<!—more—?

Busy. That is the only way to fight it. It never ebs, it never subsides. It's like gravity.

Even sleep... there is no respite. It just takes on more fantastic forms. Shrouded moments.

But animating cartoons... there is real joy in the work.

Real joy.

These words do. the many many thousands you never see. copious notes.

Someday.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

There is a subject in deliberately avoiding.

And the night is through. I'm a pretender.

I didn't illustrate these, but I love them. They marry gorgeous music with the wonder of books using that delightful mid-century pulp-book vibe.

Moon — 

What's real and what's performative? Look at it all from 10k feet, what does the continent of reality look like? Doors close, but the rooms on the other side don't disappear. Life becomes Schrödinger's existence.

End of the World —

Detonation. An old world is demolished, pieces litter the floor, the walls the ceiling and the halls. I never lied about being in trouble, only about feeling fine. Shock, defiance, survival. When the excrement hits the oscillating device, we find out what we are really made of. The heroes? They pick themselves up and crawl forward through the wreckage and rebuild.

Nightswimming —

Memory... pictures and privacy. Existence before weight, where any altitude seemed possible, and indeed, most were.

I forgot my shirt at the water's edge The moon is low tonight

You, I thought I knew you You, I cannot judge You, I thought you knew me This one laughing quietly

Haunting. Cutting. Bravado is done, if it ever existed. What's left is moonless nights and reflection. The quiet of nightswimming. There's nothing like it.

Frequency —

The maddening experience of communication without acceptance. Or presence without understanding. An invisible existence. The danger comes when you fall into the feedback loop of trying to understand a thing that once was instead of accepting it. The cigar being a cigar and all.

Stand —

All you can do is put your feet on the ground. Center. IDentify 5 things that are real and around you. Locate the self. Then, when you know where you are, go forward.

Losing Religion —

Obsessive emotional exposure: trying to keep up with someone, reading tiny signals, worrying you said too much, then worrying you didn’t say enough. Imagining that you saw them turn back toward you. Hoping a gesture meant something. Then realizing: that was just a dream. It is love caught between confession and humiliation.

Driver 8 —

A journey exhausting the people making it. On this shift too long. And yet there’s that heartbreaking phrase: We can reach our destination, but find it is on different planets. IS there a wormhole that delivers two paths to a single destination? Or is it just the reality of acceptance? IN any case, there's a long journey to travel before teh destination comes.

Everybody Hurts — 

No coming back. No hail mary's... the person left alone after all the remembering, questioning, decoding and longing. When the day is long. When the night belongs only to you. When you feel you’ve had enough.

Hold on.

The songs say: enormity. Revised geography. Gravity shifted, but orbits that remain.

Man on the Moon End of the World Nightswimming Frequency Kenneth Stand Losing Religion Driver 8 Everybody Hurts

“Man On The Moon”

Mott the Hoople and the game of Life yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Andy Kaufman in the wrestling match yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Monopoly, Twenty one, checkers, and chess yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Mister Fred Blassie in a breakfast mess yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Let's play Twister, let's play Risk yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah I'll see you in heaven if you make the list yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Now, Andy did you hear about this one? Tell me, are you locked in the punch? Andy are you goofing on Elvis? Hey, baby Are we losing touch?

If you believed they put a man on the moon Man on the moon If you believe there's nothing up his sleeve Then nothing is cool

Moses went walking with the staff of wood yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Newton got beaned by the apple good yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Egypt was troubled by the horrible asp yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Mister Charles Darwin had the gall to ask yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Now, Andy did you hear about this one? Tell me, are you locked in the punch? Andy are you goofing on Elvis? Hey, baby Are you having fun?

If you believed they put a man on the moon Man on the moon If you believe there's nothing up his sleeve Then nothing is cool

Here's a little agit for the never-believer yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Here's a little ghost for the offering yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Here's a truck stop instead of Saint Peter's yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Mister Andy Kaufman's gone wrestling yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Now, Andy did you hear about this one? Tell me, are you locked in the punch? Andy are you goofing on Elvis? Hey, baby Are we losing touch?

If you believed they put a man on the moon Man on the moon If you believe there's nothing up his sleeve Then nothing is cool

If you believed they put a man on the moon Man on the moon If you believe there's nothing up his sleeve Then nothing is cool

If you believed they put a man on the moon Man on the moon If you believe there's nothing up his sleeve Then nothing is cool

If you believed they put a man on the moon Man on the moon If you believe there's nothing up his sleeve Then nothing is cool

“It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)”

That's great! It starts with an earthquake Birds and snakes, an aeroplane and Lenny Bruce is not afraid

Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn World serves its own needs, don't mis-serve your own needs Speed it up a notch, speed, grunt, no strength The ladder starts to clatter with fear of height, down height Wire in a fire, representing seven games In a government for hire and a combat site Left of west and coming in a hurry With the furies breathing down your neck

Team by team reporters baffled, trump, tethered crop Look at that low plane! Fine, then Uh oh, overflow, population, Common Food But it'll do. Save yourself, serve yourself World serves its own needs, listen to your heart bleed Tell me with the rapture and the reverent in the right, right You vitriolic, patriotic, slam, fight, bright light Feeling pretty psyched

