself Ukrainian—gifted the place to Ukraine. A little present for the homeboys. Now, thanks to the fat man’s buttquake, the Crimeans have joyfully returned to the Russian bosom.

Next, Ukraine itself may soon, at last, naturally, split into its two organic halves—one facing east, one facing west.

Ukraine: the land itself has been populated by humans for 44,000 years. But not until 1990 did it become an independent country. With borders, like the borders of so many nations on this planet, completely wrong and ridiculous and out of whack. Created by drunk and deluded and disturbed individuals drawing lines on maps that had nothing to do with the Realities of the people “on the ground.”

Western Ukraine has for centuries crawled across cut glass to be of the people of the Pope.

Eastern Ukraine has for the same centuries crossed its bosom to kiss the beard of the Patriarch.

It is a stitched-together country; it is doomed; it is Fail.

And this is sad. Because, once upon a time, Ukraine offered some of the richest agricultural soil in the world. Until: Chernobyl: the nuke rain did fall. And because, once upon a time, Ukraine offered some of the most beautiful free and feisty women in the world. Until grinding poverty sucked so many of the nation’s x-chromes into the international forced sex trade.

But what the hey. Probably it’s good that the fat man fucked with his lard-butt all of space/time, and thereby broke loose Ukraine.

Had to happen some time.

And with this piece we re-learn that is easy to explain, in one neat little package, all and recent every, when once one has drifted loose, from the moorings of “sanity.”

As St. Jerome did say:

once in a while you can get shown the light
in the strangest of places
if you look at it right

the more that you give
the more it will take
to the thin line beyond which
you really can’t fake

As for the fat man. He himself has always said he’s always just wanted to be Bruce Springsteen. That, then, is what he should have done. Never ever ventured into such a false and fatal poisonous swamp as “politics.” Kept, instead, always, his eyes on the prize.

she’s the one . . . .

Anything Twice

Trimmed And Burning

Calling All Angels

The Glory

Get The Message

Eddie Harris Is My Name

tryin’ to make it real
compared to what

Philip Seymour Hoffman, the other day, he died.

And all the eager scoured-brain skull-lickers, they are all, now, over all and every tube, telling us just how awfully, awfully Wrong, it was, the way, that he died.

He died, apparently, with a needle in his arm. Shooting heroin.

So. Striving. He was. Yassa yassa massa massa. For: the great wide open.

But why, cry the ur-humans, who these days are the all and every of “the press,” though they are knuckledraggers who have never even once gazed upon the monolith . . . why, would ol’ Phil, why would he knock hisself off, even inadvertently, with the ol’ Big Horse?

They do crocodile-weep, these ur-people: faux-crying what they never would say when he was alive—that he was perhaps the finest, most sensitive actor, of his generation.

And in this, they do answer their own question.

Phil, he was, with the needle in his arm, to try to bring the sweet peak understanding surcease release, to both body and mind, just, just, just:

tryin’ to make it real
compared to what

Sign Of A Local Nigger Unravelin’

Once upon a time, there on the deeply sad, old-and-in-the-way mercy-preserve for crippled, doddering, withered, sick, ancient, and/or feeble white people—known round these parts as The Great White—there was a foam-at-the-mouth, blind pigprojectile-vomiting, glow-in-the-dark racist, who called hisself Uberbah.

Among this man’s many manifest manifold sins, included his inability to inscribe a comment without upchucking either the term “weak tea,” or “hand-waving.”

Well, as it is said, “even a blind pig can find an acorn every once in a while.”

And so, tonight, Uberbah, I bow to you. In all your nightriding, white-hooded, glory.

Because, having heard, and turned round and round in my mind’s hands, like a rubik’s cube of the operative universe, the black man’s speech, in re the serial killers of the NSA, I conclude, but four words.

Weak tea.

Hand-waving.

furthur=>

Big Darkness, Soon Come

The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, once upon a time, he served as governor of the spice planet, Arrakis.

But never did he figure out the sandworms.

And so he lost the ring.

When things, there on Arrakis, got very, very dark for him, the pb_harvesterbaron, he stage-managed his own supposed “death”—stabbed and poisoned (so the tale, to this day is told) by his own toddler grand-daughter.

