A word such as belief has the connotation of impermanence—good, so am I. The absolute is pretend stuff for cowards, for the mediocre and their prison circles.
A word, a concept—fine, whatever; but I believe in knowledge, and knowledge is the product of problem solving—hunches, feelings, successes and failures. The landscape of life is ever changing, new annoyances, new challenges—thank you; this is life. Life is action. Love its celebration.
Buckminster Fuller lost it all one day, on Wall Street. He stood in a window ready to hurtle himself onto the pavement below where men moved like ants. He stopped. He thought to instead live as if he had died. The world was on his time.
I meet a man on the steps of the Paris Opera. He had been temporary labor at the Atlanta Olympics. He’d fallen three stories and landed on his head. They called his mother. Told her not to come. Not to bother. He woke-up. They put a plate in his head. He said to me, “I shouldn’t be here. This is all gravy”.
...and then there is Saint Lance. He was a handsome man who went off to war. He came back. Could never wash off the blood. His heart fought in the dark. He lingered outside the hall where his friend, my uncle, was married. Lance didn't like crowds. His hands trembled. He opened a slow smiled and said, "Give 'em hell". He'd gone as far as he could. Last year he found the final peace.
alone he'd take the ships away
unable to hear the radio
down the river of stillest night
skipper to hulls of scrapped metal
down to the gulf of mexico
Once I had been so depressed that I approached the edge of my own murder. But I killed the prison instead. As if I found a control panel with two buttons, one marked “me”, the other labeled, “shame”. It can go to hell. I don’t give a flying fuck about the made up madness of the world. That is its problem, its folly, its worn symbols and flags. Guilt is their game of unity. I bear it no responsibility. I was born with out sin, without country. And God is one with all—not seperate from creation; there is no one to thank. What I have is longing. The next breath. What I have is joy. This is gravy. The unwrapped gift. This is my time. Love is my power.
I am a skeptic (among other things, like some thought from Unamuno, Spinoza, Collingwood, Braudel) in the exercise of curiousity and out of convenience. It gets me where I am going, like a beater car, and it's disposable; it, like all ideas and beliefs, are there to serve--to be tested and transformed; here is pragmatisim. And I add, that I feel the weight of death. And through this, respect all those who too will die--and through the will to live, I find kinship.
As far as writing in school—writing can not be taught, only forms. For me, that means the story. I am not talking about content (which can't be taught either) but delivery. And frequent response to my work has helped me understand what works and what does not. And rule one is to make everything specific and nothing general, to try and illustrate the details that circle around us: the tics of a radiator, the sun that yesterday looked like a cotton ball floating in milk--to give the word flesh.
l'a-ro
--missing the great sun blessed state of Texas. Here is a quick tale:
Apprehension
I sat down to play piano tonight, after a nap, the first time since all that stuff began. I am not complaining. I was being well paid, and now I'm being very well paid. Lost my last boss though. That could look bad. But they told me no one will ever ask. And it hasn’t come-up yet.
It’s nice to get back to the piano, unwind. Fall into the music, let the sound support me along with a martini. And call me nuts, but I need the candles burning, in place of the flowers, from that pair of swing-out vases. The Kimbell brothers put something special in their uprights from 28, booze hall bound. They strung them tight with optimism; it chirps like a giggling girl as much as it buzzes and hums, rattling the cracks and fissures. Some dampeners let go, when? Sometime before I got it. As near as I can make out, it’s mostly a D chord with some sharpened ninths—and it drones like a steam shovel. God damn phones ringing again. And someones at the door. If I keep playing, maybe they’ll go away. Probably the neighbors. What could it hurt to see.
“Officer. Can I help you?” I can’t see any reason for the gun, the vests.
“You Tildy?”
“Is it too late to play piano in this building?”
“Yeah. It’s too late. Step out into the hall please.” I was able to pass for non-threatening.
This is not looking good. It’d be better if I wasn’t wearing my piece. They found it. These again—the cuffs and my Rights. It’s like a fucking civics class. You’d think, after they read it to ya once, you’d be covered.
Damn, they got Zippo in another car. They must have gone out and had a field trip. They got a piano in the Psych ward at County. But I don’t know how easy it is to get in there anymore. Al’albin said you had to do some crazy shit to get in their these days and he’s a crazy mother fucker. Spending all his time prayen. They find every lick of goodness in this world and take it away.
This is probably for that stiff. I didn’t have shit to do with that bomb. That’s bad luck that’s all. Shit happens. History is made of that. It’s not like the crops won’t grow back. Didn’t have nothin to do with it. In fact, I was as shocked as everyone else.
An F.B.I guy is riding along in the front. Not for one stiff. Can't even tell who is who these days. Why did they give me the fucking Koran to read? They’re gonna fuckin find that shit. Thier radio isn’t even on.
Where the fuck are we going? We're getting on the freeway. He told the cop to power down the windows. In the rush of air he starts talking, Bluetooth flashing in his ear. And I can’t hear a word.
“Hey. Hey. I know my fucking rights. You have to keep me comfortable. It’s cold back here.” I yell and yell, and make the passenger look back and scowl. I have to go to the bathroom. The Psych ward chip starts here. How did that shit go? “La, il allah, il alla.”
