rome & istanbul//im having a bit of a problem visiting touristed out ancient and religious sites. specifically, the coliseum and the blue mosque. theres problems on both ends, i think, so lets just go chronologically:
why the fuck are people going to these places? why the fuck am i going to these places? its really weird. im looking at a building. its a very cool building. and im looking at it. im soaking it in. and then its over...and thats really all there is. time moves on. but it needs to be more, it needs to be important, to last, and so the tours, the headphones, the lollipop signs guiding guests, the information, the history, the postcards, the tiny models and ashtrays, and then, the pictures, the pictures, the pictures. what is this? this plastered smile in front of the -it- is not so beautiful as the living smile next to you, holding the photos in hand, is it? why that same smile? i stopped letting people look at the camera long ago; i want the interesting pose, the unexpected expression, the loving nuance. but a smile in front of the coliseum is nothing…so soulless it seems! so uninspired! so done. and worse still the photos of just things. why are these pictures being taken? no one will like looking at them, will they? why a picture of every single thing? every single thing?
it feels to me so sad, so lonely, that life seems so empty and we need these photos to fill it up. look, look, i was here, i did this, i saw this, i did something. i have done something. my life has meaning. i am not this empty coincidence of light and sound hurtling through vast space for a infinitesimal moment. i am this, i was here. i did this.
and yeah, im not taking pictures, but im not letting myself off of the above hook. im traveling the world right now, and why? is my life so desperately empty and needing?
following this thread wont be pretty. so lets move onto the blue mosque, shall we?
whey the fuck are people letting people into these places? i like mecca. i like it that i cannot go to mecca unless i mean it. and thats what was killing me at the blue mosque, for there, just over this cordon, are people meaning it, on their knees, meaning it, filling up and emptying out, breathing, crying, needing this, loving this. this place is for them. and im standing there, my sandals in a fucking plastic bag in my hand, looking at the incredible dome, and then just looking at these people right in the middle of a most intimate sacred moment. and this is not a im-a-westerner-not-a-muslim thing, im certainly going to feel the same way next ride when i visit the vatican friday. this is a i-am-not-here-for-the-right-reason thing. oh the people that talk too loud in quiet jazz clubs, they are not there for the right reason...and it hurts, it hurts me when i am nearby and trying to listen to god on stage in this little jazz club, and now here i am just looking at someone while they are talking to god. im just looking at them.
now i work through this, i can see the god in all the tourists around me, and rah rah rah god in my own self scorn. and the god in my plastic shoe bag. and im having a great time, and in the end what more can i ask for, my life is empty, every life is empty, and i can fill it as i may and thats the life. i get moments of transcendent brilliance, suddenly all the filters gone and im listing to the man in the glass box intone the koran over a cheap microphone so his voice sounds like robotogod, and i love it. but i like the dream of mecca better, what i imagine it must look like, and the just as true god i see when im sitting at home, eating an apple, wondering what mecca must feel like, and suddenly i remember to taste, right there at home and not so many miles away and empty.
29 May 2005
21 May 2005
gibraltar// i used the map, followed glossy in my pocket, to find the footpath up, which began with great wide steps colored on the sides with the british flag and the word "apes". from there it devolved into a rocky path, and i felt so cool walking swiftly seeking new footsteps in my new too-cool nikes. hiking fast fast up, and think fast fast up in real present time, every synapse firing in seek of the next step; the quick scan of terrain rock and dirt, flash judgments on distance, stability and comfort. and so necessary to your unbreaking legs is this attention to the ground beneath the feet that all extraneous thought is gone, its just find the STEP, find the STEP, find the STEP, and is this suddenly meditation? perhaps.
then there the path ends and now a small stretch of narrow road, now a boring paved walk up up, and aw come on i wanted to hike all the way. ah, but: there: just over a blue gate: is: my god,
----a
--gigantic
---------stone
-------------staircase
going all the way up the side of the rock of gibraltar. easily three hundred steps. and its fenced off, because looking just a bit up i can see the metal banister is completely wasted, twisted and dangling towering-inferno-style, with a sheer drop teasing. yeah, they cant let people climb this. but they havent really done that good of a job of closing it, have they? just a sign, "no access", and a gate, but no, i could jump that very easily. and john cougar (premellencamp) stirs my blood-- "i fight authority, authority always win...well, ive been doin it since i was a young kid and i come out grinning..." and grinning indeed i was as i started up, so many steps, sweat pouring off of me, but knowing that at the top (assuming the rock cops arent waiting for me) ill see the rock a lot more clearly then my taxied neighbors.
something new on this contract is that i dislike my musical director quite a bit. he is old and tired. the soul is gone. he calls impenema. he condescends and yells. he forgets things. hes foolish. he talks incessantly. hes rude, belittles the guest entertainers and av staff to their face. worst of all, he is a terrible bass player, missing accidentals left and right. nothing so bad as a bass note a half step off. he got lost during naima and walked off the stage. and then he keeps playing these power fifths during jazz ballads...what the fuck? anyway.
so i am learning again the songs of hated authority, watching myself with mystery and glee when i am silent and cold, or harsh and belligerent. never am i so unenlightened as when i am dealing with bad authority. such small electric thrill, the game the cruel game i play to let this man know he does not have my respect. you dont get to have my jokes, my eye contact, my full conversation, my easy compliance. i will hold back from you until you remember what you are doing and start to do it well. so childish i am! so so! and i am not as bad as i was in the teen years, but sometimes i break and i bring it on and i am difficult just for the joy of watching him lose his shit. its human, its what happens, and i wont believe that its all bad when i can do it and he can do it. that is: not all negative interactions are necessarily bad. they are the whole, they call me out and slam me and challenge me and grow me. the world of ego cannot just be ignored. now i keep it down, and i try not to spend dinner in the mess spilling my complaints onto the others as so many crew members do, but i enjoy my private jousts, and i delight with fantasies of it going too far, i tingle when it starts to happen again and theres another experience to soak in.
in school a lot i got accused of challenging authority for its own sake, but this is not so; its only disenlightenment that i challenge, authorities who are cold and closed and cruel. and they get it, they get it from me, and i know its not constructive for them, i cant change them, but maybe it is constructive for me. let me feel it. let me remember my me deep inside, hard and inflexible. let me know how people work, what the lines are---
and most important how absurdity fits into it all. ie what if in the middle of this lecture i just start saying meowing at the man, literally meowing and clawing at my boss like a cat? answer to that one: i will get taken out to the deck and yelled at.
that happened a few nights ago. the tension did create some really hot music, ill say that at least.
