escape

flight instincts are wonderful. i always think of white-tailed deer that i see so frequently in my area. they're good eating, if you go for such things - i'm a veg for the last 20 years, so i don't anymore. but even before we hunted bambi and served her up with a dark sauce riddled with garlic and fragrant herbs, there were plenty of predators in the wild. (side note - the good news is that aliens stopped anal probes; the bad news, they discovered we're made out of meat.)

how did deer adapt to a dangerous environment? long legs for running swiftly; nocturnal so they roam in darkness and hide during daylight.

i have my own flight instincts, my own predators. i find that when the pressure is great i sleep hard. i create diversions when i am awake. i do anything to avoid dealing with the situation at hand. i protect those around me by letting them live their lives in blissful ignorance. then slowly God presents the problems to me one by one, usually with workable solutions. somehow He manages to show me the ram in the bush.

the frustrating part is that He shows me - as has been said - just enough light for the next step. i can see the multitude of problems out there, can understand that just this one is being resolved. i continue to feel the weight of all the problems.

sometimes i find solace in remembering the weight of previous times. i recall that no matter how heavy it felt, somehow it all got resolved. somehow, God presented the ram in the bush, however piecemeal, until all the problems went away. new problems, new weights always came, but the old ones somehow got solved.

i need to remember that more often.

even when i do remember it, i can easily defeat its comforting message. God is in charge. if He wants a major change in life, then it happens. when i look at solving problems, it presupposes achieving the status quo ante. i know enough to understand that sometimes that historical position no longer exists. so i brace myself for the unknown around the bend.

sometimes, from a well-considered, dispassionate view, life just sucks. sometimes, and this is one of those times, i wish i could get nietzsche out of my head.

From David Bowie's album, "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars," is a song way too personal to discuss, Lady Stardust. The subject of the lyrics is Marc Bolan. Someone put together this video. I just stared at the screen as it played. No words.


People stared at the makeup on his face
Laughed at his long black hair, his animal grace

The boy in the bright blue jeans
Jumped up on the stage
And lady stardust sang his songs
Of darkness and disgrace

[CHORUS]
And he was alright, the band was altogether
Yes he was alright, the song went on forever
And he was awful nice
Really quite out of sight
([second time:] really quite paradise)
And he sang all night long

Femme fatales emerged from shadows
To watch this creature fair
Boys stood upon their chairs
To make their point of view
I smiled sadly for a love I could not obey

Lady Stardust sang his songs
Of darkness and dismay

[CHORUS]

Oh how I sighed
When they asked if I knew his name

[CHORUS]

Get some pussy now!

beware of darkness

One of my favorite songs from the 1960s is the Byrds, My Back Pages, although I didn’t come across it until I was 14 or so. There is no song, for me, that is so well-suited to Roger McGuinn’s Rickenbacker. I was too young at the time to realize that someone else had written the song (Bob Dylan).

I remember the disdain I felt towards teachers and others in the educational establishment as I listened to the song. Funny that I became an educator.

On October 16, 1992, there was a concert held to celebrate Bob Dylan’s 30 years in music. It was George Harrison’s only American concert appearance after 1974. The last song of the concert was My Back Pages. Roger McGuinn does the first verse, then Tom Petty, then Neil Young (before his head exploded from decades of drug and alcohol abuse). Eric plays a solo and sings a verse, followed by Bob Dylan’s verse, and finally Hari does his verse.

I find it interesting that Hari is given the last verse in a concert for Bob. A sign of respect. The video is below, followed by lyrics.


Crimson flames tied through my ears
Rollin' high and mighty traps
Pounced with fire on flaming roads
Using ideas as my maps
"We'll meet on edges, soon," said I
Proud 'neath heated brow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.

Half-wracked prejudice leaped forth
"Rip down all hate," I screamed
Lies that life is black and white
Spoke from my skull. I dreamed
Romantic facts of musketeers
Foundationed deep, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.

Girls' faces formed the forward path
From phony jealousy
To memorizing politics
Of ancient history
Flung down by corpse evangelists
Unthought of, though, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.

