Catfish Gill

I've been afraid

Not of the truth

But of what it would do to you

I've wanted to slough the burden

Of which it weighs me down

Words have not been given

Me

That would shine a brighter light

Sufficient to reveal and yet

Dim enough so as not to blind

For it is not to you that I would send them

Neither do I expect you to listen to them

I would rather you didn't

But what comes around goes around

And I have lived vicariously through

You

For many, many years

Surely the truth will find it's way

It's own special way

I should embrace it, let it set me free

But I fear it

I fear death, too

There is something pushing against my back

Something heavy and forceful

The momentum of it's thrust

Finds a center in my chest

Where I can only imagine a heart rests

My secret room, my prayer closet

Storehouse for everything I've ever known

Wasteland of every forgotten thought and memory

Embryo of my spirit

Womb of my soul

The weight of all that follows me

Threatens to raze it all

All I ever was, pushed into nothing

I feel it strong, it doesn't stop

A vacant numbness envelopes my mind

Some kind of mental Novocaine

I see the beauty of the world

I hear the music of your voice

They crawl into open holes

And pass straight through, down the spiral

Until the spiral implodes

In upon itself

Disappearing, vanishing, out of this world

Unregistered by the attention span of a zombie

Still, there are moments of cognizance

That I would cherish fondly

If only memory would cooperate

I do not want to die

I want to disappear

I want to close my eyes and never have to open them again

I want to dissolve into nothing

I want to ride that spiral myself and find out

To where the visions travel

I want to float in an ocean of light

Millions of miles from land in any direction

I want to be able to give up everything

That makes me want to stay here

A list, by the way, which gets shorter by the year

I want to walk into the light

That condemns me on this side

I would give up heaven

To go back to the womb

To call this life a draw

Before I could get the chance to ruin so many lives

Then slice open that womb

And let the placenta drenched shell drop into a bucket

You'll never see me

The scalpel will never press cool surgical steel

Against anything I could be, would be

Into anything I am

And let my mother shed no tears

And grieve me not

I am where I always hoped to be

I am where I am

The light shows this heart of mine

That's where I want to be, too

And this may sound like something

But it's not

I will hold on to hope

Even as it dies to an ember

Invisible to the naked eye

I am a strong man

My soul has been beaten down

Many times

But I always pick it back up

Stuff it back in

Move on

Move on

Move on

And I know what love is

I just can't feel it

Which doesn't make it any less love

But it lives in a hollow place

Where it stings like a hornet

When touched

Like the poison of a catfish gill

That once slipped into the skin

Makes you never want to go fishing again

Love that can't be felt, is it worth living for?

Precious Lord, is it worth dying for?

These pills won't cure you

Hopefully they will keep the illness at bay

Bravo, pharmaceutical science

transition time

I never felt the tears
Hot, salty drops of joy or anguish
Rolling down your cheeks to meet
A smile so wide to bless the years to come
Or
A grimace of despair, all hope lost for a future
You wiped them away
Until all the only thing left was a stinging
Blush of red
That faded within moments

The only sounds I ever heard were muffled
A one-way communication through a thick wall
I didn't understand a single word
The sing-song inflections lost in translation
Barely disturbing the silence
I am content with
Darkness to float in, this is my world
Tethered not by gravity
But the love and nourishment provided
By Someone I will never know

My mind holds dreams
That are not my own
Visions I would just as soon
Not give up
Every name I have been given
By God and by Man
Is a lie
For my eyes are closed
I speak for an older soul
Unconcerned with a legacy

I have no need for air
I don't need your love
I don't want your compassion
At least, not now
Does it bring you sadness to think
I would ignore gifts you want to give me?
Does it break your heart to know
That I don't need anything?
Do you want so badly for me to want?
Do you want so badly for me to need?
I would never burden you
These things are for you

Go to sleep, mother
Find yourself in that space
Between sleep and dreams
Soon enough the dream will be over
Find me in that space
Between death and life
Soon enough the two will merge
And my dream will begin

You cannot kill me
I cannot die
I would be yours
But I would just as soon
Keep floating
Until the day you find yourself
In that space
Between death and life
Where we will merge
And our dreaming will have begun

I forgive you
Though you need no pardon,
If you need time to get there
I would only ask that you
Forgive yourself
You have done nothing wrong
Ignore the fools crying "foul"
The ones who never walked
From one side of the room to the other
In your shoes
They don't understand these things I tell you
They're blinded by reckless judgment and condemnation
I have no morals
I have no convictions
I have no beliefs
I have no thoughts
I cannot be murdered by the self-righteousness of men

But let our time together bring peace and enlightenment
Not guilt or shame
Let the tears shed for my memory
Be of joy
For I passed through unseen, unheard
Unknown by all
Except for you