at the top of the rock of gibraltar, above the monkeys who leapt at me, i climbed still further, off the road, on top of a lookout tower and high onto the rock cliffs where the sky was everywhere and the wind a sea of sound. and there almost at the top there were seagulls, seagulls everywhere, all screaming "CAAA! CAAAA!" and the higher i got the more they screamed at me. until finally they started diving at me, swooping right down at my head with the most deafening high shrill "CAAAAAAAAAA!!!!" and i ducked fast and the wind and the sky and the sea on three sides around me, africa in the distance, and one dropped guano just to my left in a deafening splat and another dive bombs me, CAAA!!!! and im maybe 20 feet form the top. but CA-CAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!! and so i, scared, screamed out loud, "All Right! All Right! Im Going!" and i turned back, back to my human world of taxis and roads and petty ego interactions so far removed from this raw rock and sky. ill play all i want in that human world, but the birds had authority there, and the authority of birds great masters of the heaven, is not to be challenged.
then there the path ends and now a small stretch of narrow road, now a boring paved walk up up, and aw come on i wanted to hike all the way. ah, but: there: just over a blue gate: is: my god,
----a
--gigantic
---------stone
-------------staircase
going all the way up the side of the rock of gibraltar. easily three hundred steps. and its fenced off, because looking just a bit up i can see the metal banister is completely wasted, twisted and dangling towering-inferno-style, with a sheer drop teasing. yeah, they cant let people climb this. but they havent really done that good of a job of closing it, have they? just a sign, "no access", and a gate, but no, i could jump that very easily. and john cougar (premellencamp) stirs my blood-- "i fight authority, authority always win...well, ive been doin it since i was a young kid and i come out grinning..." and grinning indeed i was as i started up, so many steps, sweat pouring off of me, but knowing that at the top (assuming the rock cops arent waiting for me) ill see the rock a lot more clearly then my taxied neighbors.
something new on this contract is that i dislike my musical director quite a bit. he is old and tired. the soul is gone. he calls impenema. he condescends and yells. he forgets things. hes foolish. he talks incessantly. hes rude, belittles the guest entertainers and av staff to their face. worst of all, he is a terrible bass player, missing accidentals left and right. nothing so bad as a bass note a half step off. he got lost during naima and walked off the stage. and then he keeps playing these power fifths during jazz ballads...what the fuck? anyway.
so i am learning again the songs of hated authority, watching myself with mystery and glee when i am silent and cold, or harsh and belligerent. never am i so unenlightened as when i am dealing with bad authority. such small electric thrill, the game the cruel game i play to let this man know he does not have my respect. you dont get to have my jokes, my eye contact, my full conversation, my easy compliance. i will hold back from you until you remember what you are doing and start to do it well. so childish i am! so so! and i am not as bad as i was in the teen years, but sometimes i break and i bring it on and i am difficult just for the joy of watching him lose his shit. its human, its what happens, and i wont believe that its all bad when i can do it and he can do it. that is: not all negative interactions are necessarily bad. they are the whole, they call me out and slam me and challenge me and grow me. the world of ego cannot just be ignored. now i keep it down, and i try not to spend dinner in the mess spilling my complaints onto the others as so many crew members do, but i enjoy my private jousts, and i delight with fantasies of it going too far, i tingle when it starts to happen again and theres another experience to soak in.
in school a lot i got accused of challenging authority for its own sake, but this is not so; its only disenlightenment that i challenge, authorities who are cold and closed and cruel. and they get it, they get it from me, and i know its not constructive for them, i cant change them, but maybe it is constructive for me. let me feel it. let me remember my me deep inside, hard and inflexible. let me know how people work, what the lines are---
and most important how absurdity fits into it all. ie what if in the middle of this lecture i just start saying meowing at the man, literally meowing and clawing at my boss like a cat? answer to that one: i will get taken out to the deck and yelled at.
that happened a few nights ago. the tension did create some really hot music, ill say that at least.
at the top of the rock of gibraltar, above the monkeys who leapt at me, i climbed still further, off the road, on top of a lookout tower and high onto the rock cliffs where the sky was everywhere and the wind a sea of sound. and there almost at the top there were seagulls, seagulls everywhere, all screaming "CAAA! CAAAA!" and the higher i got the more they screamed at me. until finally they started diving at me, swooping right down at my head with the most deafening high shrill "CAAAAAAAAAA!!!!" and i ducked fast and the wind and the sky and the sea on three sides around me, africa in the distance, and one dropped guano just to my left in a deafening splat and another dive bombs me, CAAA!!!! and im maybe 20 feet form the top. but CA-CAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!! and so i, scared, screamed out loud, "All Right! All Right! Im Going!" and i turned back, back to my human world of taxis and roads and petty ego interactions so far removed from this raw rock and sky. ill play all i want in that human world, but the birds had authority there, and the authority of birds great masters of the heaven, is not to be challenged.
10 May 2005
more aware of the melodies i was two nights ago, accompanying trombone through jobims wave, forever lovely the diminished rising second phrase, "dont worry bout the setting sun". dressed like a blues brother in a tux coat and long black tie, hair wet and spiked. playing less harmonically, less of the chordal clunk, more aware of the contrapuntal weave, this after seeing my own life through new emerald spectacles, given by hermann hesse, kicking ass as usual, in the glass bead game; the game being a culmination of art, science, culture, and religion, a chess like dance of ideas played by monkish master scholars, music and mathematics and contemplation tangled dangled (oh but not mangled!)------> all at once; instead of the passion of the periphery, the single minded obsession, instead the seek for oneness, summation, the journey towards the center, the sum of all things and the dance together.
i am not one thing--
no one is one thing--
and all of these not one things are one thing.
i walked through a drug store in key west, saw the colors of shampoos and lotions around me, the sunglassed dazes of fat tourists with waffle cones full and scorn furrowed quick, the coconut smell, the hemingway ashtray, and the muffled wail of portishead so cinema tragic with strings just beneath and snare and bass rattling my broken small headphones. and so much more, my belly hungry as i prepare to fast for our five day sail across the ocean, my neck tingle insistent as jamacian sunburn heals, and the key lime pie, and the crude tshirts. and all these spun together into one single instant that is the sum of an infinity of melodic thread, at each instant passing each other to form this chord, that chord, each melody distinct and holy yet never so vibrant as when the others around it surround absorb and electric blanket it.
like this gentle bach andante and fugue played on vineyard guitar the senses soak. all of bach independent melodies woven together, so very different from most popular music we hear today, accompanying guitars and pianos clunking out the chords. this starts to happen around mozart, alberti bass laying down the harmony with amelodic repetitions, and its lovely, it works, but its not melodic. it is simple and true, and an electric guitar strumming six notes all at once, and ah all those notes vibrating together and the rich rich, but is not six melodies on a vineyard guitar all at once, it is not the holy weave of bach, (oh and other music of the time; bach did not invent this. he was just soooooooo oooooooooooh), harmony created through the intersection of independent linear lines; a bass grounding, a tenor soaring, an alto stabilizing, a soprano lighting. the chords are there, but only as the consequence of this tangling.
anyone who has taken a basic college counterpoint class will tell you that doing this well, creating even just two independent lines that sound good both by themselves and together, making sure that every chord you pass through gets voiced well, with a root third and fifth and maybe a seasoned seventh or more, and never double the fifth, avoid parallel motion, etc, and i in my passionate youth detesting the idea of rules in music (but oh the truth that the broken rules sound pretty bad). that doing all this, all this well is really, really hard.
