arriving late

we're very tired and already pretty wasted from the previous party we left twenty-five minutes ago and we pull up slowly the dark gravel road and find a spot to park well away from the house between an old ford pickup and someone's new yellow beetle. we were arriving too late but knew that it didn't matter, not with our crowd. everyone should be good and lit by now and likely winding down.

pulling our pillows and sleeping bags from the back seat and running to the front door so as not to have our shit soaked in the light rain. there's muted music and some voices - laughter. letting ourselves in without knocking, daniel comes bouncing down the hall to greet us.

"it's about time, man... shit!" he says, his eyes are clearly glassy and he is definitley very high on something. we exchange hugs and he says, "come in and get comfortable. people are starting to sleep, but there's several of us still awake... oh, and before you go in you should know that i just killed the iranian. i hope that's not going to mess with you."

i stutter-step and my jaw just kind of drops, "wha-?"

"it's okay. everybody's cool with it. he had it coming."

i'm chewing on this mentally as we drop our coats in the hallway. for some reason - i really still don't understand - it seemed, well... okay.

my head is swimming as we walk down the hall and enter the back living room. its low-lit, there's a couple of candles on the far side. there are people crashed out all over the furniture and floors, some bundled up in blankets, others just in their clothes. some people are awake, mumbling and chuckling quietly in groups of two or three.

in the middle of the room on the carpeted floor is the iranian.

he's sprawled out face down, head turned away from me, legs and arms twisted at odd angles. his hair is mussed and matted and shiney with blood.

"there's a spot" i said, pointing to a clear area on the floor on the other side of the iranian.

we stepped carefully over the loungers and made our way over to the spot. exchanging hi's and how's it going's with some people we know only remotely while laying out our bags and pillows.

i pull julie close to me and speak directly to her ear. "are you okay with this?"

"um... sure. i guess..." she hesitates, "maybe. ...we'll see."

i sit and kick off my flip-flops and wiggle into my bag as she does something with her hair before getting into hers. i am laying on my right side facing her. once her head is down i can see over her and right into the iranian's face.

his eyes are open. staring at my direction. through me. there's a trail of blood running down across his forehead and he is unquestionably very dead. his left cheek is pressed into the carpet and mouth is open slightly. his light blue shirt with a big collar is askew, twisted around in a state of uncomfort. brown baggy pants, and i see his bare right foot with a flip-flop nearby. the left foot still has its sandal.

i can't imagine what has happened, i mean... even for daniel, this was pretty fucking bizarre.

i look and julie is asleep already. i don't know how.. i mean i am so fucking tired but my mind is racing. i roll the other way and some guy i've only seen at a couple of parties is slumped way down smoking a cigarette in the overstuffed chair above my head.

"hey," i say "what the hell, man? what happened?"

"shit, man.. i dunno." he says, "they were just laughing hysterically, and then dan cracked him on the head with an ashtray... fucking a, dude.. it's just fucking... wow, you know."

"so what - he's just gonna leave him there, or what?" i say.

the guy pulls himself up and stands, "duuude... i dunno. fuck." as he walks off toward the kitchen.

i am beat. i mean, i am totally on the edge of sleep, and close my eyes. i'm out for a short time and then awake restless with a cold chill. i am freezing in my winter bag and sweating. i open the bag and let air in and it feels so cold but i need that. my eyes roll over and i am in tunnel vision and all i see is that solitary flip-flop and i must have it to ward off the chill. i crawl out and over julie and pull my face close to that flip-flop and it is clear and golden and i must have it to sleep. i know this with all my bones. picking it up and holding it close to my chest, i feel it warms me and i take it back to my bag. crawling back in and zipping the side, using my left leg and foot, i push the sandal to the bottom of the bag and onto my right foot. i feel warm and dry and sleep washes over me like a wave.

i dream of feet and flip-flops and some dead iranian and glassy dead eyes.

something pulls me back up to consciousness and its some commotion, something is happening. i hear ranting and raised voices.

"where the fuck is his shoe! goddamn it! who the fuck has his fucking shoe!" i raise up and daniel is standing there at the feet of the iranian and he is tense and wild-eyed and fuming. "goddamn, you fuckers! wake the fuck up and give me his fucking shoe!"

julie is awake and says quietly to me, "what the fuck?"

i say, "calm down, man. i've got it right here." i push the flip-flop off of my foot and fish it up out of the bottom of my sleeping bag.

