train wrecks to observe

Been an interesting couple of days. Have watched old, familiar train wrecks in continued slow motion. Have watched continued bonding among others occur behind closed doors and at long distances. Have gravitated back to The Beatles in my music, just now mixed with the blues, melancholy, and Johnny Cash.

Speaking of music, my current mix: BB King, The Thrill is Gone; Johnny Cash, If You Could Read My Mind; U2, One; Neil Young, Philadelphia; The Band, I Shall Be Released; The Beatles, Yer Blues (2d take from the Rolling Stones Circus, with Eric Clapton, Keith Richards, John Lennon, and Mitch Mitchel (Jimi Hendrix Experience), Ballad of John and Yoko, You Never Give Me Your Money, and Two of Us; George Harrison, All Things Must Pass (Demo version from the White Album sessions, so actually it is The Beatles); John Lennon, Old Dirt Road, Real Love (Demo take 7), and Free as a Bird (John on piano, late demo); Ringo Starr, La De Da; and Creedence Clearwater Revival, Who’ll Stop the Rain, Have you Ever Seen the Rain?, Lodi, and Someday Never Comes. 72 minutes, fits on a CD. Send me an e me if you want one.

Ringo is there so I don’t blow my brains out. Ripped the stream from Beatles Radio, so there is radio talk after the song. Just haven’t gotten around to clipping it yet.

I have been having fun watching trips up and down the stairs tonight. Wasn’t counting, just watching. I am such an asshole – nothing slips by me. That’s why I need to live alone. No one to observe. Safer that way.

I sat outside tonight and saw a shooting star. Same thought as always came to mind, always for another. Last night was my favorite night of the year – the Perseid meteor shower. Just didn’t have the heart to watch it this year. Shame, too. I was looking forward to it. No moon, clear night. But I was blessed with a leftover tonight, so that was very cool.

Gotta snap outta the funk. Just fucking grabbing me by the intestines and refuses to loosen. Anger came and went. Tears tried to rise, won for a while, and then gallantly lost to fight another day. Anger again? No, now it is fantasy. I can feel the detachment welling, however. That has always been my best friend. Complete detachment resulting in viewing the world in bright-eyed wonder. I love detachment. I can float above everything for weeks or months, even years at a time. Nothing registers. Every body blow is painful but evokes no response or even emotion. I’m inviting it. Oh, how I have missed it! It has been years since my friend came to stay. Please come now, I have longed for your arrival. Tell me you love me still.

There is real skill in keeping this friend from the view of others. I got through my late childhood and teenage years, the mid-1980s, and about 1996 until 2004 with it holding me in its loving caress and barely a notice by anyone. Then I let it go almost three years ago. Let my guard down. Exposed myself.

But as I write I am beginning to smile, because I feel the rust leaving my bones. I feel my old friend settling in, telling me that I am still loved by it, it will keep me safe. Wow. What a great feeling it is. Just amazing. I had forgotten, really, forgotten what it actually felt like. Funny how memories can seem so real but are just two dimensions.

No more exposure. I have my circle drawn. Within it are fellow protectors.

a man's dying wish

I want nine men going to the graveyard.
I want eight men coming back.

Blind Willie McTell
Dyin' Crapshooters Blues
1932

living in the shadow

Twenty years ago this week I made a mistake. I am still paying for it.

As with all mistakes, the aftermath is mixed. Certainly some good has come of it. And good beyond the flippant, “even a blind squirrel finds a nut every once in a while.” But I wonder if the good could have been achieved without the mistake. The purest of conjecture. It is also clear that the very best of what came from that train wreck of which I am still entangled could not have happened but for the carnage.

Oh well.

I think Barry Bonds is refusing to hit the next couple of home runs on purpose, so that the putz Commissioner Bud Seling has to follow him around the country for a week or two.

That was my op-ed piece on the news. Hope you enjoyed it. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming, joined in progress.

Twenty years ago my father told me he had colon cancer. He’s been dead five or six years now. Twenty years ago I was just starting to think about law school. I’ve since practiced for a decade and moved into education. Twenty years ago was the relative fast pace of Northern Cal. Today, I sit in Bumfoq, Pennsylvania, writing to no one in cyberspace listening to my twin’s favorite, Billie Holiday.

Twenty years is a long time. I aged. I can’t tell if I hardened or am too jaded to discern. I still hold my optimism, but now I expect to be kicked and don’t get terribly upset when I do. My focus is rather narrow these days – give me enough money to pay my bills, land leave me alone. That’s not being cranky or anti-social. But I seek to engage society when I want to engage. I have grown weary of societal dictates.

Alright, enough cranky – although I am not cranky.

I recently discovered the music of Blind Willie Johnson. The first song I heard was, “Dark was the Night.” I thought of a New Orleans funeral procession. Remarkable song. I learned in the article (yes, that bastion of peerless-reviewed writings, WikiPedia) that the song was about Christ’s crucifixion.

Three of his songs are available on the Internet Archive (which, btw, has a lot of old blues free for the taking without having to worry about liberals asking for royalties).

Let’s roam the Internet Archive, shall we?

Today on Gender Talk (if today were February 12, 2001), “Zantui Rose has been a contributor to the trans community for 7 years as a writer, workshop facilitator, therapist and visionary. She co-mothered the Bodhi Tree House, a trans-sacred retreat space, and last year delivered the keynote address the Southern Comfort conference. She has been partnered with a transperson for 4 years, and speaks with us about transcending gender as a spiritual imperative, and about transcending the gender paradigm. She also talks about the various workshops and retreats that are conducted by she and her partner Holly Boswell, as well as Mrak Eden, in beautiful mountain settings of North Carolina. For more information about BodhiTree House retreats, email: BTH395@juno.com

“Ethan St. Pierre is a transgender man whose aunt, Debra Forte, was murdered for being a transperson. We met Ethan when he participated in the National Gender Lobby Days effort in Washington, DC. Ethan's partner, Karen Martin, is a transsexual woman and they have been in a committed relationship for a couple of years. Ethan talks about his relationship with Karen through his own change in identity and gender.”

You can’t make this stuff up. Ethan is a dude that was girl; he’s with Karen, who’s a girl that was a dude. Does that make them gay? Like some special classification – not bisexual, but like hetero-gay. I wonder if Ethan helps Karen with her make-up. Who has the prostrate?

Speaking of prostrates, I gotta get mine checked on Friday. I am whining big fucking time about it. If I’m going to stick something up my ass, it had better be connected to or somehow controlled by that one special loved one. A stranger just doesn’t do it for me. Medical exam or not. And they use so much of that goop that you fart it out later. I hate that.

Back to diversions. Let’s see, what else?

You gotta love this – the original 1928 Orson Welles War of the Worlds Broadcast. Runs about 51 minutes. Less than an hour to throw the country into a panic. Based on a book. People, get a grip.

Remember the old radio show, “The Shadow”? No, neither do I. That was years before me. But my dad used to do the laugh – something like, “The Shadow knows (insert dad laughing).” He seemed to enjoy doing it. I tried to look something other than impassive. Here are 98 episodes of The Shadow! “The Shadow knows! A-ha-ha (cough!) ha-ugg- (wheez!) ha-ha .. mmm.”

Not sure if these are good, but I presume they are. I used to love to listen to the suspense stories on the radio. WGBI in Scranton used to play them late at night when anyone who knew how to change records every three minutes was long gone to bed. This is a link to hundreds of these suspense stories.

Enough. I went back up and read about the prostrate intrusion. Can’t get past it. Gotta walk around.