but the feeling when it works:
ie the experience of listening to "dear prudence" with headphones and hearing for the first time that subtle chorused out guitar part under the more persistent ostinato melody up top. and hearing the tambourine part for itself, when it comes in just once with the bass, and john rubbing the first note of the melody, an e, against the guitar singing high f#'s every bar, and the third melody in the bass, down seven six flat six five, and later a fourth subtle guitar voice, faaa mi, fa mi, after every prudence, and then the ahs hanging forever on the chorus, and then cymbals for the first time? oh! then we really start in, hand claps now, and my god the cowbell is actually playing with the bass guitar, right along, and on top of everything a brand new voice comes in with george just wailing on guitar, and piano shimmering out of nowhere, so much so much!! and then WHAAA! the whole song hammers halftime, the sun is up, the sky is blue its beautiful and so are you, and the lead guitar rising rising rising and playing the highest note of the song right on "you", and the piano answering it with a little seventh chord! come on! oh my!! bass, low picked guitar, ostinato f# guitar, lead guitar, lead vocal, vocal ahhs, piano, and snare racing forward, tambourine swinging just right, and glorious cymbals shining their own. 10 part daisy chain counterpoint. and thats what makes this song juts floor me every time. open up your eyes, yes! they weave, they roll over each other, and that sand gets everywhere.
and why:
i got shocked with 220 volts of dangling transformer. right into the flesh of my palm the like a dry desert eel. i screamed and swore, laughed and was overjoyed. talking to the russian late in her room i felt twin strains of seduction and friendship welling inside of me, watched my gaze change from desire to companionship and back, as she spoke of russia, how there they are humble, and are judged by there deeds and never the words, never the words...here we shout and pomp "i am the best, i have done this difficult thing, acknowledge me", and it is believed, and always always the quiet ignored and misunderstood. drunk on vodka orange and red i felt such a joy to listen these melodies this woman weave with the others, every melody running through me developing timeless, retrograde inversions of my i. enough for this night to hear these stories and try to learn the tune. and i: love this dance. and i: love a woman far away. and i: love so many. ah, this is working, such a complex fugue she and i have allowed ourselves to feel, all of this happening all at once, growing close so far apart. i will never know who i will be until the very next second, right, *now*, (and right *now*), ((and right *now*)) ((((
glenn gould (famous bach pianist) detested music that wasnt based on counterpoint, and recorded some pretty hilarious recordings of classical and romantic music that just reeks of his scorn, yet transforms the music into something new. he treats the accompanying figures in mozart like another melody, strong and omnipresent and tenacious. and there is a meaning to it, to hear that sameness as a melody grounding and stone lovely.
how noble that life can echo music, how wonderful to know my inside a vast cathedral filled with an infinite web of thoughts, and that the spiders there are not so creepy but just small and smiling little halfsmiles, aware and dancing so agily as they swing on their gossamer and time every trapeze jump so they never crash with another, all lightbeams dancing.
i am not one thing--
no one is one thing--
and all of these not one things are one thing.
i walked through a drug store in key west, saw the colors of shampoos and lotions around me, the sunglassed dazes of fat tourists with waffle cones full and scorn furrowed quick, the coconut smell, the hemingway ashtray, and the muffled wail of portishead so cinema tragic with strings just beneath and snare and bass rattling my broken small headphones. and so much more, my belly hungry as i prepare to fast for our five day sail across the ocean, my neck tingle insistent as jamacian sunburn heals, and the key lime pie, and the crude tshirts. and all these spun together into one single instant that is the sum of an infinity of melodic thread, at each instant passing each other to form this chord, that chord, each melody distinct and holy yet never so vibrant as when the others around it surround absorb and electric blanket it.
like this gentle bach andante and fugue played on vineyard guitar the senses soak. all of bach independent melodies woven together, so very different from most popular music we hear today, accompanying guitars and pianos clunking out the chords. this starts to happen around mozart, alberti bass laying down the harmony with amelodic repetitions, and its lovely, it works, but its not melodic. it is simple and true, and an electric guitar strumming six notes all at once, and ah all those notes vibrating together and the rich rich, but is not six melodies on a vineyard guitar all at once, it is not the holy weave of bach, (oh and other music of the time; bach did not invent this. he was just soooooooo oooooooooooh), harmony created through the intersection of independent linear lines; a bass grounding, a tenor soaring, an alto stabilizing, a soprano lighting. the chords are there, but only as the consequence of this tangling.
anyone who has taken a basic college counterpoint class will tell you that doing this well, creating even just two independent lines that sound good both by themselves and together, making sure that every chord you pass through gets voiced well, with a root third and fifth and maybe a seasoned seventh or more, and never double the fifth, avoid parallel motion, etc, and i in my passionate youth detesting the idea of rules in music (but oh the truth that the broken rules sound pretty bad). that doing all this, all this well is really, really hard.
but the feeling when it works:
ie the experience of listening to "dear prudence" with headphones and hearing for the first time that subtle chorused out guitar part under the more persistent ostinato melody up top. and hearing the tambourine part for itself, when it comes in just once with the bass, and john rubbing the first note of the melody, an e, against the guitar singing high f#'s every bar, and the third melody in the bass, down seven six flat six five, and later a fourth subtle guitar voice, faaa mi, fa mi, after every prudence, and then the ahs hanging forever on the chorus, and then cymbals for the first time? oh! then we really start in, hand claps now, and my god the cowbell is actually playing with the bass guitar, right along, and on top of everything a brand new voice comes in with george just wailing on guitar, and piano shimmering out of nowhere, so much so much!! and then WHAAA! the whole song hammers halftime, the sun is up, the sky is blue its beautiful and so are you, and the lead guitar rising rising rising and playing the highest note of the song right on "you", and the piano answering it with a little seventh chord! come on! oh my!! bass, low picked guitar, ostinato f# guitar, lead guitar, lead vocal, vocal ahhs, piano, and snare racing forward, tambourine swinging just right, and glorious cymbals shining their own. 10 part daisy chain counterpoint. and thats what makes this song juts floor me every time. open up your eyes, yes! they weave, they roll over each other, and that sand gets everywhere.
and why:
i got shocked with 220 volts of dangling transformer. right into the flesh of my palm the like a dry desert eel. i screamed and swore, laughed and was overjoyed. talking to the russian late in her room i felt twin strains of seduction and friendship welling inside of me, watched my gaze change from desire to companionship and back, as she spoke of russia, how there they are humble, and are judged by there deeds and never the words, never the words...here we shout and pomp "i am the best, i have done this difficult thing, acknowledge me", and it is believed, and always always the quiet ignored and misunderstood. drunk on vodka orange and red i felt such a joy to listen these melodies this woman weave with the others, every melody running through me developing timeless, retrograde inversions of my i. enough for this night to hear these stories and try to learn the tune. and i: love this dance. and i: love a woman far away. and i: love so many. ah, this is working, such a complex fugue she and i have allowed ourselves to feel, all of this happening all at once, growing close so far apart. i will never know who i will be until the very next second, right, *now*, (and right *now*), ((and right *now*)) ((((
glenn gould (famous bach pianist) detested music that wasnt based on counterpoint, and recorded some pretty hilarious recordings of classical and romantic music that just reeks of his scorn, yet transforms the music into something new. he treats the accompanying figures in mozart like another melody, strong and omnipresent and tenacious. and there is a meaning to it, to hear that sameness as a melody grounding and stone lovely.
how noble that life can echo music, how wonderful to know my inside a vast cathedral filled with an infinite web of thoughts, and that the spiders there are not so creepy but just small and smiling little halfsmiles, aware and dancing so agily as they swing on their gossamer and time every trapeze jump so they never crash with another, all lightbeams dancing.