In the Court of King Me

Got a message from my half
Mrs. Hypochondriac
Moody right, moody right
Tell your CC
Let everyone know
Beatnik shit, beatnik shit
Listen to that beaten sound
Keeps me running, keeps the engines hummin'
Listen to that beating sound
Tic Tac Tic Tac
Got a lookout for King Me
Watch your Q's and watch your P's
Dot your eyes and cross your tease
You're gonna see what you still won't believe
Birth your rumors of immortality
Pound them 'til I can't help but agree
But when the truth slays the light
Don't blame me
King Me King Me King Me King Me
I'm the King, I'm the King, I'm the King, I'm the King
Keep your filthy black stained hands off of my crown
Take up your own bleeding cross and ride it to town
I'm the King
Too good for my own good and don't give a fu ck
Hatching plans to freak out the Man
Got a meanness in me that I don't understand
A lie for a dollar, a life for a dime
There's a well, a deep, deep well I fell
Into once
Where in the tumbling I found
The true hidden meaning of falling down
The treasure at the bottom wasn't worth the minute
It took to get there
King Mad, King Mad, King Mad, King Mad
These songs for a King
King You and King Me
King Kong's a Ding Dong
Monkey Tales
Banana on a stick
Dipped in black chocolate
Rancid and arcane
Read in, read in
The main character wears a black tunic
His queen is the one with the brain
Better half, better half she tells him
It's best you stay quiet you'll give it away
You've done enough damage for one other day
What's done is done
Nothing but another bridge to burn
Another corner to turn
She says
You understand it less than I
And your understanding is void and dry
Quiet now, my loveless love
My misunderstood drug
My salt melted slug
Quiet now, before people believe
In the nonsense you write, the bullshit they read

mission statement

we shall name shadows
give weight to ghosts
enshrine our egos
throw down a gauntlet
take up a mantle
we shall sing colors
with tongues of fire
we will spit nonsense
and call it...

deadweight transition

Such small things 

Weigh us down in resentment

Complicated, colliding, soon enough

Ensnared

Feeling gravity's pull

Suspended and trapped in a web

Spun with failed expectations

Stuffed to suffocation, the weight of nothing

Almost solid

You could smash it with a hammer

Insignificant things

Tossed away like trash to the side of the road

Littering, contaminating, spoiling

What once claimed a special place

Hearts

A place for spiders

I can almost feel the heat of poison

With each drop from steel through skin

With each moment begging more and more

For attention

Melting away unfulfilled

Each moment

Begging

I'm powerless but to close my eyes and deny their petitions

What's a moment worth anyway?

What's it good for in the end?

Something to search for, something to lose

Moments are meant to be forgotten

Pity the fool who doesn't understand this

Death comes as a hard lesson to that man

track 4

...and the sound filled the room

An intoxicating fog that pulled straight down

On my rusty heartstrings

Vibrations overflowing, attracting, resisting

Until chakra aura colors lit the space

Between the speakers 

And me

...it was distilled joy, revelation

Hands raised to the sky kind

...and he rode atop those sonic waves like

Jesus, walking on the water, hand held out

Inviting

He sang and his voice was light

And it glowed, illminating the space

Revealing the swirling vapors

He sang and he must have known me

Sweet God, he must have known me

Better than anyone I'd ever known

In seven words he wrote the book

With a wordless wail he read it to the world

He'd conjured hypnotic melodies

Chants and prayers

Soon enough my jaws would be sore

Knees dirty

Voice hoarse but I would sing along forever

To become one with the unfathomable 

Spirit

The Ghost who bestows

The Gift

...relating to the words

Falling in love with the singer and the song

Allowed, for 5 minutes, 

To worship gods made by the hands of men

I stayed up all night

Reliving those moments

Bookended by ignored reality

Cherishing the song

Until everything about it 

Became a part of me

Special, important, essential as anything else

...and I was hanging with some friends of mine

Wordlessly enjoying the silence

A blessing for us to share

But one does get bored

I spotted a pile of old magazines

Not so much stacked but thrown in a corner

Most of them were sports related

Cuz those naggas of mine were obsessed with the game

Towards the bottom I spyed with my leering eye

A couple of soft core quarterlys with juvenile titles

Buried somewhere between the two I found a music rag

Pulled it from the trash heap

Bob Dylan on the cover

Sign of the times

I settled in for an amusing if not educational read

Flipping through the snot slick pages I came to the

"Letters to the Editor" section

Halfway down the page, in the center column

Proudly displayed in loud "all caps" someone had written

"COLDPLAY SUCKS!"

The abruptness of his less-than-charitable opinion was

Jarring

So I conjured up a mental image of the guy who had written it

And directed my own, even less charitable exhortation

Delivered mentally with a force that would frighten demons

"FUCK YOU!"

I went home and played track 4

In infinite repeat mode

I loved it even more for the fact

That some asshole hated it so much

reclaiming my memories: my first computer

"Memories, like the shadows of your mind...misty water colored memories of the way we were." Is that how it goes? I may have forgotten. No, I've PROBABLY forgotten. You see, my memory isn't the most reliable function of my psychology. I'm not sure if it's always been that way or if it's a situation brought on by years and years of living in a subculture that was indifferent to the potential effects of it's central activity (</discretionary code>).

That subculture helped forge a sense of identity for me, even as it stole the memories it helped make. And so I know full well that I had a lot of good experiences, many good times, but most are still stuck in the moment in which they occurred. Where they will likely remain until the day I die. Then again I guess the trade off being all the bad "trips" that I'm spared remembering by the same process of brain cell annihilation.