A self-ordained professor's tongue
Too serious to fool
Spouted out that liberty
Is just equality in school
"Equality," I spoke the word
As if a wedding vow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.

In a soldier's stance, I aimed my hand
At the mongrel dogs who teach
Fearing not that I'd become my enemy
In the instant that I preach
My pathway led by confusion boats
Mutiny from stern to bow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.

Yes, my guard stood hard when abstract threats
Too noble to neglect
Deceived me into thinking
I had something to protect
Good and bad, I define these terms
Quite clear, no doubt, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.

Another of my favorite songs is Hari’s, If Not For You. A simple song in its devotional lyrics. Always struck something within me. Always, as is written above, “deceived me into thinking I had something to protect.” Thankfully, that self-deceit has ceased. (But I still like the song!)

These two videos are an interesting contrast. The first is from the same concert as above, except Hari is alone at the mic. The second video is from 21 years earlier (1971). Hari and Bob Dylan were rehearsing for the Concert for Bangladesh. Interestingly, like Hari came on an American stage for the first time in such a long time, Bob Dylan has basically retired and played the Concert for Bangladesh only because of Hari. Bob was actually billed at the headliner.



If not for you
Babe, I couldn't even find the door
I couldn't even see the floor
I'd be sad and blue, if not for you

If not for you
Babe, the night would see me wide awake
The day would surely have to break
It would not be new, if not for you

If not for you, my sky would fall
Rain would gather, too
Without your love I'd be nowhere at all
I'd be lost, if not for you

If not for you
The winter would hold no spring
Couldn't hear a robin sing
I just wouldn't have a clue, if not for you

If not for you, my sky would fall
Rain would gather, too
Without your love I'd be nowhere at all
I'd be lost, if not for you

If not for you
The winter would hold no spring
Couldn't hear a robin sing
I just wouldn't have a clue, if not for you

If not for you

The final song in this post is Hari’s Beware of Darkness. I have countless versions of this song. My favorite is when he talks before he plays and says, “I just wrote this song the other day. Not sure what to call it yet. Still have a bunch of words to figure out.”

This version of the song is from the Concert of Bangladesh. Leon Russell takes a verse. Video followed by lyrics.


Watch out now, take care
Beware of falling swingers
Dropping all around you
The pain that often mingles
In your fingertips
Beware of darkness

Watch out now, take care
Beware of the thoughts that linger
Winding up inside your head
The hopelessness around you
In the dead of night

Beware of sadness
It can hit you
It can hurt you
Make you sore and what is more
That is not what you are here for

Watch out now, take care
Beware of soft shoe shufflers
Dancing down the sidewalks
As each unconscious sufferer
Wanders aimlessly
Beware of Maya

Watch out now, take care
Beware of greedy leaders
They take you where you should not go
While Weeping Atlas Cedars
They just want to grow, grow and grow
Beware of darkness (beware of darkness)

haiku you

I go to Darwin Awards every once in a while. The premise is to give awards and honorable mentions to people that die in such a way as to provide creedence for Darwin's "survival of the fittest" concept - that is, truly people stupid always find a way to kill themselves.

I submitted a story one time. Some local was riding in an innertube behind a snow mobile and ate a tree. I thought it was rather unique. Turned out to be common. Oh well.

I was surprised to find on the site this time a forum on haiku. It set the following parameters;

The Easy Type: A total of 17 syllables makes a Haiku.

5 syllables for the line
7 syllables for the line
5 syllables for the line

Harder:

3 syllables
5 syllables
3 syllables.

I pulled these from the forum. I made a few changes because this is my blog and I can do whatever I want to.

My genitals hold
My body high above ground
Now without body

Suspend yourself from
Wire around your genitals.
Ut oh: piñata.

I think for myself
Warning signs do not apply
To an immortal.

Homemade parachute
Not latest technology
Opens on impact

Death happens to all
Some happily wait to go
Some knock on Death's door

Death happens to all
To many, a quite tall wall
To some, not so tall

It looks like a bomb
Naturally I wonder:
What could be inside?

After fools rush in
Where angels do fear to tread
The fools become dead

True wisdom: knowing
That you should insert nothing
Into your rectum

Being inspired by such gifted writing, I took a few shots at it.