It's the end of the world as we know it It's the end of the world as we know it It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine

Six o'clock. TV hour Don't get caught in foreign tower Slash and burn, return Listen to yourself churn Lock him in uniform and book burning, bloodletting Every motive escalate. Automotive incinerate Light a candle, light a votive Step down, step down Watch a heel crush, crush Uh oh, this means no fear; cavalier Renegade and steer clear! A tournament, a tournament A tournament of lies Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives And I decline

It's the end of the world as we know it It's the end of the world as we know it (It's time I had some time alone) It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine (It's time I had some time alone) I feel fine

It's the end of the world as we know it (It's time I had some time alone) It's the end of the world as we know it (It's time I had some time alone) It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine (It's time I had some time alone)

The other night I tripped a nice Continental drift divide Mountains sit in a line Leonard Bernstein, Leonid Brezhnev Lenny Bruce, and Lester Bangs Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly beans, boom! You symbiotic, patriotic, slam, but neck, right? (Right!)

It's the end of the world as we know it (It's time I had some time alone) It's the end of the world as we know it (It's time I had some time alone) It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine (It's time I had some time alone)

It's the end of the world as we know it It's the end of the world as we know it It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine (It's time I had some time alone)

It's the end of the world as we know it (It's time I had some time alone) It's the end of the world as we know it (It's time I had some time alone) It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine (It's time I had some time alone)

It's the end of the world as we know it (It's time I had some time alone) It's the end of the world as we know it (It's time I had some time alone) It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine (It's time I had some time alone)

“Nightswimming”

Nightswimming deserves a quiet night

The photograph on the dashboard taken years ago, turned around backwards so the windshield shows. Every street light reveals a picture in reverse Still it's so much clearer

I forgot my shirt at the water's edge The moon is low tonight

Nightswimming deserves a quiet night I'm not sure all these people understand It's not like years ago The fear of getting caught The recklessness in water They cannot see me naked These things they go away Replaced by every day

Nightswimming, remembering that night September's coming soon I'm pining for the moon And what if there were two Side by side in orbit around the fairest sun? The bright tide forever drawn Could not describe nightswimming

You, I thought I knew you You, I cannot judge You, I thought you knew me This one laughing quietly Underneath my breath Nightswimming

The photograph reflects Every street light a reminder Nightswimming Deserves a quiet night Deserves a quiet night

“What's The Frequency, Kenneth?”

“What's the frequency, Kenneth?” is your Benzedrine, uh-huh I was brain-dead, locked out, numb, not up to speed I thought I'd pegged you an idiot's dream Tunnel vision from the outsider's screen I never understood the frequency, uh-huh You wore our expectations like an armored suit, uh-huh

I'd studied your cartoons, radio, music, TV, movies, magazines Richard said, “Withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy” A smile like the cartoon, tooth for a tooth You said that irony was the shackles of youth You wore a shirt of violent green, uh-huh I never understood the frequency, uh-huh

“What's the frequency, Kenneth?” is your Benzedrine, uh-huh Butterfly decal, rear-view mirror, dogging the scene You smile like the cartoon, tooth for a tooth You said that irony was the shackles of youth You wore a shirt of violent green, uh-huh I never understood the frequency, uh-huh

You wore our expectations like an armored suit, uh-huh I couldn't understand You said that irony was the shackles of youth, uh-huh I couldn't understand You wore a shirt of violent green, uh-huh I couldn't understand I never understood, don't fuck with me, uh-huh

“Stand”

Stand in the place where you live Now face north Think about direction Wonder why you haven't before

Now stand in the place where you work Now face west Think about the place where you live Wonder why you haven't before

If you are confused, check with the sun Carry a compass to help you along Your feet are going to be on the ground Your head is there to move you around

So stand in the place where you live Now face north Think about direction Wonder why you haven't before

Now stand in the place where you work Now face west Think about the place where you live Wonder why you haven't before

Your feet are going to be on the ground Your head is there to move you around If wishes were trees, the trees would be falling Listen to reason, season is calling

Stand in the place where you live Now face north Think about direction Wonder why you haven't before

Now stand in the place where you work Now face west Think about the place where you live Wonder why you haven't before

If wishes were trees, the trees would be falling Listen to reason, reason is calling Your feet are going to be on the ground Your head is there to move you around

So stand (Stand!) Now face north Think about direction Wonder why you haven't before

Now stand (Stand!) Now face west Think about the place where you live Wonder why you haven't

Stand in the place where you live Now face north Think about direction Wonder why you haven't before

Now stand in the place where you work Now face west Think about the place where you live Wonder why you haven't before

Stand in the place where you are Now face north Stand in the place where you are Now face west Your feet are going to be on the ground (Stand in the place where you are) Your head is there to move you around, so stand

“Losing My Religion”

Oh life, it's bigger It's bigger than you And you are not me The lengths that I will go to The distance in your eyes Oh no, I've said too much I set it up