Then comes the real horror...the possibility that I could develop Alzheimer's. I don't know if the killing of so many brain cells in the past makes more susceptible to Alzheimer's in the future. It's a sobering thought and definitely a good reason to repent of all those wasted years. I used to say, "well, the experiences I've had with the help of this drug are worth just about anything that might come about as a result of it"...which was a stupid mindset. The only thing more stupid was the fact that I made myself believe it. I was only trying to convince myself that I had nothing to fear and it would all be worth it in the long run. Things would even out, the good times and the bad, the risks and the rewards. All the while I knew better, but denial is an easy friend to keep.

But I didn't come here to bemoan my fate or express my fears of memory damage...or I should say continual worsening of memory damage that I hope does not lead to Alzheimer's. I don't think I could handle that. No, I wanted to start a series of posts that describe some of the memories I have left (not saying that the reservoir is close to empty, just that it should probably be more full). I like to think I'm a typical human being and that it's perfectly normal that I wouldn't have really BIG events to write about in posts like these. Most, if not all, will be just little things that come to mind, and that's really what I'm wanting to record here. The seemingly insignificant details that are likely the next memories to join the flock that have flown. I realize that writing such "trivial" moments could well come off as being narcissistic, but I don't guess I care. It's a blog and open to everyone, true, but really, I'm not under any false illusions that I've got some huge audience of readers out there who follow my every word. A couple of friends who check in when they can, and that's more than I would ask for. When I shut down my last blog I was hoping that this one would have a much more "personal" flavor to it. That's what I've been shooting for. Now I'm ready (at least I THINK I'm ready) to move it into even more personal territory and the truth of the matter is that this will take on the aspect, in part if not whole, of a chronicle, sort of an autobiography, something I can look back on in 10 or 20 years and say "Aha! I forgot all about that!" I do that sometimes with the old Listening Room, but there's so much content there that has nothing to do with me. Here I'm going to post stuff that I'm going to be interested in several years down the road. Jeez, I guess I should be writing all this as a "statement of purpose" page. I'll make a note of it.

For now, though, I'll start the ball rolling with recollections of our first computer.

A very young Bryan with a very old Compaq

We bought our first computer in 1999. I remember, because it was the year my father passed away and we were living in a run down hovel of a house. I became so obsessed with it that I would set it up in the kitchen of that tiny house so I could screw around online all night long without disturbing the wife and son. I was fascinated. More than once I stayed up all night long and well into the morning waiting for those websites to load snail-slow with a 56k connection.

It was a piece of junk Compaq PC with Windows 97. Oh, I shouldn't call it that. From the vantage point of today, sitting here typing on a decent laptop, it doesn't look like much (then again, though I DID use the word "decent" to describe this laptop, I would also designate it as every bit a piece of junk as the Compaq in several key areas). It was more than enough for me, as my knowledge of computers was EXTREMELY limited. Like expecting a 9 year old to read and understand "War and Peace". So it was, but at that level all I really needed to know was how to click on the Internet Explorer icon.

I spent considerable time on the Rolling Stone website at first. I'd read about it in the magazine. Had no idea about how to use the message boards. I remember writing a post on the Flaming Lips page. Probably some boasting that they were from Oklahoma...ah, I remember...I DID brag. I told of how they used to play acoustic shows at Shadowplay Records in Norman. I'm sure I made a point to mention that I knew the owner of the store quite well. I also posted on the R.E.M. page pining for the good old days when their music was good, complaining about the direction they'd taken. I got a couple of responses from that one. No surprise that they were both in disagreement, what do you expect from people who hang out on the R.E.M. page? Anyhoo, I soon bored of posting on band's pages.

I noticed that a lot of the conversations on the band boards were off topic (probably obvious, but not to this novice). I did engage in some of these discussions and became "friends" with a few regulars. Also found myself plagued with a few enemies whose only purpose for being there was to incite flame wars (Lysergic Aaron, Plokoon, these were a couple of the more incendiary).

It was 2000 by this time and I was a little (reiterate LITTLE) more familiar with the Internet. One night, likely coasting on a manic swing, I had an idea. Why not create a message board that was for NOTHING BUT "off topic conversation"? It would bring together posters from different boards and they wouldn't have to worry about discussing the bands from whose pages they came. Once again I stayed up all night putting the thing together. It wasn't just an R.S.V.P. affair. I set it up like it was a club and called it JACkory's Insect Lounge (JACkory was my user name and "Insect Lounge" was in tribute to a radio program of the same name that used to play underground music on the radio station at CSU back in the early 80s). We joked about being a gang that would protect the place and fight off unwelcome visitors. Somehow or other a "Clockwork Orange" vibe came into play and we began calling ourselves "droogs".

The board became very popular and was a staple in the RS community until the message boards were shut down (there are still people who believe that the demise of those original message boards can be traced back to the influence of the Insect Lounge...who knows, maybe it did). It inspired several "copy-cat" boards, as many of the Lounge's regulars decided they wanted their own version. Some were very good (JLLM's Beatnik Cafe), some not quite as much (Clicker's Cave). My board stayed fairly active through it all, even if there were some who defected. That was to be expected, what with the divisive nature of the new boards. A lot of people came around just to watch flame wars that I somehow got into. Immature, I know. Ridiculous for someone in his late 30s (God, I'm embarrassed to have to admit that). But I had fun.