5-7-5
Waiting for the knife
To cut deeply once again
My blood lets for her

She runs swift as wind
Chased, hounded every night
By a changeling

There is never time
To love openly, truly
When self is utmost

3-5-3

My best friend
Died a thousand deaths
Then gave up

11:11

the time seems to find me at the most difficult times. i see it on bank clocks, in the car, on my computer. it always startles me when i see it.

the first time it registered on me i was at a funeral, a tragic unexpected death, maybe 24 or so years ago. i stood behind the widow graveside. i looked at her hands on her lap. she wore a digital watch, "11:11 AM." i wasn't even wondering the time. i just saw it there. the picture is still with me.

everytime i see 11:11 i quickly try to change whatever i am doing. it isn't as conscious as those words suggest. sometimes me hand jerks. if seated, i find myself standing to leave the room. i cannot co-exist with that time. i just don't know why it has such a profound impact on me.

lately, perhaps the last two months, i have seen that time in countless number. it's been unsettling.

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

stones for others, but not for me

I went to a graveyard today, but not because it is Memorial Day weekend or I had any family to visit. I don’t have family; what was left of them threw me under the bus a long ago and I since moved away. I went because I had nowhere else to go.

I noticed a lot of Russian names and symbols, a lot of old and worn gravestones. Among the barely legible and illegible engravings, mostly from the 1800s and early 1900s was a brass plaque on the base of a stone that led to a cross. It read, “Francis Hugick, September 29, 1929 – May 3, 1930” on two lines, and in two lines beneath that, “Walter Hugick, November 3, 1921 – May 11, 1930.”

She was born the day the stock market crashed and died eight months later. Her brother died at age eight, just eight days after she did. It may have been a fire or some other tragedy from which he lingered beyond death for a short time.

There were no other graves bearing that last name anywhere near the children. Perhaps the parents left the area and rebuilt their lives.

Being Memorial Day weekend, I saw several people come and go. An older couple sat together at a gazebo then walked slowly to their car. A woman in her 60s placed flowers by one grave then walked to another and stood. She came and went in less than five minutes. Others walked in places far from where I sat.

Next the Hugick children’s grave was another child, died at age 12. A brass statue of Mary leaned at an angle against the stone. In another graveyard, perhaps, that statue would have been stolen long ago. Here, a small graveyard in a rural area, the statue braved the weather through the seasons, probably being propped up often by visitors or workers.

Enameled pictures of couples adorned some markers. They usually died within a few years of one another. One man died at age 63. His stone was marked with his wife’s name – she was 57 when he died. Although she would be close to 90 if she were still alive today, her death is not inscribed. She must have found favor with another, and buried her remains with him.

The newer stones lacked character. Names were deeply engraved on large rose-colored stones. No words such as, “Mother,” “Father,” or one older stone of a gentleman that died at age 31, “Uncle.” The new stones were simply functional, no better than an “X” on a map.

I used to visit my father’s grave, but don’t anymore. I imagine I will see it again, but only to show someone else. I have no interest in seeing it myself. Perhaps strange to others, but I feel more of a draw to the resting place of people I never knew than to those who I remember in life.

I have memories of my dad, and I can relate the worst of them all. His family, my genetic relations, was spineless in the death march from his passing to his planting. They did the happy shit. I made the phone calls from his address book. I went to the parlor to make sure everything was set before people arrived. It was there that the worst memory comes back.

I sat alone in the viewing room. His head was tilted towards me. I looked at him and saw a man sleeping. He used to be intellectually vibrant. He could analyze a situation in moments, could size up a person instantly. He had a razor-sharp wit that would cut deeply at times. As he aged and his processes slowed, I got to see him more clearly. I knew the intellectual direction he would go before he turned. I sat in that viewing room and watched a man that lost the game at age 71. He gave up. He was in so much pain and so viciously unhappy with his wife that he just gave up.

I had a t-shirt purchased for me (privately, to me, in his honor) years later that reads, “Rehab is for Quitters.” He never went to rehab, perhaps he should have for his drinking; instead, he just gave up.

I don’t visit his grave because when I did I knew where to stand. I knew were his head was titled. I still see it every time I think of him.