27 April 2005
lonely lonely so lonely a day of just lonely and lost and my whole body pouring with this empty water emotion, clear clear spring water running through me and my stomach a creek a whisper creak of sadness.
this is not a crybaby post!
its just interesting: when my body quivers with emotion, when i can really feel it. as tangible as a toothache or muscle sore for the climb. that lonliness of two days ago: once i had arrived on the ship and gotten my key and id and clothes ("why you say 16 1/2 if you not 16 1/2 man? now i got to fold it all up again man. the pins man! know your size man, know your size!") and moved in, and finally a moment of rest and solitude on the bed, above the blanket, and a chance to remember it all it all----------------->
the last two weeks being just saturated with love, san francisco friends lost in it, leaving it, looking for it, a jangled out of tune guitar, and me drunk with transvestites, and laughing in the street such comedies among the hills of mission dolores, and blurs of sleep and love, and wine and champagne and raspberries and kiss and kiss and kiss my goodness so sweet raspberry strawberry peach. i touch bare arms when i can; i hold elbows. and a dreaded lovetorn reunion, slow and stately as waves crash on the beach.
...and a gathering of animals cooing on a field and all pouring out of me as i say goodbye to *her*...
and then new york city tearing me apart with its brand new brand new, and i awake too long so the streetlights are moving and the sky is huge and feets afire and the friends i love most, singing me their voices and i have them forever and the sound so cool so cool doubled with a touch of chorus! so tired, so tired, i sleep over my drink, and a flute and a chorus of tribal drums looped looped looped keep me watching the edges for electrics. and he will have a child and laughs so loud, and he is in love and lauughs so loud. and chances taken, and the kindest compliment from a stranger with her arm in my sleeve. and the streets of that city flooded with love as always, legs on the subway, a girl smiling in slow motion across a bar just a small moment that will suffice for the rest of the whirlwind of moonlit rooftops and subtable icewax play that leave me just completely void, empty and clean, drained of lightning so hard did i shake the mountains that week and such a joy in my throat to feel the blast as they shake me back.
jesus jesus! stay alive! stay alive! im empty and exhausted and ready for more. ive got to stay alive for some more of this. ive got to keep this up. ive got to keep moving in place to keep my feet warm and my hair dry and my eyes shiny shiny!
this is not a crybaby post!
its just interesting: when my body quivers with emotion, when i can really feel it. as tangible as a toothache or muscle sore for the climb. that lonliness of two days ago: once i had arrived on the ship and gotten my key and id and clothes ("why you say 16 1/2 if you not 16 1/2 man? now i got to fold it all up again man. the pins man! know your size man, know your size!") and moved in, and finally a moment of rest and solitude on the bed, above the blanket, and a chance to remember it all it all----------------->
the last two weeks being just saturated with love, san francisco friends lost in it, leaving it, looking for it, a jangled out of tune guitar, and me drunk with transvestites, and laughing in the street such comedies among the hills of mission dolores, and blurs of sleep and love, and wine and champagne and raspberries and kiss and kiss and kiss my goodness so sweet raspberry strawberry peach. i touch bare arms when i can; i hold elbows. and a dreaded lovetorn reunion, slow and stately as waves crash on the beach.
...and a gathering of animals cooing on a field and all pouring out of me as i say goodbye to *her*...
and then new york city tearing me apart with its brand new brand new, and i awake too long so the streetlights are moving and the sky is huge and feets afire and the friends i love most, singing me their voices and i have them forever and the sound so cool so cool doubled with a touch of chorus! so tired, so tired, i sleep over my drink, and a flute and a chorus of tribal drums looped looped looped keep me watching the edges for electrics. and he will have a child and laughs so loud, and he is in love and lauughs so loud. and chances taken, and the kindest compliment from a stranger with her arm in my sleeve. and the streets of that city flooded with love as always, legs on the subway, a girl smiling in slow motion across a bar just a small moment that will suffice for the rest of the whirlwind of moonlit rooftops and subtable icewax play that leave me just completely void, empty and clean, drained of lightning so hard did i shake the mountains that week and such a joy in my throat to feel the blast as they shake me back.
jesus jesus! stay alive! stay alive! im empty and exhausted and ready for more. ive got to stay alive for some more of this. ive got to keep this up. ive got to keep moving in place to keep my feet warm and my hair dry and my eyes shiny shiny!
07 March 2005
the best part is when the ball gets really close to the pole, almost touches it !game over!, but then you THWACQ! hit it right back the other way. it doesnt take long for that ball to swing around and come back your way again, only this time its closer closer wow how did it get so close to your face. so you have to swish your head back, really cool fast martial arts like, and the ball is going so fucking fast as it spins past you and gets ready for another pass, fwip fwipfwip! the promised violence of that thing just whacking you the fuck in the face, man, thats fun.
another great part is those sloppy hits that make the ball hit the pole and then go fwoop! flying up into the air unpredictable, into the grey and distant drizzled sun, the sky so huge with the birds small but elliptical, until the rope grabs it back to earth and towards miles and i's upturned smiling faces. miles is 8, lazy eyed, slow and dreamy and sweet when he talks about getting married and having a dog and sweeter still when he doesnt do his homework but spends all day working on a valentines day card to his mom, one piece white notebook paper, folded once, with intricately lined letters on the front -i love you mom- and the inside a four line essay of painstaking cursive and love in banal form...