I'll talk more about the Lounge at a later date. We were reminiscing about the first computer, remember?

I'd read about Live 365, probably in the same issue of Rolling Stone where I learned of their website. Live 365 seemed like a godsend. It may well have been. I wouldn't know because I couldn't get it to work. Really pissed me off. It wasn't too long afterwards that I realized that the reason it wouldn't work for me was because I had nothing but a dial-up connection. Then again, I was so computer illiterate that I paid something like thirty bucks for a "premium" version of Real Player, thinking I could listen to music with it. Ha. What a waste of money. 56k, oh how I miss you. I learned patience from you but you were a cruel teacher.

The one site I hung out during the very first days and weeks after buying the computer was called "the Party House". "Welcome to the Party House!" was the header. It was nothing more than a fancy chat room. You logged in and started in the front room. You could chat with the whole room or you could have a private conversation. Or you could go into another section of the Party House, maybe the bedroom or the kitchen, whatever, and there were people to chat with there. Inane chat. Typical chat. Mindless chat. I always figured it was a place where people hooked up for cyber-sex. Wait, did I sound like I didn't know this for sure? Sorry. It WAS a place where people hooked up for cyber-sex. Cyber-sex, my God, how much more pathetic does it get?

Believe it or not, it was my sister-in-law who brought the Party House into our lives. She had bought a computer a few months before we did. When my wife was visiting her she would go to the Party House and they would laugh and joke about it. It wasn't long before we got our machine that she showed the site to me. I'm not proud of the time I wasted chatting on the Party House website, but in my defense I would insist that I didn't know any better, such a noobie in cyberspace.

I'm not sure if the Party House is still around. I seem to remember looking it up out of curiosity some time back. I think it might have still been there, but it had changed considerably. (I just googled it...if it still exists it is NOT on the first page and I'm not gonna bother looking any further).

A few years later we gave the Compaq to our son and bought a Dell. It was a much better computer, even if it was another PC (XP OS this time). Not much later I had the opportunity to buy another  one and by then I really wanted a laptop. I got a VAIO with Vista Premium. People generally tend to hate Vista, but I kind of liked it. I can't really complain about it, other than it seemed like the keys were a little more difficult to press than should have been and there was a sharp ridge where my wrists hung off of. That kind of hurt.

A LONG story surrounds what happened to that VAIO and I'll definitely have to put that off until later. Suffice to say that I replace it with a HP Pavilion dv6. Also suffice to say that I'm NOT satisfied with it. It gets by, and that's about it. I wish I had a Macintosh, but I am not a rich man. I can't even afford to dump this one and buy a decent PC.

It's better than the Compaq, though. Which is great, but then again the novelty of the Internet has been worn out for a long time. Seriously, the only things I ever do on the computer anymore is check out facebook, listen to Spotify, check my e-mail and every once in awhile, when the mood strikes and the wrists aren't too sore, write a little something for this blog. I guess there are times when I'll do something else, but they get rarer and rarer every day. I used to love Stumbling, now I could really care less. So much Internet culture is worthless. The Internet itself is full of junk and misinformation, the comments and opinions of people who have absolutely no idea what they're talking about. So much hate abounds.

Ah, but my "Starred" favorites list on Spotify is a thing of beauty. 1381 tracks. Over 4 days worth of music. If for that alone I will not abandon the Internet.

Ruminations on 50

Today I turn 50 years old. (this was written in April 2012) That IS a milestone age, right? It's sort of a halfway point in an ideal lifespan. It's more or less the initiation into middle age. I can get the senior buy-2-get-one-free discount at IHOP in just five more years. It seems as if every time I turn on the television I'm offered life insurance at reduced rates because I'm "between 50-65 years of age". Half a century. 18,262 days. I see movies that are set in the 70s and have to accept that they are nostalgic period pieces.

When I turned 30 everything was cool. Nothing to it. Nothing changed and I didn't expect it to. It didn't. Then I got to 40 and it was like, "this ain't so bad. I think I can deal with it". Which I did and for the most part it was a good decade for me. But here's 50. This is where you start getting birthday cards with the time honored slogan "Over the Hill" emblazoned across the cover. So there's definitely a sense of the next ten years being one that's filled with hurdles and sacrifices. 20 year old men hold doors open for me in gestures of respect to one's elders.

I'm sure I've exaggerated somewhat. Likely I'll cruise through the next 3,653 days riding high on significant events that occurred in the last. I've regained contact with my daughter and have finally met my two grandchildren I didn't even know I had until October of 2007. It's going to be great to get to know them. For that matter it's going to be wonderful getting to know my daughter, as there were so many years between the time I last saw her in the late 80s. It's a strange, intriguing situation, but I love her dearly, never wanted to be apart, and look forward to the experience.

In the next ten years I will watch my son become a man. I'll see him attending college, knowing that he will succeed if for no other reason than that he was so successful with his high school academics. I'll be there when he graduates and will watch with interest as he embarks upon a career. Maybe a kid? I can hope. I don't think you can have too many grandchildren.