I will have no viewing. I will have no grave. I want no one to see me dead.
No one will remember me but as a living person, eyes alive, mind engaged, wit cutting in seeming random fashion.

The ventilator is running

UPDATE on 864-223-1911.

In college, I stepped onto the car port roof and promptly sliced my foot on a piece of glass. It was my left foot, inside, just short of my heel. A beautiful, deep gash from which blood spurted. It didn’t ooze or run. It spurted. I sat down and patiently stopped the blood loss over an untracked length of time. I forgot to think about pain.

It was about two weeks before I walked with unthinking pressure on that foot again. I walked without shoes or socks back onto the car port. Step. Slice. Spurt.

I didn’t simply reopen the old wound. How do I know? Although it seemed to be the exact same place and blood splatter, I removed the new piece of glass from the wound. Damn. This time I remembered to feel pain.

One of my roommates gave to me a small jar of orange salve. He said his grandmother gathered roots and flowers, and made the salve herself. He was from Caribou, Maine – so far north I suspect the caribou migrate south for the winter.

I applied the salve and it seemed to advance the healing rapidly. I used the salve for many years and hardly dented the amount in the jar. I had it until several years ago when someone threw it away without my knowledge or permission. I’m still a little cranky about losing it.

I started thinking about that salve because of what must be a change in FCC regs or broader statutory requirements. Whenever a drug commercial comes on, the not-a-real-sick-person-taking-our-drug-but-a-crack-abusing-actor-being-paid-to-say-what-we-write tells us how much better their stomach acid is because of taking the whatever-color-you-want pill. But, they helpfully add and downplay it through dismissive body language, “my doctor tells me that certain side effects may occur including explosive diarrhea, severe dehydration, cardiac arrhythmias, and, in documented but rare cases, spontaneous combustion. I should also tell my doctor what other medications I am taking and whether or not I vote regularly.”

I think I would rather the stomach acid. I’ll just avoid the moo-shoo pork.

Office Depot has a hard drive with a rebate. No need to link. Don’t feel like it. The drive is 100GB retailing for $80; the rebate is $60. To qualify you have to purchase the drive between October 1 and 7 inclusive. Today is October 3. Early in the rebate period, eh? So I add it to my shopping cart. Insufficient stock. One. Too many. Do I want to back order? Dunno – you gonna give me the rebate? I call 800/go-depot. “Good question. I will direct you to the rebate center at 866---.” I call. I’m an amiable dunce like that. Easily led. 1 for English. 2 for question on a rebate. 2 to speak with someone. “Because of exceptionally high call volume, you may have to wait up to five minutes to speak with a customer service representative.” OK. The nose ring is firmly in place. I’ll wai--- “We’re call, your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again.” I go back to 800/go-depot. “Yes, you are right. Back orders are typically received in 5 to 7 business days after placing your order. We cannot guaranty that you will receive this product in time to qualify for the rebate.”

In the 3d day of a 7 day rebate, they are bailing on the customer. Office Depot sucks.

OK. Last bitch, I promise. About a week ago I got a call. On my caller id it reads, “G & S Moore. 864-223-1911.” I don’t know them, but I don’t mind telling people they misdialed. I answered. Now, I am not just unlisted but private. I am on the do-not-call lists for Pennsylvania, federal, and inter-galactic. I detest unsolicited sales calls on par with crotch itch.

Yep, you guessed it. Sales call. Verizon Wireless. “I would like to tell you about …” No. Not interested. Pal, it’s 8 o’clock in the morning. On a Saturday. “But won’t you just listen to …” No. You are about to violate federal law (I had no idea). “OK. Thank you very much.”

But where did I go wrong? G&S Moore to Verizon Wireless? I reverse lookup the number. Gary and Scarlett Moore, 115 Carriage Ct., Greenwood, SC 29646. Odd. Seems like a private listing. Verizon is masking their origin to get through solicitation blocks? Seems unethical.

So last night the phone rings twice then stops. G&S Moore. Wow. I call back immediately. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again.” Wow.

There ought to be a law against such blatant manipulation of the phone system.

Enough. Bye