-happy valentines day i love you i hope you had a good valentines day-
but then the lovely:
-you are pretty-
and he lazy eye smiling and checking the cursive against the alphabet taped to his desk.
and so now we are out here in the drizzle whipping the shit out of a tetherball at each other, and we are looking up and there are great black birds circling us. and were getting wet. and we never win, neither of us ever wins, we just bat it the fuck back and forth as the birds circle us, and sometimes the birds and the ball and the THWACQ! just so great and he cant hold it and a "shit!" sneaks out and then, shy, shoulder down eye up, a little "excuse my language". but too much lost in the laugh i am not going to stop him from saying shit on this day when theres a tetherball and a black bird and a grey drizzle all hitting him the fuck in the face and his mother is so far away. i get hit in the teeth, he jams his fingers. ive got don henleys "dirty laundry": running maniacly through my head for some reason.
a couple nights ago a good old friend came over and i felt like i didnt have enough to say. everything has slowed down and gotten simple and my life is in just three or four places, the wild drizzle, the long bus, the hermited room, the faraway la. and i float from one to the other with little of the huge water shaking feeling that filled so many years past. now just walk and see, and not too sad and not too happy, just walk and see and guess at how time will move next. and good the flowers are lovely, and good the man in the tacqueria gave her limes for free, and good shes beautiful as she and her mother speak language misterioso on the bus and both perform the cross at the same time, a look up, a grin, in their frantic conversation. but i see and dont add and am only the drizzle or maybe just the tree at the top of the hill at the edge of the yard that watches our mad spiraling tetherball and slow circling birds and invisible circles of rain. must just be the colors she sings as i walk through the mall and cant rememeber. so slow and undefined.
but then that tetherball THWACQ! buzz so fast the wind against my cheek and theres a child screaming in my arms; a child screaming and swearing in my restraining arms and trying to hurt me as badly as he can. and then a sleep dream bus ride and then theres a perfect love underneath me and theres a beautiful new harp never heard above me, and then we do it all again and its all a little new but im comfortable and *safe*, feel so safe in her arms. and circling: not as slow as the birds, but not as fast as that tetherball motherfucking coming right! for my face!.
and those moments are thin and forgettable if its drizzling too lightly like this...but in the forgetting nothing too bad, only the past that is gone and right now its small wonder or blank stare or small tear or vast love unknown and too real to understand. so this is okay/.
right? right?
i think so...so undefined and not at all attached, not at all attached to a pole bolted to the asphalt with a ball tether flying all the way the fuck around you so fucking fast to come and hit me in the face. oh fuck its going to hurt me it is going to sting so bad when the ball fast and wet with tingling drizzle hits me the fuck in the face. and i love that game and i love you sweet slow miles when you are screaming in my soft forceful restraining arms, and im sorry, im sorry, this is as soft as i can hold you, this is as soft as i can hold you. and i want to play with you and show you this game i know where the tetherball can just whack you surprise alive in the face.
and i want to play tomorrow, cuz i dont think im playing right now.
wait...am i?
another great part is those sloppy hits that make the ball hit the pole and then go fwoop! flying up into the air unpredictable, into the grey and distant drizzled sun, the sky so huge with the birds small but elliptical, until the rope grabs it back to earth and towards miles and i's upturned smiling faces. miles is 8, lazy eyed, slow and dreamy and sweet when he talks about getting married and having a dog and sweeter still when he doesnt do his homework but spends all day working on a valentines day card to his mom, one piece white notebook paper, folded once, with intricately lined letters on the front -i love you mom- and the inside a four line essay of painstaking cursive and love in banal form...
-happy valentines day i love you i hope you had a good valentines day-
but then the lovely:
-you are pretty-
and he lazy eye smiling and checking the cursive against the alphabet taped to his desk.
and so now we are out here in the drizzle whipping the shit out of a tetherball at each other, and we are looking up and there are great black birds circling us. and were getting wet. and we never win, neither of us ever wins, we just bat it the fuck back and forth as the birds circle us, and sometimes the birds and the ball and the THWACQ! just so great and he cant hold it and a "shit!" sneaks out and then, shy, shoulder down eye up, a little "excuse my language". but too much lost in the laugh i am not going to stop him from saying shit on this day when theres a tetherball and a black bird and a grey drizzle all hitting him the fuck in the face and his mother is so far away. i get hit in the teeth, he jams his fingers. ive got don henleys "dirty laundry": running maniacly through my head for some reason.
a couple nights ago a good old friend came over and i felt like i didnt have enough to say. everything has slowed down and gotten simple and my life is in just three or four places, the wild drizzle, the long bus, the hermited room, the faraway la. and i float from one to the other with little of the huge water shaking feeling that filled so many years past. now just walk and see, and not too sad and not too happy, just walk and see and guess at how time will move next. and good the flowers are lovely, and good the man in the tacqueria gave her limes for free, and good shes beautiful as she and her mother speak language misterioso on the bus and both perform the cross at the same time, a look up, a grin, in their frantic conversation. but i see and dont add and am only the drizzle or maybe just the tree at the top of the hill at the edge of the yard that watches our mad spiraling tetherball and slow circling birds and invisible circles of rain. must just be the colors she sings as i walk through the mall and cant rememeber. so slow and undefined.
but then that tetherball THWACQ! buzz so fast the wind against my cheek and theres a child screaming in my arms; a child screaming and swearing in my restraining arms and trying to hurt me as badly as he can. and then a sleep dream bus ride and then theres a perfect love underneath me and theres a beautiful new harp never heard above me, and then we do it all again and its all a little new but im comfortable and *safe*, feel so safe in her arms. and circling: not as slow as the birds, but not as fast as that tetherball motherfucking coming right! for my face!.
and those moments are thin and forgettable if its drizzling too lightly like this...but in the forgetting nothing too bad, only the past that is gone and right now its small wonder or blank stare or small tear or vast love unknown and too real to understand. so this is okay/.
right? right?
i think so...so undefined and not at all attached, not at all attached to a pole bolted to the asphalt with a ball tether flying all the way the fuck around you so fucking fast to come and hit me in the face. oh fuck its going to hurt me it is going to sting so bad when the ball fast and wet with tingling drizzle hits me the fuck in the face. and i love that game and i love you sweet slow miles when you are screaming in my soft forceful restraining arms, and im sorry, im sorry, this is as soft as i can hold you, this is as soft as i can hold you. and i want to play with you and show you this game i know where the tetherball can just whack you surprise alive in the face.
and i want to play tomorrow, cuz i dont think im playing right now.
wait...am i?
18 February 2005
05 December 2004
there a face in the woods above a fire; and hes smiling or grinning and hes older and he looks like he knows, but when i look all i see is that he looks like he knows and he must know the looks; and so hes making the look. and if hes making the look, he must not really know. sure hes confident in his drawl as he roasts rabbit on thick and thin, and he will tell you where the fire burns and how to wear the fire like a blanket and which foot to leave uncovered. and much of what he says is the truth. but why does he say it at all, why does he say it all.
in the anonymous man there is a myth of sadness that fills the chambers with rich mulberry wine. sometimes its the wood that cries out as it gets saturated with the notion of blind genius, and the creaks that fill auburn night have a glass chime within, solidifying in beams yet fragile to the touch as spun sugar.
or this man on the couch: bag filled with all the goods needed, and quiet when he should be but will fight for the cause as it emerges; and his eye shines just too metallic in his triumph. and when the sorcerer twists her ankle just off, when she missteps over the lines of dust and the quiet breeze of her error allows a fine filament to escape the sacred circle, then he catches it there too and in a voice just loud enough for the trees to hear he fixes the spell and sits down again silent yet content wiith his mastery.
