An excerpt from my upcoming novel . . .

Earlier that evening as the sun set, the upper air provided such a spectacular phosphorescent display. It seemed so close he felt that he could leap high enough, clutch the onliest cloud that was typical in this region of America, and ride, and never come back.

But that night, he walked as a child, as a helpless, hapless, child. Sauntering like a rhythm-less pimp; swaying with the prowess of a 600,000 ton oiler; heaving himself one direction, and then another; dawdling; stumbling; bumbling; rumbling; zigzagging; crossing-over; straight-ahead now; all the while incessantly babbling; sopping the slaver; tripping; the pavement—a pro tem resting place; waiting, lying there. . . . gripping the walls, as if it were the couch; the glass store front as an end table, the light poles as the tall skinny lamps, a mailbox as if it were the television, people as if he had not lain eyes on them in years, as if they knew and care for him. All as if they were the objects utilized during those initial uncharted expeditions.

. . .


Knock, knock, Knock! There was a knock at the door. He stammered, “wwhhoo isss itt”? There was no answer. He was waiting on a friend, though he knew that Leora would not arrive for some time now. Who could that be? He wondered. Could it be . . . them? How did they know he was here?

Duke began to approach the door as though his life depended upon who was on the opposite side of it—it did. His dreadlocks, sandy-brown and full of aesthetic texture swept across his face; in their eighth year of growth, they were quite long now. He resembled someone that a vacationer runs into on a holiday to the West-Indies, although he was as American as jazz and apple pie. He was a handsome young man, or so everyone told him so, and in his early twenties. His tan skin perspired as if someone had sent him out into the raging Saharan heat with a wool coat, donning long-johns. He searched his brain for whom it could be, as he had examined his soul for where he could have gone wrong—Charlie, Jason; how could they know his whereabouts. Even though they were friends, there wasn’t anyone he could trust at this point.

Two nights ago he fled, as a four-legged pest when the lights are produced, as a thief in the night. His throat tightened like a constrictor’s grasp upon her prey, as he began to recollect his escape—tighter; tighter. His mouth was arid, dry as scorched earth and he could not swallow, even if he wanted to.

His watery eyes drifted upward toward the metallic ring that slightly swung in a circular motion, up the accoutrement which was its rope—the hatch which concealed the attic, and thought as he had planned before, to stow away there in case some uncertain and unexpected guest arrived. But he had planned that he would see them coming. Nothing he planned lately had turned out the way he anticipated.

But what is anticipation anyhow, he thought, nothing but what had gotten him into this situation in the first place—hope. He had hoped to become a successful person. He had hoped to make his parents and family proud. He hoped to positively affect at least one person’s life; share things with them that could help them if ever confronted with the necessary nuisances of life. He hoped to love and to be loved; to reveal himself as one can with someone that occupies their confidence—without prevarication. He hoped for the things that to him seemed simple; well, at the very least plausible; things beyond him, things that had nothing to do with him directly, things that he could not absolutely affect. He knew that this thing was larger than him. He hoped for the future; the children at war with ‘civilization’. He hoped for hope, that his dreams and wishes would come complete with rejoinder; a response from the ether, the universe, God. He thought, of how sometimes that is all one possesses—memories and despair-tinged-hope. He hoped the judge would go easy on him. He was a councilman for the government for God’s sake!

Knock, knock, Knock! The knock was more thunderous now, each blow of the assailant’s knuckles against the steel door, felt as if a slug to the gut and he knew that it could not be his friend. But then . . .

Yea, you're cute, but . . .

So what's the most disputed quality/characteristic there is . . .? Given that there are no absolute truths/answers, all we have is consensus. The only thing that makes something "true" is when there is a homogeneous perception that is in accord with humanity and most importantly with those that create the force which makes the pendulum swing.

Take beauty for instance. What is beauty? I became interested in the question so I decided to look-up the word in the dictionary and returned with the most ambivalent definition (it actually uses the word to define the term--beauty is beautiful?)