"goddamn it!" says daniel, "jesus fucking christ!" as he snatches the thing out of my hands and slides it onto the iranian's foot. "fucking hell!"

"what the fuck are you doing?" julie says to me in high pitched and worried voice. "you ARE NOT wearing a dead guy's shoes... what in the FUCK are you thinking?"

i have no answers, "i dunno. it just made sense at the time. besides," i say to daniel, "what are you doing with a dead guy in your living room, huh? what are you going to do? you can't just leave him laying here... goddamn, man."

"i can't think." says daniel. "i don't know. he's just here, you know. so what? what should i do?"

"get him out of here, man." i say, "fuck i don't know. put him in the fucking garage or something."

julie says, "that's it. get your shit. we can't stay here with a dead guy and you wearing his fucking shoes. what the fuck is wrong with you...?"

"...and him!" she says, pointing at daniel who is standing there twisting his legs and arms around themselves and looking very confused, "that fuck has got some serious fucking problems right now we don't need. we're out of here, come on - move your ass."

i get up and scoop up our pillows and bags as she stomps out the hallway. daniel has grabbed the iranian by the ankles and is struggling to pull him towards the sliding door to the back yard. i run after julie.

she's already in the car, engine running. "get the fuck in." she says. "i can't believe you were wearing a dead guy's shoes. fuck."

i cram the bags in the back and get in. she pops gears and is flying down that gravel drive for the last time. i've never been back, or seen daniel ever again.

"it was only one." i say, "just one shoe."

a life most ordinary

he took a page from the old books,
the ones that sparked him early.
cut up the phrases and sentences
pieced them back together blindly
and turned the world upside down with those missives.

he ran cold with the thought of being.

he opened the chest of collections,
rearranging the contents
looking first at one side,
then the other,
then between the lines
then outside of them.
finding everything there,
he still ran cold
with a thought of being.

he shook the can of possibilities
which rattled like bones.
dry, hard, and dead.
popping the lid off,
he dumped the contents on the ground
and felt them turn to dust beneath his feet.

he bathed himself in the heat of dreams.
the sweat poured off of him,
so he waited until the water became cold
and he could shiver.

he pulled everything from his wardrobe.
bundled up tight with heavy layers against the chill
and went out to the garden of amazing
beautiful fragrant things.
yet he stands frozen in the bright sun
held there by thoughts of being.

without a thought for tomorrow

~october 9 1940 / december 8 1980~

i often wonder what songs john would have written in his fifties... sixties... granted that john's life experiences are remarkably outside the mainstream... but are there not things we all deal with as our lives progress toward the the enevitable conclusion?

what would he have said in his seventies with most of his life behind him?

i wonder what would john have said about living through his middle ages and becoming an old man? watching his sons become old men too? what would john have written about the onset of crippling geriatric diseases and seeing his precious time slipping away? would he have written anything about it, or remained silent?

***********
When I was younger
Living confusion and deep dispair
When I was younger ah hah
Living illusion of freedom and power

When I was younger
Full of ideas and broken dreams (my friend)
When I was younger ah hah
Everything simple but not so clear

Living on borrowed time
Without a thought for tomorrow
Living on borrowed time
Without a thought for tomorrow

Now I am older
The more that I see the less that I know for sure
Now I am older ah hah
The future is brighter and now is the hour

Living on borrowed time
Without a thought for tomorrow
Living on borrowed time
Without a thought for tomorrow

Good to be older
Would not exchange a single day or a year
Good to be older ah hah
Less complications everything clear

Living on borrowed time
Without a thought for tomorrow
Living on borrowed time
Without a thought for tomorrow

[john winston lennon]

something

what needs have sidereal motion?

“The things to do are: the things that need doing: that you see need to be done, and that no one else seems to see need to be done. Then you will conceive your own way of doing that which needs to be done --that no one else has told you to do or how to do it. This will bring out the real you that often gets buried inside a character that has acquired a superficial array of behaviors induced or imposed by others on the individual.”