should this knowledge be kept to the one, do i beleieve that the solitary soul is more than the illusion of the mind struggling against its own insignifigance, or do i see this private collection of electricity as the fundamental truth whose challenge fries doubt and unity like eggs on sidewalks, on dashboards, on marble counters near foam. these are the first questions; and yet is the second questions that plague me tonight, candle near plant leaf, ice cream over wine. the second questions, once the soul is distinguished and separated, the second quetsions of what to do now. and should she sing for herself or for the singers around her or for the sky above, or is there a difference.
and do i wear this cloth for you. and do i dare to turn my face from the mirror, and do i dare to sing alone, and do i dare to turn from the door, do i keep my recipies under my cape where only the sly dragonfly on wind may find it.
is the god in the garden built in the mind alone, or must when be the truth, this when that leaves, so one must move great stones, great heaps of dirt and grass, flowers blooming in designs to the will of the one, so that all may see. must one sing funny fork songs for the approving crowd in the kitchen, or is the beard too long.
in the anonymous man there is a myth of sadness that fills the chambers with rich mulberry wine. sometimes its the wood that cries out as it gets saturated with the notion of blind genius, and the creaks that fill auburn night have a glass chime within, solidifying in beams yet fragile to the touch as spun sugar.
or this man on the couch: bag filled with all the goods needed, and quiet when he should be but will fight for the cause as it emerges; and his eye shines just too metallic in his triumph. and when the sorcerer twists her ankle just off, when she missteps over the lines of dust and the quiet breeze of her error allows a fine filament to escape the sacred circle, then he catches it there too and in a voice just loud enough for the trees to hear he fixes the spell and sits down again silent yet content wiith his mastery.
should this knowledge be kept to the one, do i beleieve that the solitary soul is more than the illusion of the mind struggling against its own insignifigance, or do i see this private collection of electricity as the fundamental truth whose challenge fries doubt and unity like eggs on sidewalks, on dashboards, on marble counters near foam. these are the first questions; and yet is the second questions that plague me tonight, candle near plant leaf, ice cream over wine. the second questions, once the soul is distinguished and separated, the second quetsions of what to do now. and should she sing for herself or for the singers around her or for the sky above, or is there a difference.
and do i wear this cloth for you. and do i dare to turn my face from the mirror, and do i dare to sing alone, and do i dare to turn from the door, do i keep my recipies under my cape where only the sly dragonfly on wind may find it.
is the god in the garden built in the mind alone, or must when be the truth, this when that leaves, so one must move great stones, great heaps of dirt and grass, flowers blooming in designs to the will of the one, so that all may see. must one sing funny fork songs for the approving crowd in the kitchen, or is the beard too long.
28 October 2004
nothing is right these last few days. this is because of a low pressure system, which we have been sailing through for over a week now, almost constantly....a new bermuda to canada itenerary involves a lot more seadays than usual, and each day at sea has been worse than the last, the ship under constant attacks by 20 foot waves that spray the top decks relentlessly. sleep is impossible because the entire world is moving under you, which is not too bad, indeed has in the past been praised bei mir for its rocking lulling rockabye rock, but now in violent sporadic bursts there are bombings...a boomingcrash followed by ten seconds of back and forth aftershocking, so traumatic that the whack of wave wall sends cackling ghost images of sinking directly into my head, THWACK!! and the room itself creaking protest songs all night. drawers are left on the ground and oh my god it never stops. no one is happy, as the stumble about the mess tired and cranky and unstable, coffee spilling and christ when will it end looks of disbelief on all the young international faces. a short storm is fun...a week of this is madness inviting.
further frustrations abound in this wartorn enviornment...worst for me is sporadic computer functioning due to wild weather, and on top of this yahoo mails 48 hours+ of outtacommission...whether this is a yahoo thing or some strange low pressure bug that has infested the three working computers on the ship, i cannot say. (positively aching to send certain someones certain someloves, rest assured. also in need of timely email from me is my sister, who celebrates her birthday today, so let it be said here at least love and 35 kisses and soon to see and thank you for all.) but playing too is wildly stressful, as we are rocked nearly out of our chairs as the ship shakes and moans during a nightmare version of delilah, the stage filled with schizoid light rays and smoke machine excess as scotsman jack walker falls to the groud and i pound out fm9 triplets which the earth moving underneath conspires into gm9s against my will. i held the knife in my hand and she cried no more. last nights lunar eclipse glimpsed under black sheet of clouds, and when she did emerge the shaking boat frame caused the moon to appear to be hanging from a rubber band, bouncing playful throgh the sky. gorgeous. and shake shake whack again.
spent part of our last night in bermuda riding a shoppng cart through the abandoned streets of 5am hamilton. that was not right either, but at least that disreality had the wind in my hair in a continual flow, not these jerks and starts. how i long for a smooth ripple of time to pet my back, low to high all night long.
further frustrations abound in this wartorn enviornment...worst for me is sporadic computer functioning due to wild weather, and on top of this yahoo mails 48 hours+ of outtacommission...whether this is a yahoo thing or some strange low pressure bug that has infested the three working computers on the ship, i cannot say. (positively aching to send certain someones certain someloves, rest assured. also in need of timely email from me is my sister, who celebrates her birthday today, so let it be said here at least love and 35 kisses and soon to see and thank you for all.) but playing too is wildly stressful, as we are rocked nearly out of our chairs as the ship shakes and moans during a nightmare version of delilah, the stage filled with schizoid light rays and smoke machine excess as scotsman jack walker falls to the groud and i pound out fm9 triplets which the earth moving underneath conspires into gm9s against my will. i held the knife in my hand and she cried no more. last nights lunar eclipse glimpsed under black sheet of clouds, and when she did emerge the shaking boat frame caused the moon to appear to be hanging from a rubber band, bouncing playful throgh the sky. gorgeous. and shake shake whack again.
spent part of our last night in bermuda riding a shoppng cart through the abandoned streets of 5am hamilton. that was not right either, but at least that disreality had the wind in my hair in a continual flow, not these jerks and starts. how i long for a smooth ripple of time to pet my back, low to high all night long.
12 October 2004
the challenge of alec duffy
is a great one. he will force you to be yourself and to ignore the world around you. or, more accurately, to ignore your perception of how the world around you may be percieving you. you cannot count on him to behave...you may only count on him to trumpet loud loud to the genral public inside of bookstores, post offices, home depots, etc. you are to join in, and not blush, not shy away from how they make think of you.
i usually come with, so intoxicating is the feeling of the world being just for you. i draw a line when i feel he is actually infringing on the happiness of others, making them uncomfortable, etc. alec does not stop at this point, because he has learned that it is okay to be disliked. related is his flee from buddhism and embrace of anger at appropriate times. alec always tells me to do whatever i want to do.
alec recently made me stop in my tracks with one of his theories of theater.
i do not really want to post this guest article that i asked him to write.