That's me in the corner That's me in the spotlight Losing my religion Trying to keep up with you And I don't know if I can do it Oh no, I've said too much I haven't said enough

I thought that I heard you laughing I thought that I heard you sing I think I thought I saw you try

Every whisper Of every waking hour I'm choosing my confessions Trying to keep an eye on you Like a hurt, lost and blinded fool, fool Oh no, I've said too much I set it up

Consider this Consider this, the hint of the century Consider this, the slip That brought me to my knees, failed What if all these fantasies come Flailing around Now I've said too much

I thought that I heard you laughing I thought that I heard you sing I think I thought I saw you try

But that was just a dream That was just a dream

That's me in the corner That's me in the spotlight Losing my religion Trying to keep up with you And I don't know if I can do it Oh no, I've said too much I haven't said enough

I thought that I heard you laughing I thought that I heard you sing I think I thought I saw you try

But that was just a dream Try, cry, why try That was just a dream Just a dream Just a dream, dream

“Driver 8”

The walls are built up, stone by stone; the fields divided one by one. And the train conductor says, “Take a break Driver 8, Driver 8 take a break we've been on this shift too long”

And the train conductor says, “Take a break Driver 8, Driver 8 take a break We can reach our destination, but we're still a ways away” I saw a treehouse on the outskirts of the farm. The power lines have floaters so the airplanes won't get snagged. Bells are ringing through the town again, Children look up, all they hear is sky-blue, bells ringing

And the train conductor says “Take a break Driver 8, Driver 8 take a break We can reach our destination, but we're still a ways away”

Way to shield the hated heat. Way to put myself to sleep. Way to shield the hated heat. Way to put myself, my children to sleep.

He piloted this song in a plane like that one. She is selling faith on the Go Tell crusade. Locomotive 8, Southern Crescent, hear the bells ring again. Field to weed is lookin' thin

And the train conductor says “Take a break Driver 8, Driver 8 take a break We've been on this shift too long.” And the train conductor says, “Take a break Driver 8, Driver 8 take a break. We can reach our destination, but we're still a ways away”

“Everybody Hurts”

When the day is long And the night, the night is yours alone When you're sure you've had enough Of this life, well hang on

Don't let yourself go 'Cause everybody cries And everybody hurts sometimes

Sometimes everything is wrong Now it's time to sing along When your day is night alone (Hold on, hold on) If you feel like letting go (Hold on) If you think you've had too much Of this life, well hang on

'Cause everybody hurts Take comfort in your friends Everybody hurts Don't throw your hand, oh no

Don't throw your hand If you feel like you're alone No, no, no, you are not alone

If you're on your own in this life The days and nights are long When you think you've had too much of this life to hang on

Well, everybody hurts sometimes Everybody cries And everybody hurts sometimes And everybody hurts sometimes

So hold on, hold on Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on Everybody hurts

No, no, no, no you are not alone

A lifetime of masks are useful. Though, they may no longer be necessary. LIke the Joker said, 'Wait 'til they get a load of ME!'

Growing and watching others do it too.

Yesterday, I had a long conversation with a man I always avoided.

Andrew was a ghetto rat. I was a self-righteous prick. We could tolerate one another, but like oil and water, never occupy the same space without effort.

I knew him as a small boy: sweet and quiet. A child of potential, like all children.

I moved away in 1996. When I returned twenty years later he was gone from everyone’s life. I would ask after him but his father and brother were always very tight-lipped.

I then lived here for a decade and Andrew reappeared in everyone’s life. At first it was as peripheral trouble for a young nephew who was trying to burn down his own life.

By then, Andrew was a scary-looking man. Dark and reserved. I should have reached out. I should have tried to reconnect with that little boy.

But I knew he had a hand in my nephew’s erosion and collapse. I was bitter about it. The less I had to do with him, the better.

He would come and go. Not consistently. Months would go by, sometimes years. Every time he reappeared, he had another child. At last count he had 5-6 from 4 different women.

Wrong Turns

He brought a girlfriend to our house of worship. She was a beautiful young woman, a complete mismatch to this man’s skeletal and scarred appearance.

She began to study the Bible and made progress, taking steps to turn her life around and raise her children to love and fear God.

He endorsed the effort at first, but in short order gave up. She did not.

After 18 months, he convinced her to go out to a club on a Saturday night. The place is called Haystack. I’ve never been. They don’t serve my kind there, and it looks like the sort of place where you could get tetanus walking through the door.

That night, two birthday parties got loud, then hostile.

Someone brought a gun.

Of course someone brings a f$@#ing gun. To a birthday party.

Once one weapon appeared, eight more came out.

So Haystack is apparently bad for tetanus and lead poisoning.

A fight broke out. Shots were fired.

Andrew’s girlfriend saw her cousin being threatened, picked up a gun that had fallen loose, and, according to the police report, fired toward the floor to scare off his attacker.

But between the muzzle and the floor was a man’s femoral artery.

Three minutes later he was unconscious.

After six, he was dead.

She is now serving a life sentence in a maximum-security prison.

