Tuesday, February 28, 2012

This Is A True Story...

This is a true story...

I woke up with the Darkness. Her espresso kept me inspired, and I recognized in His eyes my own Sadness. I wanted to wrestle Him to the ground, Jiu Jitsu Maniac, and shake it out. Leave, Devil, Leave! Sparks of creativity blinded my senses and I made up for wrongdoings by good-doings (please Forgive Me, Woman with Blue Hair).

A Red-Headed Woman blessed my Unity/Love Irish pendant and I could feel her Goddess power strengthen my Vertebral Column. I felt like a Sheik! Lightning Bolts of Power and Inspiration. Blah, says the Cynic. Blah, says the Misanthrope. Rejoice, Rejoice, I am told by the Red-Headed Woman, for You are Cu Chulainn, Stagger Lee!

I woke up with the Darkness and now I rest in Light.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

What have I found here?

What have I found here, hidden, under this rock in the middle of a meadow? I was lost, and could not find my way...and I wandered. I wandered a lot. I met a woman once and she wandered with me and since she left (or was it I who left her?) I wandered ever since. I met many people wandering, and we would sometimes get to know each other well. Perhaps upwards toward ninety-eight percent of them are off wandering somewhere else, and, in many ways, they made the journey worthwhile. But at the same time, each person I met led me to wander elsewhere, and soon I lost my way, in the brush and the confusion and darkness and all, and my flashlight ran out of batteries. I found another flashlight soon after and I looked for all those people I had met but they were gone and I was alone. Alone. Alone. With only a flashlight, and that's when I realized I was lost.

Was this the meadow in which Rafaella and I lay arm in arm and I spoke to her in Italian? No, because when I wandered with Rafaella, I woke up in solitude. No, this is not that meadow.

I do not recognize that rock. It is true! So I lifted it up and what did I find underneath? What was hidden under that rock that my wandering led me too? It was beautiful and frightful at the same time. No doubt! I lifted up that rock and I saw it.

Life! Life! Life! I tell you!

And suddenly I was on a path that, although unfamiliar, I knew well.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Ain't nothin like...

Ain't nothin like...

speedin down the highway (100 mph +) blastin screechin guitar solos and yelpin at the top of your lungs a woman who makes you want to be a better man (change the genders appropriately) lookin upward and feelin like you belong the universe teachin you a lesson, Son!

what should you take away? Drive fast, love slow, drink just enough alcohol (but not too much), make instant coffee, listen to loud music, don't worry, poop daily, and write, dammit, write!

Ain't nothin like...

Friday, February 17, 2012

The Demon is Content

Thoughts, as they are, become too intense in solitude. This is the enemy of the self, writhing, screaming, curdling with fear...that which precedes and follows moments of inspiration, creativity, joy. But what is joy but that fleeting moment, which I struggle to retain, where everything is right...if only for an instance. And when these thoughts, reaching for joy, become too intense, then the intensity becomes too thoughtful and one is caught in a vacuous space, floating, aimlessly. Nihilistic. Like a sycophant, and you feel the demon tearing through. You cannot let him out. You cannot let him free!

In these moments, the demon must be distracted, so as to curtail his destruction. Distracted by fermented drinks and loud music, music reminding me of my youth, just four young men--punk rockers if I ever saw them--with nothing to lose and middle fingers and screams. At least somebody is still being obnoxious for the sake of it. Scream, brother, scream! Mosh and hit and let the violence escape, far, far, away (only for a night, Persephone, only for a night) and the demon is content with the loudness and the beer and the women that no longer plague my fantasies. Time to return home. Time to write.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Mikey's Wake

"riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus or recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs...A way a lone a last a loved a long the." Finnegans Wake. James Joyce.

The story of a man arising from his funeral wake. Tim Finnegan, to be precise. A fight breaks out, a corpse exposed, the whiskey is poured over Finnegan's abode, and like a flash...he becomes. "Tim revives, see how he rises..." sing the Irish...the whole island, I mean! Phoey, I thought at first, but Wait! Stop! Might it be true that a person can rise such as Finnegan!

But I do! I do! Everyday! Sleep is but death and I arise to encounter that which is....my wake...my impending wake...the continual wake until I wake no more, for I sludge and I drudge and I toil 'till I sleep (forever).

This is my wake! This is my wake! Nice of you to attend, now please pour me a drink! Whiskey, yes (thank you!). This is my wake!