Though, in truth, the baron really escaped hisself, slinking aboard a nearby space-freighter. Which whisked him off Arrakis. And transported him to this here planet. To rudely dump him in New Jersey.

A fate, many would say, actually worse, than death.

The baron, ever adaptable and ambitious, did, in the course of things, emerge from the fetid swamplands of New Jersey. As Chris “Meaty, Beaty, Big, And Bouncy” Christie.

Under which rubric he eventually—through bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble—managed to get himself elected governor of the state.

Next, the baron transformed into Captain LapBand. A persona with which he expected to attain the presidency of the United States. So he could preside over—and jeebus knows why he’d wanna—the further crumbling of a terminally failed nation-state.

But now, in recent days, has come a Problem. The baron has become confronted with Horrors unseen since those dark Arrakis days when the sandworms came a-flowing through the Shield Wall.

For—yea, verily—it has been j’accused, that he, Captain LapBand, and/or his people, deliberately snarled into four-day stasis chaos, traffic on the George Washington Bridge. The busiest, and therefore most insane, bridge, into the busiest, and therefore most insane, city in all North America—New York City.

And all but to punish the mayor of a tiny New Jersey burg. Who wouldn’t endorse the LapBand for re-election to the governorship.

A mayor sprung from long-ago Atreides loins: the same Atreides with which the baron did long-ago war, there on Arrakis.

Confucius, it is said, that once upon a time, he did say: “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”

And this is why, today, earthmovers, from all over the nation, are steaming avidly to New Jersey. There to dig, somewhere in the stinking poisoned superfund sites which comprise the vast majority of that state, a vast christie must go undergroundand yawning pit, capacious enough in which to lay the bursting bloating remains, of Captain LapBand.

For when you tip the scales at roughly 400 pounds, and you exclusively travel hither and yon in a stretch limo flanked by domestic serial killers on motorbikes with sirens, who blast any and all traffic out of your way, it is daylight madness to get caught lifting your chubby sausage-like fingers to intentionally and terminally fuck with the way mere mortals get about in their automobiles.

For everyone who has ever once been sentenced to living in a city has experienced the Warp 10 impotence and rage of being stuck in a traffic jam.

And, since cities are currently nearing maddened frenzied colony-collapse—see the already-happened non-fiction tome City, which traces the blessed death of cities—said cities are more crowded than ever before.

And, thus, more Americans, than ever before, are thereby daily beset, by said traffic-jam impotence and rage.

Because we have not yet reached. The blessed place. Where the de-evolved colony of the scrambled-brain city collapses.

Where let it be written. Where let it be done.

I’ll try to keep this particular tangent down to the below seven-paragraph minimum.

To wit: the bridge that Captain LapBand fucked, the George Washington, the busiest bridge in the nation, it feeds into the howling fetid terminal insanity-vector known as New York City.

When white people arrived on this continent, not that many years ago, the NYC area was home to some 15,000 native people, the Lanape.

So sorry, but that, then, provably, is the maximum number of humans that the land can support.

The other 8 million or so folks currently living there—they’ll just have to move.

But that’s okay. They’ll sunnily be better off elsewhere. The certifiably crazed and unbelievably twisted mad-scientist BF Skinner experiment of NYC: it’s just over.

So let it go.

To settle, with Captain LapBand, into the grave.

So anyway. Human Americans, sitting there in their cars, in a traffic jam, hearing that the Harkonnen human-zeppelin intentionally let them stew for four days in non-moving traffic—they will pound their fists through their horns, and loudly vow, with spittle spewing from their lips, blood vengeance.

Americans, they will put up with a lot. Slavering murder, random bomb-rain, unsane wars, sniffing through the underpants of their intertubes, literal vaginal and anal probes.

But—jeebus christie—don’t fuck with their cars.

A guy who, like the baron, needs one or more cement-reinforced dollys, to move him merely from this vehicle to that, he simply cannot afford to be seen to slow, even an iota, any of them, his, ‘Mericans, moving mobile.

‘Less he wants to be lynched.