U-Turns

So, my self-righteousness isn’t completely without justification. Andrew was not a great person. In fact, he reminded me a great deal of my own cousins and uncles who were all drugs and violence.

He is now approaching 40.

I learn this as we converse and connect over his alcoholism. He is attending AA and working to stay sober. He hasn’t had a drink in 6 months.

I commend him on this and confess my own grandfather and mother were and are alcoholics. I share what I know of AA as seen through my mother’s eyes and my own time in Al-Anon (the twelve-step fellowship for those of us affected by someone else’s drinking).

It seems to warm him up that I am perhaps not the self-righteous prude I once was.

I don’t just understand addiction in the abstract. Andrew certainly has an intimate relationship with addiction. And it occurs to me how glibly I’ve seen and heard other men talk about those with addictions. As if with God’s help it is somehow easy. Which it can never be. With God, I would say ‘less hard’, but never easy.

Never.

Parallel Lanes

Andrew tells me of his probation, being arrested, and their effect on his family. With a 17-year-old, it has finally dawned on him how poor of an example he has been. His seven-year-old watches me as I speak with his father at length.

It is a moment of time travel. Andrew is both this aging man and the little boy. And it dawns on me that I am both versions of myself as well. Regardless of how rugged or smirched we become, the tiny canvas of when we were new never leaves.

Our older selves can comfort and reassure the person we once were, while that younger, unsullied version of us can remind us of all the hope we once carried. Some hopes were fulfilled, some remain ahead of us, and others became things we never could have imagined.

And yet, here we are.

Will this turn, which can never come too late, be soon enough to save any of his children from making the same mistakes?

Only time will tell.

Horizons

He is becoming a man who can help others. He has been to the pit, looked in the face of despair, and still found a reason to get up and smile.

Yes, he made genuinely bad choices; no, those choices do not exhaust what he is. It is very human to ignore that and label someone as “bad.” Approving or disapproving of someone’s actions is not the same thing as declaring a soul lost or found.

Besides, none of us were fingered as judges by God. Last time I checked, that is Jesus’ job.

Jehovah doesn’t do for us what we can do for ourselves. I am thankful to God that humans like Andrew can quit punishing themselves and accept that they are children of God as are we all. That he has value for being who he is, even if the rest of us didn’t always accept that person.

For certain, he is helping me to learn that my judgment and superiority likely did more harm than good. And maybe in the future, when I am tempted to be dogmatic and look down, I can instead be sympathetic and understanding. To help men and women like him feel not belittled and judged, but loved and seen.

••••••••••••••

Early rise. Dreams Nap. Dreams. Nap. Worship. Strangely dour. Lack of sleep. Dinner with friends Bright and happy Sunset Screened ET Some of Moulin Rouge. Drifting. Breakfast with Shelby-the-boy Would like to draw tomorrow. And read

I complained about our public speaker. He was boring. Slow and plodding. but I listened to my friends compliment him on illustrations and specific teaching points. I applied the advice to look at the content. turns out I was just being bitchy. Probably a dose of poorme. Chill.

plus had lunch with the guy and enjoyed some deep dives on favorite movies. Helps to personify people.

He asked me to invite him over for a moving night. Which is cool. We'll screen 'The End of Oak Street' at the end of the month. he's a former horror fan... so this might give him a little salt. Not horror, that one. but running from scary monsters at least.

I thought about how often people tell me to organize something and include them. Fine. We do that anyway. Social butterflies, we.

but the very same people never do the organizing. Interesting.

I do love an invitation to recreation. I miss them.

The 'Hissy Hussy' t-shirt found traction. We sold out of the design. Guess its time to push that out to mass-market! Maybe we'll get some internet fame. as we all know, internet fame pays the rent. :–/

'They say our love won't pay the rent Before it's earned, our money's all been spent I guess that's so, we don't have a plot But at least I'm sure of all the things we got'

Dinner was good. I ate light as people put too much lard in their food here. The fresh fruit ws amazing. I was tired. I am tired.

We wound the day down by climbing a bridge i like and watching the sun set. It was lovely. Not amazing. Lovely. The sky had that padme-dress color patter I love so much. Cooler weather means Ill make that hike more often. Even last night it was oppressively hot.

Things go well here. I keep my eye in the telescope and I finished a comic/zine. I sold one cpy at the art show/taco fest.

Ng doesn't like some of the stories. In one I am depicted in boxers talking to a cheerleader (HS stuff) and in another, I allude to a make-out session in the family sedan.

Messages not befitting a Christian was the argument.

I agree, I don't want to hand them out to the kids I know. But I don't think they're even PG-13. The book will come in a future post, so you, dear reader, can be your own judge.

Jah’s plan is like a beautiful tapestry. And the tragedy of being human is that we only get to see it from the back. With all the ragged threads and the muddy colors. And we only get a hint at the true beauty that would be revealed if we could see the whole pattern on the other side…as God does.

There are some people who have sun inside them. It's hard to explain. Their presence just brightens, it's not about their beautiful smiles. They have an internal being that sheds light and feels like sun. It's a calm energy. Inner peace. But most importantly; it's not wanting anything back in return. It's sun.