Then there's my wife. Our relationship has never been stagnant. It is continually changing and, though I can't speak for her, I am of the opinion that it gets richer with each passing year. It will be interesting to see how our marriage evolves. She keeps me in line and her influence has been so beneficial to me that words cannot describe.

Fifty years is also, I think, a good time for a reckoning. A chance to look back and reflect. As Socrates said, the unexamined life is not worth living. I've tried to adhere to that maxim since first hearing it in a high school college prep English course. Now seems an especially proper time to meditate upon the life I've sustained for fifty years.

If I were on my death bed, would I be able to look back and say that I'd fulfilled my potential or would I go to heaven filled with regrets for what could have been? Aren't those loaded questions? It's never so cut and dry in the world, is it? You could fill a volume the size of "War and Peace" with all my regrets. But upon further reflection I find that there are valid excuses why they are regrets. Powers I had little or no control over prevented me from amassing achievements I would have hoped to accomplish.

It's a little harder to come to a conclusion as to whether I've fulfilled my potential. Those same powers that had a lot to do with my regrets have also kept me from being all I can be. Not as if I know but I don't doubt that there is a large majority of people who aren't and never will be, so I don't feel alone.

So, with all that being said I'll try and sort out the best and the worst.

It should come as no surprise, at least to my Christian brethren, that the most significant moment in my life was when I accepted Jesus as all He said He was and embraced the forgiveness He offered. That was in 1977. There were a lot of times between then and now where you would certainly have had no idea I was Christian. Many and long were the times when I, myself, didn't acknowledge the fact. But I believe in eternal security, or "once-saved-always-saved" as detractors call it. The place I am right now has led me back to that day, to that experience, the point where my life in the flesh ended and I became born again in the Spirit. How do you get away from that? It's just too monumental. It's too important. At any rate, what I'm trying to say is that throughout the years I have investigated many, many spiritual paths and religions. If I had found one I thought had the answers I didn't get with Christianity I would have converted to them in a heartbeat. As a person who suffers from bipolar disorder I can't say how long it will be before I stray, lured by other expressions of spiritual truths I feel would serve me well. Yet I keep coming back to Christ, and I just know there's got to be a reason for that. I may never understand it, just as I'm sure I will not understand and comprehend the Bible in this lifetime. I still believe it's the word of God.

I can't really list the components of the next greatest thing in my life, because I don't think it would be right to say one is more important than the other. No surprise that I'm talking about my family. I never was much of a "family  man". That's one of the regrets I spoke of earlier. Probably the result of my reaction to my parents divorce, but who knows, I don't think I was much of one before that. Most of the people in my own family are miles away. There's only one, of several, that I have kept up with, an aunt. She's recently moved even further down the road so I doubt I'll be in regular contact with her now.

But it's different with my wife, kids and grandchildren. They really are the most important people in my life. I have already talked about them in this post, so I will move on.

The thing that has kept me back, held me down, wreaked havoc on my life is bipolar disorder. I realize that I'm a strong person for being able to deal with it a effectively as I do. Yet it is something serious and difficult to deal with. I never wanted, and certainly still don't want to be associated with it, meaning that you'll never see me at any "mental health awareness" rally. I wouldn't say that I'm 100% affected by whatever stigma I think still exists surrounding it. But I did grow up in a time where it was definitely held in a unique, condescending regard. And for every stride of progress I witness there seems to be just as much of the same old crap, meaning that if there's going to be change it's coming at an exceptionally slow, snail-like pace and I sure won't be around long enough to experience the benefits.

Bipolar disorder has destroyed relationships in my life. It's taken away my ability to fully appreciate so much of what life has to offer. It's made me a cynical bastard who has to keep it in check. It's placed me in situations, physically and mentally, that I would not wish upon my biggest enemy. You always hear about how people with bipolar disorder are so "creative", etc. I don't know about that. I do something creative and I might be happy with it for a few days but think it sucks big time for the next several years. So you kind of get the feeling that you're wasting your time and that deflates whatever motivation you might have to do it again.

Enough about bipolar disorder. Some accomplishments I have reason to be proud of.

As a young child I always wanted to play in a band. At first I insisted that it be a rock band but as time went on I figured music was music if you had an appreciative audience. I taught myself how to play the bass guitar and from that moment on I was able to live my dream...though I certainly wouldn't consider it "living a dream", because the "dream" had involved much more fame and fortune than I ever had a chance of amassing. Nevertheless, I eventually figured out that it's not right to "do it for the money". I can count on one hand the number of shows I've played in which I wasn't thrilled to be where I was, doing what I was doing. I loved playing music for people and I got to do that a bit during my last 50 years. Not nearly as often as I would have liked, but all things considered I think I did pretty well. Better than a lot of musicians have done.

...I was going to go into detail about something important but then thought better of it. What I will say is that I had a bad habit for over 15 years. It wasn't just a habit, it was an addiction. I bought into and was happy to be a part of it's subculture. Most of that time I had no intention of quitting. I knew that even if I did I probably couldn't, because I was every bit as enslaving to me as the bottle is to the alcoholic.