Though, it is true, considering the baron’s poundage, said lynching would probably require at least three, and possibly four, ropes. And, no doubt, moving his blubbery carcass, out of state.

Because I don’t think New Jersey, it, any longer, grows, anywhere, a tree, strong and sturdy enough, to bear his burdensome weight.

Too bad for you, baron: still too suffused with Arrakis-think. For this is ‘Merica. Where all, must always be free, to go, unfettered and free, mobile.

Captain LapBand’s bumbling sausage-fingered thumbs-down on all the vehicular traffic burbling up from the town of the cursed Atreides-spawn: it reminds me of the 1994 foam-flecked frenzy over the “House banking scandal.”

That is when it was learned that legislators in the United States House of Representatives could blissfully and recurrently avail themselves of the round-heeled services of a special House “bank,” one that allowed them to bounce, oh say, 200 or 300 checks a year, for which they would not be expected to pay any penalty fees, checks they could pay off two or three or four years down the line.

Americans, en masse, when once this became news, went insane.

Back in that day, you could turn on your television, at any hour of the day or the night, and see brown South American people who, right before your very eyes, were being viciously and maniacally tortured, killed, and raped, by US serial killers. But all the foam that did fleck from North American lips, it concerned but the fact that their congresscritter had a bank, that would do for him, what a bank wouldn’t do for the Normal North American.

See, the Normal North American, the bank gives s/he, no mercy. And the Normal North American, deals with said merciless bank, every day.

And then, for a Normal North American, to see a congresscritter, lying naked, upon a perfumed couch, being suckled and serviced, by such a very same bank: this made the Normal North American—yea verily—want to Stab, and Shoot.

And the result of this, was that 77 serving members of the House of Representatives were thrown out on their rears. And, as consequence, the Publicans took control of the House. For the first time in 40 years.

And it’s basically been their place, ever since. Unto the dawn of today. When the House of Representatives is dominated by pre-monolith retroverts who would outlaw the human orgasm, and command that all publicly laugh, whenever any poor person dies.

I guess it’s too bad about the baron, really. At heart, he’s just a Jersey fat boy. Who, like just about every Jersey boy of his era—fat or no—wanted nothing more than to be Bruce Springsteen.

And, in this, Barack Obama, shrewdly, gifted the Cap’n. Giving Bruce onto Cap’n Fatband; as close as the Cap’n’ll will ever get, to Bruce.

For when the Cap’n agreed to snuggle up close to the president, in exchange for aid for Hurricane Sandy, The Bruce, The Boss, thereby agreed to come into the presence, of the Cap’n.

And, so it was written, and then it was done. The Bruce, and the Cap’n, they did speak. And, then, they did—yea, verily—embrace.

That, now, it is clear, will stand as the highlight of Meaty, Beaty, Big And Bouncy’s, very life.

He could, then, have settled.

But he did not. He tried to strive higher.

No go.

Too much time spent on Arrakis, my fat not-friend. You never sufficiently absorbed, the human touch.

For a human, a real human, a feeling human, s/he doesn’t let another human, sit, stewing, sweating, swearing, in an unmoving vehicle. For four days. For no Real reason.

But you: you did that.

And so: you’re done.

You’re over.

You’re finished.

You’re gone.

Just think. Baron. Of what you might have had.

Oh well. Too bad. All over now.

Now The King Will Dance

There are no nations, no parties, no ideologies.

There are only queens. And kings.

The acid test was breaking out into an area in which it had no specific goals. It was just discovering what there dancewas out there if you continued to move away from the norm.

It was a test. And there were people that passed, and there were people that didn’t pass.

When we did the show up in Portland—to give you an idea of someone who passed—some businessman, just walkin’ around on the street, came in; we charged a buck, and for a buck you got to see us make all our noise, and the Dead make all their noise, and anything else that happened.

This guy was in a suit, and he had an umbrella. He got the customary cup of stuff. And about midnight, you could see him really get ripped. Somebody who’d probably never been anything but drunk on beer. But he looked around, and he saw all these strange people, and he looked down, and the spotlight was showing down on him, and he saw his shadow.

And he stands up straight, puts that umbrella over his shoulder, and he says:

“The king walks.”