I worked at a bookstore. Teenager came in daily. Read for hours. Never bought anything. Finally asked. “Looking for anything specific?” “Just reading. Can't afford books. Library's far. This is closer.” Let him stay. Read whatever. Whenever. Brought him snacks. Hot chocolate. Safe space. Learned his story. Foster kid. Seventh home. Books were his escape. His education. His hope.

Started giving him books. “Damaged copies. Can't sell them. You want?” He knew better. Took them anyway. Read everything. Three years of this. He aged out of foster care. Eighteen. Scared. Nowhere to go. Helped him apply to college. Scholarships. Got in. Full ride. English major. Graduated. He's a teacher now. High school English. Brings his whole class to the bookstore. Shows them where he spent his teenage years. “Bookstore worker gave me sanctuary. Knowledge.

Hope. Taught me one person caring changes trajectories.” He buys books for students. Who can't afford them. Pays it forward. Every kid in his class reads. Because someone let a foster kid read for free.

-Paula Simmons, bookstore clerk, Rhode

—A library saved my life. I'm fascinated that a bookstore did that for someone else. I doubt this is uncommon. Books are our peace, our salvation.

Dream 260907

River Boat Cruise. Of Death.

I run a business installing and checking data-sized surveillance systems.

They can detect when a person is going to die. They also detect intruders, and they record everything.

Part of my job is going around and auditing the people who are supposed to check the edges regularly.

My father is dying.

I meet a man who runs a river cruise powered by the near-death experience.

Sentiment and cortisol power his cruises. He simulates earthquakes, disasters, and adventure.

He has five or six half-million-gallon above-ground pools, with flat riverboats floating in them. He creates some kind of simulated disaster, and the whole family piles onto the boats.

Then they cruise incredibly slowly.

You can snack.

You can swim.

At the end of the last cruise, the old man we are monitoring dies.

It is the first time one of the people has actually died on the trip.

Andrew

Long conversation with a man always avoided.

A was a ghetto rat. I knew him as a small boy: sweet and quiet. A child of potential, like all children.

I moved away in 1996. When I’ returned twenty years later he was gone from everyone’s life.

I then lived here for a decade before Andrew reappeared in my life.

I expanded 'Andrew' into its own essay. Enjoy.

more stuff

I am the danger.

Driving a Van

I’m driving a white van. The white van. It's name is Maria.

I’m going around a big bowl-shaped curve in Roanoke.Round and round, like the bowl in the Jeep at Little Sahara. The one where mom got stuck and dad had to come driver her out. I take it too fast and drive off the road.

Then I do it again, only faster.

This time, Maria takes off and flies like a jet.

I swoop around through the air. Two other jets begin pursuing me and firing lasers.

Somehow, I realize Maria has become a jet.

I outfly them and shoot both of them down.

LTC

Then I’m in LTC. A job I had 26 years ago. Graphics and prepress house. A big deal for this little art nerd. A job I 90% loved and 10% hated.

It’s dark, with illuminated booths, like the old days. No blinding fluorescence. Just lots of mood and color balanced light so we could judge color.

I say hello to several old friends and walk into an area with a stage.

Tommy is working at a computer in the corner. Two women are flanking him. One is a stranger. The other offers him a barstool.

I don’t know her, but she looks familiar and friendly.

I sit down and start talking to him. The woman sort-of-known leaves.

Tommy is playing a video game and trying to hide it from view.

Jerry, an old manager, wanders over and wants to know why.

Then Jerry asks me to paint a mural on the wall—to give the space some life.

We begin discussing what the mural should be. I imagine a violent splash of color and shape.

Suddenly, the wall it painted. it is live and wonderful.

I wake up.

Kraft Paper

I fall back asleep and return to the same place.

An unruly roll of 48-inch Kraft paper is taking me over.

I wake up again.

Endless Page

I fall asleep once more.

I dream that I’m scrolling an endless page.

11am – Sunday – I could sleep all day. But there is worship, a dinner date, and a movie.

—

A dream about pushing past limits and then wondering what to do with the freedom that follows.

At first I’m driving something ordinary-but special to me. I push it too hard and instead of crashing, it becomes something far more powerful. Maria turns into a jet. I don’t just escape danger; I become the danger. I can outfly it and fight back. Something almost gleeful about that. I go off the road and find out I can fly.

Then I’m back at an old a lauded job, surrounded by my former world and known people, but I’m not really there to resume my old role. Jerry asks me to paint a mural—to give the place some life. I’m being invited to bring something new into a place from my past, rather than simply return to it.

And then teh creative space gets ridiculous: a huge roll of Kraft paper overwhelms me, followed by an endless scrolling page. Both are essentially infinite surfaces waiting to be filled.

This is where I am. I’ve learned that I don’t necessarily have to stay on the road anymore. I can fly. But freedom creates its own problem: there’s suddenly so much space.

The question isn’t only, “What am I escaping from?”

It's, “What do I want to put on the wall?”