Is it symmetry that makes something beautiful, or is that rather in the realm of appeal? Does beautification work? Depends on whom one catechize. Is beauty really in the eye of the beholder, then what of a blind person or some one with one eye, or blurred vision due to glaucoma or cataract? Are we to say that people of these veins are inept/incapable and bereft of the occupation, of the requisites to be a juror of beauty--"sorry Jimmy, you only have one eye, go look at this screw while the rest of us ponder this art." For the issue in fact is not the salient question of visual beauty, to speak of just one of the five main facets of beauty would in affect miss the proverbial bus. Well or at least to 'absent-mindedly' depart from ones' belongings while boarding said vehicle.
This as the case let us not forsake the prurient emotions that we encounter and are awakened from their hypnogogic trance, when we catch the aroma and delectable labyrinth of a woman's fragrance; the sound of an uber-virtuoso's song from the essence of their very being, in an elegant yet tepid jazz solo that shakes the soul and stimulates the synapsis; the supple touch and feel of a woman. All beyond the scope of any absolute truism, yet definite to the excruciating nexus so that--although intangible/tangible, and anonymous/discovered--they provoke the admiration of the sort of idolatry that the very sights before our eyes do.

What of the beautiful sculpture, where there exist wide consensus of aesthetic appeal for such objet d'art. There are persons about that will, for the simpleton (perhaps Socratic) reasons, disagree to the hills turn red with everyone else and say that they care not for this work. That it is dilettantish, and unworthy of praise or accolades. Is it then for another under a different assumption to flippantly dismiss the dischordal dissonance of our fellow on-looker?--call him an ignorant and possibly arrogant fool that knows not the better. This leads to the assertion that beauty is in fact only skin deep. Does this notion also lend itself to the theory that beauty in every facet is much more than skin deep? Is worldly experience and empirical data neccessary to 'respect'/appreciate the beauty in something/one? Can a bum who has never had much of anything appreciate fine art as much or more than a trust-fund-/hedge-fund baby? And even still, can this refugee create such beauty that requires admiration and genuflection?

I am thinking along the lines of cognitive processes and staid receptions. For instance, one may hear the washer and dryer humm, yet it is when one listens and has acquired the neccessary data of the inner mechanisms, that he truly hears what operations are happening. Are we listening to music or simply hearing it? Maybe the same direction of thought is required to properly understand the functions of beauty.

I say the functions of beauty because if we were to speak frankly beauty is a function--it is an application; an occupation; an avocation; a terrain; a territory; a vibration; a snap of the wit; a behavior; a role; a title; a realm; a responsibility; it is the hero and heroine; the ticket, the bypass; the 'open sesame' and the seemingly impervious force-field; the indispensable mien--most importantly, beauty is an application. It is a quality that when purposefully utilized, yields relevance of enumerable compendiums.

Beauty and the possession thereof, has been shown through and through to hold seisen or ultimate control over many situations, from the court room to the class room. But do beautiful people receive such grand treatment on the count of their foreboding qualities--their voice or their sequestering eyes-- or is it because the person was going to treat any one that came along in the same manner?

All this babbling only harkens back to the initial inquest--what (maybe not exactly, truly) is beauty? Is it really that subjective?

In a word, yes.

Our Stuff

I was playing in this band a couple of years ago, okay I can see your eyes glazing over as I write--trust me, it gets better. I also had a girlfriend, who I had been with for probably a little over a year. At this point you might be saying to yourself . . . okay nothing compelling here. In the musical-project there was this one guy who was a vocalist, who at this point in the allegory shall remain nameless. Well, interestingly enough he was more than a chanter. He also was a polygamist, a sort-of-self-professed-shaman, and acute proponent of tantra and tantric activities. He decreed the utility of the philosophy, and decried the bottom-feeding "seed spillers".
It turned-out that although he held disdain for others that would push their opinions and beliefs upon him; he just like many of us knew that his way was atomically correct.

One particular person that he didn't mind disseminating his blissful propaganda, I mean information, to was of course my girl. In an apparent diplomatic motion--to get to the girl (my girl) who was apparently cold-shouldering his offers--he finally comes to me to try and persuade me--that in essence he would be doing me a favor. He told me that attachment is a dangerous, unnatural emotion, and that in order to have internal peace that I must detach myself from all materials and people. Immediately I know what his modus is. This guy is trying to convince me to let him . . . Of course my reaction is that of disbelief and amazement of the temerity and the gumption of this fucker.