~R. Buckminster Fuller




*********


sidereal motion revisited

see, the thing is, there are so many things to be done. i just chickenshit right out and do seemingly nothing. i do the thing that takes the shortest time, the thing that i am most comfortable with, the thing that has perhaps the most limited reward, the thing that could most likely be done without. there are not enough hours in the day, and by the time i am settled in to go about the things that make the most sense, i am tired of waking life and all the nuances of responsibilities. the modern training is to consume that which is presented and own it as my own, and it is nearly impossible to escape the paradigm. the planet spins, the race is on, and contrary to all the hype, it is only with myself. i am captured by tides of awareness and motivation, and i can only pause and wonder if like the oceans i am pulled and pushed into myself by that lovely and horrific moon. which reminds me of something else, and i continue to be distracted... limping away from my life, staring through the window of the past at that giant shimmering mirror like narcissus... and in that image i found this, again (and again, and again...)

*********
more sidereal motion
[august o1, 2oo4]

was captured by blue moon last night for more than a moment. the moon seems like an interloper. something moving between me and the stars. she is a reminder of my terrestrial prison, a watcher, a guard, a cosmic laugh out loud at my foibles and dreams, and murderous in her silence.

the moon is a harbinger, always present when i hate her the most.

sometimes i gaze lovingly upon the moon (only when she is low in the sky and earth still fills my periphery), knowing that she watches me, but mostly i hate that bitch. mother earth heals me and vaults me to the stars. moon always brings me back, unhappy, before i am ready, before the party is over, and before i want to go to bed.

*********

it occurs to me i am echo and narcissus in a co-junct binding

...and these aspects are chronic.



dance, monkeymind.


dance. this seems to need to be done.

weekend update; acl, dvt, rsvp, and ps.

so, i got the okay form my md to go ahead and start pt again... yay! the limited range of motion and strength has been really buggin me out. i want to start rebuilding it. additionally, the swelling has seemed to knocked down to a more manageable level. the compression stocking has been falling off my thigh as it is no longer tight enough to stay up.

still no massage or other tissue manipulation though... gaaah!



little by little.

two photos

here, i have two photos
both are from long ago
they hang on that corkboard
just above a cup full of pencils to draw with
and next to a fortune cookie fortune

i had these here in the place where i work
as a reminder, that my work was not me,
that i was part of something else
a life apart from these hammering machines
and deadlines

one, she sits on a rail of a wooded foot bridge
looking away from the light and into the tops of trees
a camping trip, us alone... finally.
the begining.
this is where i dared myself to fall
and i fell,
and the lines were drawn between us
scribbled, tentative.

the other in a studio.
she looks at the camera
calm, knowing, hopeful

oh, how i fretted over that day
the portraits
the five by sevens
the wallet size
the becoming official
our lifeline displayed
captured for family
caught in a flash

i have these here in the place where i work
as a reminder, that my work is not her
that i had something else
a life apart from these hammering machines
and dead
lines

?compare::contrast?

stuff from the past. gurgling up like a bad oyster...

********
march 3, 2004
02:26 PM

THIS IS A MOMENT

this is a moment of clarity of mission of understanding of knowlege of having you here now even though the time and space is wrong. this is the time of having it all and having it right and being in sync. this is the place in my heart where i know it is sound. this is being here now and being right. this is me now here.

********
february 15, 2005
09:09 AM

there he is. found the boy hiding behind an old rusted out refrigerator playing with bottlecaps and tin cans. there he is sitting there mindless of all the writhing and stutterstep mindfuck of the adult me waiting for sunshine and goodness and joy pure. there he is wanting there he is needing me to care for him and all ive done is hide him away from the world when my job my purpose is to guide him out and let him play. there he is. come child. i'm sorry it hurts. there are no bandaids for this. no antiseptic. i'll feel it for you, because i built it, i allowed it. i'll do that because i need you to look in wonderment and awe. i need you to see through those unbetrayed eyes. i need you to laugh and smile and give like you know you can, like you know you are. there he is. always before the fall. preserved and held away. there he is.

i believe in him. i believe in his heart.

i understand why he might not believe in me, i have failed on so many levels.

in the second step of two steps forward, and one back

today is the first day in four days that i've woken up to a left leg smaller than it was when i went to sleep. to you, this may not seem like much of a thang... but to me, it's huge progress.

i am unwilling to surrender this progress of the past 18 hours or so to another attempt at trying to go into my office for 5 or 6 hours, and leaving miserable. i've been pushing myself too hard. went in monday and tuesday only to have my leg pooch up in a nice ruddy burgandy color...

got fitted with a compression stocking yesterday afternoon. this is a thigh-high tight thing, by no means any sort of fashion statement. the relief was immediate.

so... i work from home today. i have plenty of work, i loaded up my briefcase yesterday with stuff i can do from home.

ready? go.