Fortunately for me, circumstances came about that required me to stop this bad habit once and for all. I was not happy about the circumstances or how they came about. I most certainly would not have quit without them. I will say, thought, that it was the best decision I ever made when I took the initiative and quit. It's been a year now and I have absolutely no desire to go back. None. Not even "for old time's sake". Breaking that habit is something I consider to be a major accomplishment in my life, so there was no way I  could ignore it.

The legacy I'll leave behind is my children. I've come to the point where I realize that's more than enough. I write this blog in an attempt to share something about myself, primarily for when I'm gone. That's the core intent of the other blogs I maintain. When I'm long gone, they will know this about me. They can gather 'round the computer on father's day and pay me tribute by reading some of this stuff. I know that nothing lasts forever. Even this stuff will eventually succumb to change. But until it does, well, for all intents an purposes, I'm here. Just a fraction of me, but it's here.

How did I get there? I was ruminating upon my first 50 years, now I'm talking about grandchildren reading about me when I'm dead? I'm just trying to find a way to end this post. I knew I had a lot of ground to cover and I figured I wouldn't get nearly as much done as I hoped to. I was right. I thought I'd be able to do more, but hey, time to put an end to this reckoning and start the next half century. I've got the complete works of Charles Dickens on my Kindle Fire and a resolution to spend more time reading the greats and less on the computer.

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The Box

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled. Never before in her life had she taken something precious and valuable from someone else. Maybe she had good a reason. Maybe not. Either way it was done. It wasn't hard and it seemed like the right thing to do.

Or maybe that's not quite it. It was the right thing FOR HER to do. He had fenced her in for far too long. His jealousy and excessive possessiveness were too much to bear any longer. He'd tried for years to mold her into the person he thought she should be, the person he wanted her to be, and the time had come to break free.

She remembered seeing that box for the first time. He had brought it home one night after work and placed it in a drawer out of her sight. He thought she hadn't seen it. Hidden beneath layers of socks and underwear, further down beneath trinkets, electrical cords, empty plastic sandwich bags and syringes he was confident the box was hidden well enough. She would never find it.

She'd better not find it.

"What's that?" she asked as he glided through her field of vision from the hallway to the bedroom.

"What's what?" was his reply.

"What's that in your hand? Is that a book?"

He played along.

"Yeah, it's a book. I just got back from the library. Brought a few home. The others are in the car if you want to read them."

"What are they?"

"Nothing serious. I thought you might be getting restless laying about like you have."

"Well, if you were 8 1/2 months pregnant you wouldn't exactly be the most active person in the world either."

"I understand that. Why are you getting all bitchy at me? All I said was you must be bored so I brought you some ******* books. I can take them back if you want. It's not like you asked me and they didn't cost anything so I'll take them back."

"Cool down, Frito. I'm sorry. You're right. Thank you. What did you get?"

"Let's see," he said, scanning the library receipt for book titles. "I got a couple of John Irving novels, 'Dune', 'Foundation'...you do like science fiction, right?"

"It's okay. What else?"

"Uhhh, a book about Kurt Cobain, Johnny Rotten's autobiography and the latest Deepak Chopra new age self help mumbo jumbo."

He set the receipt down on the coffee table and she asked, "Okay, now you're talking. I didn't know Chopra had a new book out. What's it called?"

He had already stood up and was walking into the kitchen when he said, "I don't have a clue. That Eastern bullshit is your thing, not mine."

She could hear him raiding the refrigerator, knocking over bottles and shifting other foodstuffs from one place to another. The sound of a beer can opening let her know he'd found what he'd been looking for.

He was throwing together a makeshift microwave meal when she looked at the receipt. She really was curious about the Deepak Chopra book. She'd read most of his work he and was second only to Neale Donald Walsch in her estimation of great spiritual teachers. It didn't seem to be even the least bit odd that Stephen King was third on that list.

At any rate she perused the receipt. Hmmm..."A Widow For One Year" and "The Fourth Hand". She hadn't read that second one but if it was half as good as "Widow" she was in for a treat. She looked forward to it. Herbert, Asimov...she really did love science fiction and had done so for all of her life. He knew it so it was with a bit of condescension that she mentally chastised him for not realizing she had to have read those two books many times. Did he not know who William Gibson was? Oh, well. The Cobain and Rotten books would make up for it. At least he knew she had great taste in music. And there was the Deepak Chopra thing. It was his take on Jesus. It was a very good book. She knew this...because she'd read it years ago. "New"? Well what did he know? The extent of his interest in religion, philosophy or anything remotely related to the Almighty Existentialism was the chorus in the Doobie Brothers' song "Jesus is Just Alright". Not the words or sentiment, mind you...he was just proud of how well he sang it. It had to be admitted, though, that he indeed sang that particular song with a passion unrivaled even by the likes of Billy Graham and Oral Roberts.

She noticed then, with no small degree of curiosity, that there were only seven books listed on the receipt. Did he not read all the titles to him? Chopra, Herbert, Cobain, Asimov, Rotten and two by Irving. Seven. No doubt about it. The library's address and the date were the only other words on the onion skin paper.