Guest Article, by Alec Duffy
I sailed on and its purple the sea with Dave Malloy. We listened to
said Mario (or I did), because you have to on the 11th deck he's so
loud singing Simon and Garfunkel in mellifluous. Dave and I really
listened to the Philipino trio singing Elvis ballads so good in three
part harmony and soft guitar. what a soothe.
Dave took me for drinks and we met no-one. He wouldn't talk to the
other people on his ship, though they would reach out. Dave is
uncomfortable with the unweird. And so he brushes by them as they
call "Malloy!" So we had lots of room for cuddling in my stateroom
and ordering room service Black Forest Cake and coffee.
Dave revealed he was obsessive/compulsive by re-arranging and fixing
my whole Itunes library (over 17 GB of songs). Thank you, DAVE!
Dave and I drank Dark and Stormys of rum and ginger beer and then we
danced like they do in Brazil, that fighting dance. Caparinha, or
whatever it is. The others just looked on.
I sat and watched him play keyboard in the band, playing for Elliot
Finkel ("son of the small-screen legend Faivish Finkel"). They
played piano versions of Santana and Broadway songs.
We both got brazilian waxes in the salon. Dave footed the $80 bill.
Thank you, DAVE!
He showed me his hidden beach, yes he did. Not before ditching the
Danish drummer. We rolled around in the warm tide and tried to mount
a big rock.
What was my favorite part of the trip? His excitement/nervousness
about what the following week would hold. And how he talked physics.
And now I'm back on the shore. I went to Bermuda and I came back.
I'll never go again. But I sure did have a good time with Dave.
Glad we could share. We were both so longing. And it was sweet.
is a great one. he will force you to be yourself and to ignore the world around you. or, more accurately, to ignore your perception of how the world around you may be percieving you. you cannot count on him to behave...you may only count on him to trumpet loud loud to the genral public inside of bookstores, post offices, home depots, etc. you are to join in, and not blush, not shy away from how they make think of you.
i usually come with, so intoxicating is the feeling of the world being just for you. i draw a line when i feel he is actually infringing on the happiness of others, making them uncomfortable, etc. alec does not stop at this point, because he has learned that it is okay to be disliked. related is his flee from buddhism and embrace of anger at appropriate times. alec always tells me to do whatever i want to do.
alec recently made me stop in my tracks with one of his theories of theater.
i do not really want to post this guest article that i asked him to write.
Guest Article, by Alec Duffy
I sailed on and its purple the sea with Dave Malloy. We listened to
said Mario (or I did), because you have to on the 11th deck he's so
loud singing Simon and Garfunkel in mellifluous. Dave and I really
listened to the Philipino trio singing Elvis ballads so good in three
part harmony and soft guitar. what a soothe.
Dave took me for drinks and we met no-one. He wouldn't talk to the
other people on his ship, though they would reach out. Dave is
uncomfortable with the unweird. And so he brushes by them as they
call "Malloy!" So we had lots of room for cuddling in my stateroom
and ordering room service Black Forest Cake and coffee.
Dave revealed he was obsessive/compulsive by re-arranging and fixing
my whole Itunes library (over 17 GB of songs). Thank you, DAVE!
Dave and I drank Dark and Stormys of rum and ginger beer and then we
danced like they do in Brazil, that fighting dance. Caparinha, or
whatever it is. The others just looked on.
I sat and watched him play keyboard in the band, playing for Elliot
Finkel ("son of the small-screen legend Faivish Finkel"). They
played piano versions of Santana and Broadway songs.
We both got brazilian waxes in the salon. Dave footed the $80 bill.
Thank you, DAVE!
He showed me his hidden beach, yes he did. Not before ditching the
Danish drummer. We rolled around in the warm tide and tried to mount
a big rock.
What was my favorite part of the trip? His excitement/nervousness
about what the following week would hold. And how he talked physics.
And now I'm back on the shore. I went to Bermuda and I came back.
I'll never go again. But I sure did have a good time with Dave.
Glad we could share. We were both so longing. And it was sweet.
22 September 2004
my new roommate, mario the philipino (i asked him!) poolside sunset cocktail hour guitarist (he of lovely though oddly accented windswept versions of "across the universe" and "homeward bound"), just came home drunk, very very drunk (i am tip tip typing late night in me bunk). and he was apologizing...."sorry, david, sorry. i drunk. too much. never before this drunk (which, wow...the guys at least 40). sorry, sorry, david. oh i drunk." watching him take off his pants was just too much. but luckily for him, i had just been reading about the bacchanalian influence on plato, and i told him that drinking was divine, and that he had a right to see god. i also told him to drink some water.
last week was spent with beauticarammle. ______, which i could go on about for hours, but in the interest of decorum and masculine restraint (not to mention artistic maturity) i will not. i will say, though, that there is a girl who knows about god and alcohol. really, she was matching me drink for drink the entire cruise, and our san francisco wanderings with bottles in bags find her holding the drink more often than i (this evens things out because i consistently take bigger sips). always stretching for the stars she is....and while we were never really trashed (maybe once), there was a nice lubricated haze about the lights in the sky all week, they twinkled at us even when they werent there, and i know that this drink was a small part of that.
and i love this! i do. i love embracing it without the mock ironic shame, just drinking it. alcohol doesnt get its just holiness these days, owing to the overwhelming negations of fraternal vomit and styrofoam coffee cup meetings, bleeding steering wheels and failed marriages. but back in the day, when the magic of fermentation was discovered, it was known to be of the gods. bacchus and wild orgies of tearing flesh and divine ecstasy. and we can trace this into judeoschristianland, monks and mead, the four glasses of wine at pesach and purims edict to "drink until one cannot tell the difference between right and wrong" and of course the communion....this is holy liquid! and i feel like everyone, all these young hipsters getting trashed at night, know about this, but they dont talk about it, so knickknacky and hated is the plastic gleam of western religion. theyll go on and on about peyote and mushrooms, any drug that has some shamanic/eastern tone, but beer is of the west, of woman hating catholic church barbecues, and so the drink is not taken as seriously, at least on the surface.
but why every weekend, every magic saturday night, do these bottles of wine and gin call to our screaming souls!
i suppose a lot of this religious feeling has been overwhelmed be the far more potent and mind fucking capabilities of hallucinogenic etc., thus the religous ecstasy raves of the milennium and melting burning men in the desert. (though my mother used to proclaim that no drug gave a better high than alcohol. this may have been her own subconscious attempt to curb my drug use while maintaining her liberal credentials...other memories of her expounding on drugs contradict the previous assertion. but ill let that lie). old roommate eb once told me that she hated people who use spiritual reasons to justify drug use. "just party and say its for party and thats fine" she would say (supply your own south african accent).