I think of the dream allday. The white van, little Sahara, Tommy and the black ceilings at LTC. I am exhausted... barely treading water. I resent having to go to dinner, but have a marvelous time.

Later, the food makes me sick. It was good and wll prepared. But the chef uses an oil of some kind that makes me ill. It is the same type restaurants use. Tastes delicious, but makes me feel like I've been hit with a sledgehammer.

thankfully, I ate 70% fruit and water. That rice was damned good though.

“What if I am never whole?

What if the life I dreamed Slipped away, Something to watch Someone else Enjoy…”

What if? What if?

You are not doomed To absence. You are gifted To have known Such wonder and joy As few men

Can even imagine. Much less experience.

Trails of the Heart cannot Ever be un-blazed.

The people who Loved you have Never stopped Just because Now their feet trod other shores.

You are the quiet strength they recollect when tears wet their pillows on Moonless nights.

Even if every night Is moonless from Now on.

And He is watching. Our Great Composer, Who made you this way.

You are not Just loved,

You are A Symphony.

——

260905

Sort of… it really WASN’T an artshow… but when you’re a velvet hammer, everything looks like an opportunity for kindness… and art.

4h sleep Not done trip to printer setup in an hour books books books stickers and t-shirts bacon and eggs losing my mind remember, darkness and anger is just lack of sleep Shin thinks artist's who artshow are amazeballs I AM amazeballs balls balls balls amaze amaze amaze

Balmy 98°. Gonna need a scarf.

We always make and bring too many things. I wish I had the self control to make 4 really cool things. Instead I lug out 30 meh items.

want to share a coke with you.

fa la la la la

is it to early for a beer? (10a)

New band Recommend by a patron:

Ceramic planet.

According to Ian, they are ‘pedal-gaze’

I forgot how appealing summer skirts and flops are. Haven’t been out of the house much this summer.

We talked about the beach… but, your artist has to play mechanic first. And there’s the puppet planning party. Then 9/26: a cowboy party. I’m going to go on flops and shorts. I AM Texan after all. Cowboy: close enough.

The tattoo artists and face painters have moved their booth across the street. The sun is low enough that it cuts under the trees and canopy.

Ng wanted to do that. But I didn’t want to lug our kit over there. 👉

The face painter lady does not appear in good health. She has a very strange body type. She is a pear shape, with extreme consolidation of cellulite at her buttocks and thighs. She walks with a limp. Knee damage.

A young woman cuts by with enough bosom for about 5 women. She has them pushed strangely high up, almost so that she could rest her chin on them. And her skirt is little more than a suggestion.

I imagine she feels cute or attractive.

She sort of looks alien. Like a life form wanted to pass as human but didn’t quite get it right.

The Men in Black would take note.

I am an old man. It is not a style that appeals to me.

I watch men for a bit. They just aren’t as interesting.

Typically slice it with logos splashed on their shirts.

Policemen are an exception. They are kitted for adventure. They are probably mixed about finding it though.

I’m not policeman material. Too emotional. Too ready to avoid confrontation.

The booth next too is is very popular. He has a 3d printer and cranks out 10” toy characters. They are popular $30-$50 items.

I feel bad for Ng. I thought she would sell more. She did too. I made her 100 branded stickers and worried it wouldn’t be enough.

Eternal optimist, I. But I sure have a dark streak when I get tired.

Sounds

There is a cacophony of it.

A generator chugs as it has for the last 5 hours. It inflates the bouce floor for the mechanical bull. They haven’t done much business for all That noise and pollution.

I greatly desire to smash it with a sledgehammer.

The 3d printer people have an Alexa that’s been steady with tejano all Afternoon.

Somewhere someone has been pushing out base steady and strong. No idea what music. Just the a-rhythmic rumble.

A white truck pulls away. It’s music, (country? Mexican?) is weirdly piercing. Like it’s much closer than it is. LOTS of treble.

I think of Ian who recommended Cermic Planet, who is a musician. As an artist and writer, I understand the mystic feeling of evoking something combining.

But music is special. It only exists WHILE it is happening. Maybe that’s why it’s SO frekin powerful.

It physically shifts me. The right song brings out truths that I am so good at hiding, it defies reality.

Dancers

The Mexican dancers are headed to their performance. The dresses are just gorgeous. Even though they are long and flowy, the cotton seems To weigh nothing.

Men get no such costume. Perhaps I should wear robes like Ralph Fiennes in The English Patient.

I must be mincing up Lawrence of Arabia. Google doesn’t give me that visual. Just Fiennes in terrific flowing cotton cut in the western fashion.

I think I’ll watch English Patient tonight. Thinking of it makes me melencholy and makes a pressure build behind my eyes.

Please don’t forget me in the desert, indeed.

Or the dessert.

Yes, feel like a suffering night.

Maybe after I slog home and shower, I’ll kick this sudden funk. Beer might help. God. It’s been months since. I had a beer.

Suddenly want to drink a keg.

It’s a lot of things. The lack of sleep and the heat don’t help. But watching Ng put all that work into this show and get nothing but lookiloos all day is a bummer.