So what was he holding when he first came home? Clutched at his side as if he were trying to keep her from seeing it? Another book? Then why was it not tallied on the library receipt with all the rest? And why did he see fit to bring it in the house while leaving all the others outside in the car?

No, it was not another book. Oh, it may well have been...after all he could have brought it from somewhere else besides the library. It was logical but somehow, for some reason she couldn't put her finger on, she felt sure it was something else. Something she wasn't supposed to see. Something she wasn't supposed to know about.

Indeed, she wasn't supposed to know about it. That was easy enough. Why? Who knew? One thing she did know, however...soon enough she would know WHAT it was.

writing a history with dustin to dustin

Thinking about our shared history I decided to put on paper some of the memories we both share. Been thinking about doing this for awhile.



Sometimes I think about the time when I showed up on your doorstep having been awake and walking for who-knows-how-many hours/miles. I know WHY I was there...your house just happened to be in the area that I wound up being. I don't remember what time it was. The thing that always boggles my mind is that I don't remember knowing you all that well before. Now, I could be wrong. We may have hung out in the same circles, I may have known you well. But I just don't remember anything before that. You were in the same church youth group, I think. I knew you were in the school band but were so many grades before me that I don't recall any interaction. But somehow I knew you well enough to a.) know where you lived and b.) want to visit. I honestly did not plan on falling asleep on your couch. I can't even fathom how that all seemed to you and your family. I was dead tired though. If you only knew what I'd gone through during the past 72 hours.

Then there was the time between then and my residence at Burns Flat. That's pretty much all a blur to me. I don't even know how I wound up in the Big Sleep circle. I do remember getting your letters at BF. I don't recall if it was before or after that I put all of my songs on tape and sent it to you guys. I certainly had no idea the band would take one and cover it. I can't even describe how awesome it was to get the tape and hear "No Music". I appreciated how faithful it was to the original. I especially liked Jerry's guitar solo because the version I'd done didn't have one. I always too the credit for that song, but in retrospect it's only fair that Dobbs get a little too. The guitar style was his. I wrote the chord structure, the melody, the lyrics, pretty much everything BUT the way he played guitar on it. But you know what? I thought the way he played guitar on it was one of the absolute best parts of the song. So hey, Dobbs, you fucker. You got your pat on the back.

I remember when you and Floyd Howell came to Burns Flat to move me out. I don't remember why I was in such a toot to leave. It wasn't such a bad place to be. Some of the people were a little freaky but I guess some would call me just as freaky. What was I going back to? Floyd was his usual likeable self. It was a good trip.

So many things about my days in Big Sleep that I remember. Not the least of which was the day I was asked to join. I remember how my nervous and manic I was at my first gig with them (at Nitro) and how my playing was so fast you couldn't reel me in. I'm not sure that I ever settled in with a solid groove with you simply because my playing was too forceful, I wasn't able to give-and-take. I didn't understand that concept until much later when I started getting high. Nevertheless there was still a lot of good music being made.

I remember when your bass drum pedal broke towards the end of the night at SRO. I remember when your seat broke at Rome and how the drum line ended so abruptly at the same time. And how we used to roam the alleys and stuff during breaks talking about "important stuff".

One memory I have that will stick with me all of my life is the night you, Dobbs and I took over the upstairs studio, jamming and drinking. That may have been the same night the three of us went to see "The Doors" movie. The theater was PACKED and I could swear that the three seats, all together in the first row, were the only empty ones. It was as if we were meant to be there. Earlier you had gone to Tennessee Joe's and found this really old, rusty goblet and you were making a big deal about how it was "the Holy Grail", that you'd been searching for it all your life and finally found it, of all places, at TJs. Which was pretty cool and all, but then you began drinking Buschmills Irish Whiskey from it and man, that seemed really nasty. Maybe it was the nastiness of "the Holy Grail" or maybe it was just way too much whiskey but you got drunk drunk drunk off your ass. I found you kneeling on the floor, crying and you poured your heart out to me, unfortunately I have no recollection of what you said that night. It was woeful though. That much I can tell you.

Psycho-Relix was Psycho-Relix. Not much really you can say about that. Of course I remember that you and Jessica Cross were off in a field somewhere when Champ and I almost came to blows. You missed it. That's all...you missed it.

And of course I enjoyed your tenure with Head. Can still see you hunched over those bongos in Gary Smalleys studio laying down a track for "It Goes On". That bongo line really gave the song an extra dimension that served it well. I don't know that ever appreciated the stuff you did on the congas both in rehearsal and the two or three times you played live shows with us. Honestly I don't think I could hear you. But it may just have been the same "give-and-take" problem we had in Big Sleep.

Next major memory was when you freaked out at the Black Crowes concert and vowed to give up marijuana. A resolution that happened at roughly the same time I began using it. You gave me your little aluminum one-hitter...I loved that thing. Definitely made it worth the charity. By the time my tolerance reached the point where one hit wasn't enough I had given it away or lost it, and moved on to a pipe. I never liked one hitters after that, but the one you gave me was a treasure.