And:

“The king turns around.”

And:

“Now the king will dance.”

—Ken Kesey

I Think That We Will Be Able To Communicate Soon

Let’s have a little break here, so that we don’t get too tired. Do you have any questions or problems? First issue: very often after the fourth beat there is a feeling of waiting for something. We wait for the fourth note . . . and the flow of the yesmusic stops . . . Or maybe my heart stops.

I have stage fright when I face you. I do not do this every day. Instead I listen to music, and I’m more interested in playing myself, than conducting.

But I will improve before tomorrow. If I live that long.

The most important problem for me at the end of the twentieth century is the continual lack of time. We are always in an awful hurry and still we waste an incredible amount of time, for instance in front of the TV or in a car. While I do like some aspects of our “fast” civilization—I love to fly in airplanes, I am fascinated with cosmic adventures, trips to the moon or Mars—and we do live in astounding times, still, here, in this music, we have to surrender ourselves to this other dimension of time. We have to slow down. Only then the sonority will be fantastic: the higher the music will go, the more distinctly it will sound. I dream of writing such tranquil music. I do not want to compose anything that echoes the modern “rush”—the cell phones, the telephones and faxes. It has to be calm. Life is too beautiful to be wasted in this way, by rushing things so much.

How should I explain it to you? Perhaps you should think about an elevator: you leave behind the basement of everyday life, filled with noises, distractions and anxieties, and you take the elevator up to the yestenth floor, or even into the sky of timelessness. When you are in this music, time slows down, it is as if you were in heaven, it is like eternity. Do you understand what I want to achieve there? Total calm.

Let us play it again.

This is a mother’s song. This song has to be expressed both by the orchestra and the soloist. It has to be contemplative in mood, but still maintain the tempo. It approximates the speed of slow walking, when one walks alone, lost in thought. We have to enter into this mood. It is as if we were walking, or even slowly dancing. You have to think about walking here.

For me it is a very difficult movement because I do not usually engage in conducting and I do not know how to enchant you with my hand movements. But music carries me away and I may at some spots—and please forgive me if I do—make a wrong movement at a certain time. But you know the score and could play on. So then do not look at me, at what I am doing, but listen to each other, listen to what happens around you.

I am sorry for these mistakes. But I think that we will be able to communicate soon.

—Henryk Gorecki

Like Water Flow

Alpha and omega, the beginning and the ending, which is, and which was, and which is to come.

—Revelation 1:8

On those stepping into rivers staying the same other and other waters flow.

—Heraclitus

The chemical composition of seawater, the Science Men tell us, is identical to that of human tears.

And seawater, they tell us, is from where, on this planet, all life did grow.

I believe that, in a mobius strip of time, the tears shed by us, created the oceans, from which came us.

So. Don’t hold back. Let them flow. All your tears. Like water flow.

And upon them, someday, you may sail. Sail to Caledonia.

Heart Is Open

I want to tell my daughter not to be afraid. Instead I’ll tell her to be vigilant, and to look to her dreams and nightmares for clues and signs of progress. I’ll tell her to be open-minded about the spirit world, and if it feels right, to call yesupon the spirits for help. I will also tell her to seek out communities embarked on meaningful and noble acts. The acts need not be as large as the Sword of Heaven, for any act that makes the world a better place is worthy. Above all, I’ll tell her that all action, big or small, must always be accompanied by the opening of one’s heart. As the Sword of Heaven taught me, ritual only takes one to the door. To get through to the other side, there must be love.

The afternoon light moves from the end of my desk and for a moment illuminates the letters on my keyboard. From my window, I can see a huge ship passing beneath the Golden Gate Bridge on its way to dock. I lean back and take it all in. I wonder where the ship is going next. I wonder where the light will fall now.

—Mikkel Aaland, The Sword of Heaven

He Put On The Shirt His Mother Made

This past Wednesday Elvis Presley reached the age of 79.

Gettin’ up there.

But he’s doin’ alright. Out and about. Cruising the shopping malls and casinos, of them United States.

Leaning on the arm, when he needs it, of Andy Kaufman.

This Land Is This Land


When I Worked

April 2014
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