Like preaching and teaching, just having a conversation is wonderfully edifying.

Nirvana’s Lithium pushes through and it strikes a chord.

Spinning it up, it electrifies me at the crescendo.

And ON cue, a young family stops to peruse and take a couple of stickers.

It puts a smile on my face.

She is a brand spanking new mom. Still carrying a lot of baby weight and a nascent human being.

I wonder what kind of man or woman the child will become. Dad is kind. He has a hat that has the word ‘asset’ crossed out and the word ‘liability’ written in.

He says his boss doesn’t like the hat. Haha.

Luchas

No Taco Fest would be complete without wrestling. I hear bangs from the wrestling ring and cheering that indicated the Luchadores have begun the evenings entertainment.

It was never a spectacle that appealed to me. But my appreciation the costuming aesthetic has grown over the years. The film Nacho Libre finally got me to pay attention.

There is something about the strangeness of it. How much variety there is in the canvas of a Lycra mask.

And the stitching. Why is the stitching so significant to me? Perhaps I missed my calling as a designer.

I start to draw, but between the exhaustion and heat, I do not.

postmortem

I.

Am.

So.

Tired.

As Lot's wife was a pillar of salt, I am wearing a salt suit.

There was so much sweating. So much.

For now. Shower and sit.

Caught myself in a reflection. Hair wild with abandon under my hat. I look like an overly large version of the foul mouthed Tanner from the 1978 Bad News Bears.

I always identified with him. Though I never wanted to be him… the shoe sort of fits, you know?

A partner very appreciative of my support and time this week and today is draped over me with her cute little snore.

So I’ll drop this device on the floor and join the chorus, a tuba to her flute.

•••••••••••••••

Higher planes unseen places quiet thoughts

The perks of Midsummer Liberty

Tanzanite Midnights Things giving

Flung to the rafters For all time

The Pupil

By the time Jack realized the weekend had changed him, it was already over.

That was the trouble with important things. They rarely announced themselves.

There was no bell. No trumpet. No angel descending through a rent in the clouds to point a luminous finger at the precise second when a man's life had quietly divided itself into before and after.

Usually, there was just Tuesday.

Or Sunday morning.

Or a sentence spoken by someone who had no idea what he had just done.

The weekend began with heat.

The kind of heat that didn't merely surround you but seemed personally offended by your existence.

Jack spent Saturday morning talking to strangers about God beneath a sky bleached nearly white by the sun. He had gotten good at it over the years. Good at finding the door into a conversation. Good at listening for the little hesitation that meant someone was lonely enough to let a stranger tell them that the universe had not forgotten them.

Sometimes it worked.

Sometimes it didn't.

That morning, inexplicably, it worked three times.

Three people agreed to talk again.

Jack smiled about it, because that was what one did when Heaven appeared to be keeping score.

By noon, he was exhausted.

By two, he was filthy.

By three, he was playing volleyball.

This had been a mistake.

The ball had become a grotesque object almost immediately, rolling through a field of thorny burrs that clung to its skin until every return transformed it into a medieval weapon. Half a dozen teenagers had been recruited into the game, though most appeared to have only a theoretical understanding of volleyball.

Jack watched one boy swing at the ball with such magnificent futility that he laughed until his ribs hurt.

“Try,” Jack called.

“I am trying!”

“Try better!“

The boy laughed.

The ball disappeared into the grass.

Everyone groaned.

For a few minutes, Jack forgot everything else.

That was perhaps the first gift of the weekend.

The second came after sunset.

There was music downtown that night, a little jazz ensemble playing beneath strings of lights while the town pretended, for a few hours, that it belonged to another century.

Jack danced.

He drank wine.

He ate tacos from a street stall that had no business being as good as they were.

He laughed with people whose names he would probably forget.

And for several hours, he was simply a man having a good night.

Later, in a dim little bar that smelled of woodsmoke and citrus, he met a stranger.

The stranger was young—absurdly young, Jack thought—and tall enough that he seemed to have been assembled vertically by mistake. Pale eyes. Dark hair. An accent that made ordinary English sound like a language imported from somewhere colder.

They talked.

First about America.

Then Europe.

Then war.

Then politics.

Then the peculiar ways nations convinced themselves they were behaving rationally.

The young man had the unsettling habit of saying things Jack had spent years thinking but had never heard another person articulate.

At one point, another patron wandered over and began loudly announcing how comforting it was to see soldiers around.

Jack looked at the young man's white shirt.

His shorts.

His drink.

He looked nothing like a soldier.

The young man raised one eyebrow.

Jack nearly choked on his whiskey.

“Americans,” the young man said quietly.

Jack grinned.

“German.”

“Unfortunately.”

They laughed.

It was nearly midnight when they finally parted.

Jack walked home through streets still warm from the day, feeling strangely light.

He did not know it then, but that was the last moment of the weekend when he would be able to pretend he was merely tired.

The next morning, Jack had breakfast with an old friend.

Old was not quite the right word.

They had known one another long enough that old had ceased to describe either the friendship or the men inside it.

Call him Thomas.