Before that was the REM concert we went to...I don't know who you got the extra ticket for...probably some girl, surely not me...but I wound up being the one who went. Your car wouldn't start when it was over and we were ready to leave. That's all I remember about that.

Lots of little memories...like the time Sigur Ros' "Takk" was released and I was so smitten with it that I made you listen to it with me from start to finish without interruption. Watching "My Dinner With Andre" with you and knowing that there was no one else in this town who would appreciate it besides you. Or maybe it wasn't "My Dinner With Andre"...could have been a different film...the same held true with most of all of them we watched. I remember driving to OKC to see Little League Hero and Mad Laugh at VZDs, listening to Sun Kil Moon's most recent disc, "Tiny Cities" and drawing special attention to the melancholy closing track "Ocean Breathes Salty". You didn't want to associate with anyone there. We'd started out in the balcony area and somehow I eventually wound up on the floor socializing with a couple of peope I knew from that scene. You stayed in the balcony and said something like how it was were Big Sleep used to congregate when they played there. Then, on the way back, driving down I-40 I saw the biggest, lowest moon I've ever witnessed.

Who could forget the wedding gig where you forgot your hi-hats? Or was it the snare drum? Or both? All I know is that it took some guts to go on with the show, but we did. This after getting so lost on the way up there we didn't even know what town/city we were in.

There are lots more. I know there are. But the battery in this laptop is getting very low on juice so I should wrap it up and send it out. Just wanted to dig down into my memory banks and tie together a few that we shared. Hope you enjoyed them.

jac

Joker Pushes "Play" (excerpt)

Tonight Joker's listening to the old songs. Back to the mattress, laid out in a coffin, headphones piping memories into his tired, lonely brain. His hand reaches out to push the "stop" button and he wonders what happened. "There was something in those songs," he thought. "There must have been.  I remember plucking them from the darkness behind closed eyes. Time was they moved me. How long since the sound lost it's comfort? How long since I found more solace in silence?

"So long. Too long." With that pronouncement he had resolved to drag out all the creaky cassette tapes from a huge box hidden in the cavernous basement beneath his house. Cold down there, the heating unit didn't extend it's warmth to an unused space. A good place for a bunch of rotting plastic cartridges and the decaying magnetic tape they encased.

It should have taken him longer. So many tapes, so many memories to sift through. Don't settle. Take your time, that's the way it's done...but almost immediately he has a black TDK SA-90 in his palm. The ink on the label is barely decipherable from age. The music recorded on it probably didn't need a title anyway. With an uncooperative "click" he jams the tape into the machine and presses "play". The wheels begin to turn, rolling and emptying at some unknown predetermined speed.

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There was a time I could spin melodies from thin air with the ease of a seasoned seamstress. I would spend hours whistling and writing them down. Or sitting in front of an old boombox I would breathe them out like sweet marijuana smoke, guitar in hand. I never mastered those six strings but I knew how to make them do what little I needed done. Simple melodies. Simple chords. You don't need any more than that if you've got a hurt soul and a yearning for healing.

So I sang of dreams. Dreams that never ended and delivered me from the choices I made in life. Sometimes they were a blissful floating. A welcome nothingness that enveloped me as I screamed out my gratitude. A psychedelic light show that promised never to lose it's novelty. Then again, sometimes thedreams were as burdensome as the coming years. When I sang of these the sound of my voice made people sad. It broke them and pushed them into the same melancholy I inhabited. They swam with me there for four minutes and when the last note rang out and died into silence they felt sorry for me because they knew it was easy enough for them to snap out of it. They could tell from the resignation of the singer and the song that I was condemned to live in that ether.

And I sang of love. Love lost. Love forgotten. Love spurned. Love dead and dying. Love so corrupted you couldn't call it "love" anymore. Yes, there was a girl. And yes, I loved her. And oh, yes, you're right of course, she left me. How was I to write another song about the wonder and joy that is love when she took all I had? I'll sing you a song about how I prayed she would bring it back. A song about how the lines in my face deepened and settled with each passing year without her. Surely there is love in such hard headed devotion to a vain wish? The only love I sang of...the only love I'll sing is the kind that mourns faith lost.

People want to hear love songs. They want to hear something happy. I knew this as well as any other. They don't want to listen, they want to hear and mister if you don't know the difference you have no business reading these words. They want to be reminded of why they get up in the morning and go through the busy, busy day and do it again and again and again and I don't blame them. That's absolultely normal. I wish I could give them what they wanted. I could pretend. I suppose. No, actually, I can't. I will bust your buzz.

The words. Yes, the lyrics were my pride and joy. Poetry, if you exalt the term moreso. Where did they come from? I don't think I ever knew. I can't remember anymore. Thomas, behold my side. Stick your hand in deep, explore the spear's wound. Feel it. Touch it. Squeeze it like slick, glistening labia. Reach in further, grab hold of whatever you can and QUICK! Pull it out. You can have it. I don't need it.

Where was I? Oh yes, the lyrics. The stanzas. The verses and choruses. A drunkard's Scripture. I tried so hard to "say something". Enough of generic songs about simple things easily understood. Let someone else bring the good vibes. I wanted to ask the eternal questions. I wanted to float some possible answers by you.

....to be continued