I thought to myself, "I Like being attached to things." I thought of my family and friends, my instruments, my 'stuff', my . . . You know how it is when you get that perfect pair of shoes or the hoodie that seems ideal for the nipping winds of a Chicago fall; the feeling you have when you go to your house or when you get into your car--it is intrinsically connected to raw emotion, which we already understand to disrupt the flow of logical processes and usurp the more apathetic rationale that is contingent on reason-based analysis. This is the reaction one has when carjacked. Do they relinquish control (attachment) of their property or do they attempt to evade the would be assailant? What if in the process of escape they critically injure or in fact commit a homicidal act upon a child? This was a decision made from the standpoint of first, lacking a crystal ball, in that the person did not/could not possess the information to supply them with all the plausible outcomes and consequences of the situation. Second, the decision was multi-dimensional--made in a stitch of time that metaphysically consulted the past, present, future; relying heavily of the past bonding experiences; considering pride and safety in the present; and weighing future expectations.
When something is our own we expect it to be around. We may not even like the damn thing but . . . its ours . . . so don't touch it! If someone does steal our watch or spill grape juice on our favorite tweed blazer, or exorcises our grandmothers spirit we tend get upset. We maintain a perspective of our stuff; holding a mental image of the how it looks, feels, smells, etc...more significant how it makes us feel when we are in the presence of such personal artifacts. If by chance these items are altered by a student driver, adding texture to the side of your door in a grocery parking lot, or by your roommate grifting a large chunk of your cheesecake--many of us would not prefer happenings to our stuff because of our expectations of the mental image sometimes seared into our brains, and the emotional connections to our hearts.


Years later I began to think about what my compatriot had remarked upon, in a big-picture type analysis. I thought of the necessity of detachment from certain items, ideas, people, places, even culture and to a certain extent history. Because what is detachment but a persistent and constant aloofness; an objectivity, and indifference that are innocuous to contrite and often misleading emotional tirades and bereft of methodological and sane reasoning. No my friends, detachment does not automatically connote a necessary disconnection to and from whatever it is that we are fond of in the first place. I believe that one can (and often does) maintain a level of detachment that is frequently ambiguous and unnoticed, nevertheless relevant in/to the way we interact, and in the long run cooperate with one another.

Think for a moment of the articles and examples that I listed previously. What do they all have in common? They are all add-ons and accessories, attachments that are understandably created and maintained because of a connection or even a yearning want for a better/more comfortable existence. But again to reiterate, these items, withstanding our connection with people/spirits are not pertinent or in fact even necessary in most instances.
TBC . . .

Thanks, Assholes

Lately, I feel compelled to acknowledge something that I often don't vocalize or convey to people:

There are always periods in our lives when we are a tad nihilistic, We impetuously/carelessly forsake the attention of those that have a profound impact upon our existence--those that are just there.

In our extremely fast-paced, seemingly scurrilous lives, it becomes all the easier to maintain well intentions to congratulate and cooperate, yet these well meanings often get swept away amidst the fog of uniformity and anonymity.

Well this is indeed a very public decree, for the six of you that read this, that I am unquestionably indebt to all of you for assisting--at times directing, sustaining and helping--me to become the person that I am today.

From the bottom of my heart and soul. All you people, you make this thing good. You make it all worth the bullshit.

Thank you.

Trivial Pursuit

While driving today, I suddenly was struck, almost jolted from a memory as distant as the sun, yet shackled to me like an ill-fitting sweater. Well, maybe it wasn't one recollection but an amalgamation of many; from my youth until this very day exactly. You see I am forgetful. In my own defense, I shall note that my 'forgetfulness' is not of the order of intellectual and retention capacities. No, retaining information is what I consider virtuous and an idiosyncratic propitiosity (if that's a word . . . which it isn't, but you get my drift) What I am in attempts to convey, for the readers' esteemed inference is that quite simply and withholding superfluous pontification, is that I think a lot. I mean all the time. And with a myriad of facets of my treasured intellectual spirit, I think about copious amounts of junk—good junk, chiefly.
Ab ovo, I've been this way; although over time my interests have evolved and transmogrified; waxed and waned; above all it is my hope and desire that my sophistication is abound in perpetuity. Superficial-knowledge, irrelevant-knowledge, and knowledge-knowledge—I devour it.
When I watch Jeopardy or play Trivial Pursuit, I want to answer every question. Call it capricious, pedantic or the sine qua non of egoism, that's how I am.
My reputation for absent mindedness was so thoroughly known (is that ironic or oxymoronic?) that in my kindergarten days I played the lead role of 'Forgetful Fred', in our class play. The paradox about that is that I managed to remember all my lines without incident. My issue is with tasks. You know, daggamit, there's just far too many of them.

" . . . a new birth of freedom . . ."

It is amazing . . . life and all. Ten months ago it appeared as if self-preservation would lose the battle between progressive recognition and the noxious emotions that constitute prejudice. The recondite junior senator from the land of Lincoln, has attained the highest level of political office. Yes, Barack Obama did it; we did it . . .

There remains much to be accomplished and enumerable issues to deal with, domestically, in America--with such an amazing and paradoxical past. But so many believe now.

I believe . . .

More Later