Thomas had once been the kind of man Jack worried about.

Thirty years earlier, Jack had watched him chase one business after another, then another, then another. Money. Property. Expansion. The next deal. The next horizon.

Jack had talked to him endlessly about what mattered.

About God.

About purpose.

About the strange emptiness that could hide inside success.

Jack had been patient.

Persistent.

Sometimes irritating.

He had been, in other words, exactly what a good friend is supposed to be.

And eventually, somehow, Thomas had listened.

Now Thomas was nearly sixty.

Married.

Established.

An elder.

A man other people leaned upon.

He was telling Jack about a trip they were planning—Spain, Greece, Portugal. They were considering selling nearly everything and moving abroad. Somewhere near the Mediterranean, perhaps. Somewhere they could spend their remaining years doing something that mattered.

Jack listened.

And then something inside him cracked.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Because he suddenly understood that the man sitting across from him was no longer the man he had spent thirty years trying to save.

He was the man who had made it.

And Jack—

Jack wasn't sure what he was anymore.

He stirred his coffee.

Thomas kept talking.

Jack watched the sunlight move across the table.

Thirty years.

Thirty years of telling someone else to stand firm.

Thirty years of being the rock.

The lighthouse.

The man who knew which direction was north.

And suddenly Jack wondered whether he had spent so much time holding everyone else upright that he had forgotten how to stand.

There are failures that arrive like explosions.

And there are failures that arrive like gravity.

You don't notice them happening.

You simply discover one morning that everything has become heavier.

Jack looked at his friend and thought:

I am tired.

Not physically.

Something deeper.

Something he had no vocabulary for.

He wanted to tell Thomas.

He wanted to say everything.

The uncertainty.

The fear.

The private judgments.

The horrible suspicion that perhaps he had given away pieces of himself so gradually that there was no longer enough left to assemble.

But he couldn't.

Because Thomas had fought too hard to become this man.

What kind of friend reaches for someone who has only just learned to swim?

So Jack smiled.

“You two are doing wonderfully,” he said.

Thomas looked at him.

It lasted perhaps half a second.

But thirty years of friendship is a peculiar instrument. You learn to hear things other people cannot.

Thomas saw it.

The exhaustion behind the smile.

The thing Jack had not said.

The invisible wound.

He didn't ask.

He simply lowered his coffee.

“Hey,” Thomas said.

Jack looked up.

“Whatever this is...”

A pause.

”...don't worry.”

Jack smiled faintly.

Thomas leaned back.

“It'll be fine.”

That was all.

Four words.

Nothing theological.

Nothing profound.

No argument.

No evidence.

No miracle.

Just four words from a man who had once needed Jack to tell him that everything would be fine.

And Jack suddenly felt something enormous shift inside him.

He looked at Thomas.

For the first time in thirty years, Jack understood something he had somehow missed.

Perhaps people were not rescued in the order we imagined.

Perhaps strength was not a possession.

Perhaps it moved.

Passed.

Changed hands.

Perhaps the things we gave away were not lost at all.

They simply traveled.

Jack looked down at his coffee.

The dark surface trembled slightly.

He thought about fire.

A spark leaping from one piece of wood to another.

The first flame burning itself nearly empty so that the second could live.

And then the second carrying the fire somewhere neither could have reached alone.

A single sentence could do that.

A sentence could become a spark.

A spark could become a fire.

A fire could become a star.

And stars, given enough time, made worlds.

Jack looked at the man across from him.

The pupil had become the teacher.

The thought was almost funny.

He nearly laughed.

Instead, his eyes filled.

Thomas noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He said nothing.

He didn't need to.

Outside, the morning was becoming brighter.

People were beginning their days.

Cars passed.

Doors opened.

Somewhere, a dog barked at absolutely nothing.

The world continued with its usual indifference.

Jack sat very still.

He had spent his life believing that faith meant knowing where the road went.

Perhaps faith meant walking when you couldn't see it.

Perhaps the journey had never been what he thought.

Perhaps the uncertainty wasn't proof that everything was falling apart.

Perhaps uncertainty was simply the landscape through which the next part of the story had to be reached.

He looked again at Thomas.

His old friend.

His former pupil.

His unexpected anchor.

And for the first time in months, Jack allowed himself not to know what happened next.

He discovered, to his surprise, that he could breathe.

The universe had not answered him.

Nothing had been fixed.

No future had been revealed.

But something had changed.

And sometimes that was enough.

Jack stood.

Thomas stood with him.

They embraced briefly—the awkward, masculine approximation of thirty years of affection—and then separated.

“See you soon,” Thomas said.

Jack nodded.

He believed him.

Outside, the morning waited.

And Jack walked into it.

Not as the rock.

Not as the lighthouse.

Not as the man who knew the way.

Just as a man.

And, for the first time in a very long time, that felt like enough.

IMG_2786.HEIC //:everythinggoneisnotforgottenbiogenesisbeingwhatitis

Celebrate being such a light That if cut, you would shine!

Be the bread And the knife,

The goblet And the wine.

2024-09-16 21:30:21