im more in line with my mother than eb on these two really not at all related statements. because while lsd and ecstasy and all sure can show you a lot of weird fucking things, and encourage metaphysical wanderings of the most fruitful (and dangerous) kind, leave it to alcohol alone to get at your raw humanity, your pulsing emotion and fires raging under your skin. and its this kind of spirituality, the spirit made flesh, that seems to me ultimately most useful. one can trip for hours on the perfection of creation and the illusion of duality, but youve still got to love someone in the morning, got to talk to people, got to feel the hot sun on your forehead and decide what to do with your sweat as your lover walks beside you. ive just about had it with ascetism of any sort (and fuck spelling something im done with), so key is this body to expereince. why fight against half of your reality? why dualize mind and body at all i guess is the more edifying question. anyway, i love this body, this lust, this god of touches and tastes, and leave it to drink alone to bring the honest out, to say yes to a million specters of color and dissonance buzzing about in the sky. leave it to drink to help you find laughter in the night air...and then communicate it to your love in real ways unchecked, vulnerable, shaking and quaking. ecstasy.
now im going to relate all this to the beach boys' "pet sounds", which i just listened to seriously for the first time today. ive heard it in passing a lot, sure, but this time i snapped on the headphones and went all the way through, while riding the bus out to bermudas southern shore rocky beaches. and the music was great, wow, vocals, strings, fucking timpani!
but it was the lyrics that really took me aback. wilson is just so completely embracing all of the "worst" approaches to love...neediness, insecurity, pessimism, dependence. yet he is naked and unapologetic. he tried to change, to become selfreliant, but at the end said fuck it, "thats not me", and now he wants love, "god only knows" what hell do without it. this pervading desperation makes some of the sweeter love songs ("put your head on my shoulder", "wouldnt it be nice") almost creepy in my mind. only the beauty of the music itself makes you suspect that maybe hes right, maybe he does "have the answer" (god i love the line "what can you say that wont make them defensive". what indeed!). that maybe its okay to want love that badly.
cause hes so fucking honest and its so fucking beautiful! what a weird wonderful thing that beauty can make you reevaluate your philosophical views on things. my experiences with love a few years ago have left me very much anti-petsounds in terms of needing love (at least in theory)...and now here are these beautiful falsetto harmonies encouraging me that maybe its okay to want it so badly. and to taste again true romance...everything is up in the air again. where am i! how much may i feel! everything is true and beautiful...how to pick! oh future you tremble me!
when drunk, there is honesty flying through the air, crashing into itself with its multitude of contradiction, and beautiful love are all of its promises. drink you bring me every truth all at once, and i know it so well because i always laugh with you.
last week was spent with beauticarammle. ______, which i could go on about for hours, but in the interest of decorum and masculine restraint (not to mention artistic maturity) i will not. i will say, though, that there is a girl who knows about god and alcohol. really, she was matching me drink for drink the entire cruise, and our san francisco wanderings with bottles in bags find her holding the drink more often than i (this evens things out because i consistently take bigger sips). always stretching for the stars she is....and while we were never really trashed (maybe once), there was a nice lubricated haze about the lights in the sky all week, they twinkled at us even when they werent there, and i know that this drink was a small part of that.
and i love this! i do. i love embracing it without the mock ironic shame, just drinking it. alcohol doesnt get its just holiness these days, owing to the overwhelming negations of fraternal vomit and styrofoam coffee cup meetings, bleeding steering wheels and failed marriages. but back in the day, when the magic of fermentation was discovered, it was known to be of the gods. bacchus and wild orgies of tearing flesh and divine ecstasy. and we can trace this into judeoschristianland, monks and mead, the four glasses of wine at pesach and purims edict to "drink until one cannot tell the difference between right and wrong" and of course the communion....this is holy liquid! and i feel like everyone, all these young hipsters getting trashed at night, know about this, but they dont talk about it, so knickknacky and hated is the plastic gleam of western religion. theyll go on and on about peyote and mushrooms, any drug that has some shamanic/eastern tone, but beer is of the west, of woman hating catholic church barbecues, and so the drink is not taken as seriously, at least on the surface.
but why every weekend, every magic saturday night, do these bottles of wine and gin call to our screaming souls!
i suppose a lot of this religious feeling has been overwhelmed be the far more potent and mind fucking capabilities of hallucinogenic etc., thus the religous ecstasy raves of the milennium and melting burning men in the desert. (though my mother used to proclaim that no drug gave a better high than alcohol. this may have been her own subconscious attempt to curb my drug use while maintaining her liberal credentials...other memories of her expounding on drugs contradict the previous assertion. but ill let that lie). old roommate eb once told me that she hated people who use spiritual reasons to justify drug use. "just party and say its for party and thats fine" she would say (supply your own south african accent).
im more in line with my mother than eb on these two really not at all related statements. because while lsd and ecstasy and all sure can show you a lot of weird fucking things, and encourage metaphysical wanderings of the most fruitful (and dangerous) kind, leave it to alcohol alone to get at your raw humanity, your pulsing emotion and fires raging under your skin. and its this kind of spirituality, the spirit made flesh, that seems to me ultimately most useful. one can trip for hours on the perfection of creation and the illusion of duality, but youve still got to love someone in the morning, got to talk to people, got to feel the hot sun on your forehead and decide what to do with your sweat as your lover walks beside you. ive just about had it with ascetism of any sort (and fuck spelling something im done with), so key is this body to expereince. why fight against half of your reality? why dualize mind and body at all i guess is the more edifying question. anyway, i love this body, this lust, this god of touches and tastes, and leave it to drink alone to bring the honest out, to say yes to a million specters of color and dissonance buzzing about in the sky. leave it to drink to help you find laughter in the night air...and then communicate it to your love in real ways unchecked, vulnerable, shaking and quaking. ecstasy.
now im going to relate all this to the beach boys' "pet sounds", which i just listened to seriously for the first time today. ive heard it in passing a lot, sure, but this time i snapped on the headphones and went all the way through, while riding the bus out to bermudas southern shore rocky beaches. and the music was great, wow, vocals, strings, fucking timpani!
but it was the lyrics that really took me aback. wilson is just so completely embracing all of the "worst" approaches to love...neediness, insecurity, pessimism, dependence. yet he is naked and unapologetic. he tried to change, to become selfreliant, but at the end said fuck it, "thats not me", and now he wants love, "god only knows" what hell do without it. this pervading desperation makes some of the sweeter love songs ("put your head on my shoulder", "wouldnt it be nice") almost creepy in my mind. only the beauty of the music itself makes you suspect that maybe hes right, maybe he does "have the answer" (god i love the line "what can you say that wont make them defensive". what indeed!). that maybe its okay to want love that badly.
cause hes so fucking honest and its so fucking beautiful! what a weird wonderful thing that beauty can make you reevaluate your philosophical views on things. my experiences with love a few years ago have left me very much anti-petsounds in terms of needing love (at least in theory)...and now here are these beautiful falsetto harmonies encouraging me that maybe its okay to want it so badly. and to taste again true romance...everything is up in the air again. where am i! how much may i feel! everything is true and beautiful...how to pick! oh future you tremble me!
when drunk, there is honesty flying through the air, crashing into itself with its multitude of contradiction, and beautiful love are all of its promises. drink you bring me every truth all at once, and i know it so well because i always laugh with you.
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