7.07.2008
"JOKER AWAKENS"
Joker’s peaceful sleep is over. His thoughts come slow and groggy. Yet he thinks:
Like a dead slug I lay in the bed this morning, tired of snoring, sucked out of the last dream that had me in its thrall. Contemplating the hard work of opening my eyes, I realize that sleep has once again deserted me. What a tease.
With the strength of Hercules I pry them open, seeing nothing but a fuzz-hazed screen that temporarily hides my pillow. When they re-adjust to the morning’s light I will be able to see, with great clarity, the Harry Potter designs that illustrate the pillow case. This used to make me smile, when the idea was fresh and new. The idea, like most, has come and gone, with it the novelty.
There’s nothing that I have to do this morning, after I muster the will to rise. Brew up a batch of coffee. The morning constitutional. The hard chore of turning the computer on. Making sure everything is where it was when I went to bed last night. Turning on some music, a safety net to keep the reality of emptiness from consuming me. Or maybe it’s the emptiness of reality that shoots me down. Either way, Jon Thor can sew together the spider web coil that buffers and saves. I’ll want to go back to sleep.
But she’s gone, gone, lost in the exchange for wakefulness and life. Gone for a chance to make more memories that seem so integral and seem so important but are forgotten as surely as the strange faces that have marched before me all my days. Gone to seduce someone else, leaving only a note telling me she’ll back tomorrow night. “Enjoy your day.”
Eyes now open, sleepy crusted corners, I swim through the chaos and illusion until I find my mind. Your mind. Our mind. THE mind. I know what I am nothing more than an infinitesimally small conduit of this holy ghost mind. The only power I have is the ability to hunt it down and find it every morning. I take it back by force, but I do take it back. I make myself forget that it’s not mine for a little while. Yeah, it slips away sometimes. But I’m usually able to retrieve it before anyone notices. If there’s no one there to see, I’m content to let it roam.
My breath must reek. My mouth is dry and it tastes like something took a shit in there last night. Not that I would know what shit tastes like, but you get the general idea. The contributors to this ungodly stench: the Black and Mild “Wine” flavored pipe tobacco cigar I smoked before I went to bed. The detritus of pepperoni that cleaved to my gums after devouring an entire package, coated with mustard, before retiring (too lazy to brush my teeth) . And then there was the foul odor of the good, long hit of weed that helped me fall asleep. All in all, it added up to a smell that conjured the deep cesspools of the ninth circle of hell, guano and scum floating on it’s surface.
And yet, I debate whether or not I’m going to brush my teeth this morning. Another aspect of the morning routine I’ve abandoned of late, having developed a taste for the sickening flavor that coats the inside of my mouth. Maybe I’ll go all day without brushing, see just how many variations I can make on the original by the addition of various foodstuffs.
Foodstuffs…that reminds me. My belly is stuffed to the gills with a potpourri of vittles that I gorged myself on earlier in the evening. I was in the tight grip of a serious case of the “munchies” before Thor banged his mallet on my cranium. Can I even remember all the shit I ate? Flamin’ Hot Cheetos…Barbecue flavor Wavy Lays…Orange sherbet…Sunflower seeds…practically an entire Supreme pizza…so much food that I feared, even as I ate it, that I might very well vomit it all back out. Even as this notion threatened to manifest itself into reality I took another bite…I wondered what else was in the house I could eat.
So it was, I fell on the bed. I felt like a beached whale about 8 hours ago. Surely I gained 10 pounds. 10 pounds worth of calories I sure as hell didn’t work off in the middle of the night. So this morning, as I wake, I’m still that beached whale, smashing his sunk impression into the mattress.
And so it is, I lie here, still breathing. Another chance to do something worth remembering tomorrow. So much time to do it between the horns of the day. Inspiration to be found in all that I am, in all that we experience together. Choices to be made. Worlds of consciousness to explore and map out. Intoxicating words I can use to describe them. Concepts not yet discovered by mankind, ideas that could usher the world into a new age.
And so I lie here, still breathing. Wondering if ANYTHING is worth remembering tomorrow, still grasping at the moment before me. Time changes it’s tune with regularity, and right now he moves with the speed and precision of a NASCAR driver. It moves along, passes inspiration right by, careless of experience past, present or future. Any choices to be made, I realize, are so trivial, so inconsequential, they barely pull at the fabric. I’ve bombarded my consciousness with atomic bongs, I’ve given up trying to describe it all. I know, deep in my being, that I have nothing whatsoever to offer the world, nothing even to offer myself.
New age? Ha. Same old shit. Another generation begging someone to pull the plug and make way for the whippersnappers.
So Joker turns over, tries to find sleep again.
Fails.
Like a dead slug I lay in the bed this morning, tired of snoring, sucked out of the last dream that had me in its thrall. Contemplating the hard work of opening my eyes, I realize that sleep has once again deserted me. What a tease.
With the strength of Hercules I pry them open, seeing nothing but a fuzz-hazed screen that temporarily hides my pillow. When they re-adjust to the morning’s light I will be able to see, with great clarity, the Harry Potter designs that illustrate the pillow case. This used to make me smile, when the idea was fresh and new. The idea, like most, has come and gone, with it the novelty.
There’s nothing that I have to do this morning, after I muster the will to rise. Brew up a batch of coffee. The morning constitutional. The hard chore of turning the computer on. Making sure everything is where it was when I went to bed last night. Turning on some music, a safety net to keep the reality of emptiness from consuming me. Or maybe it’s the emptiness of reality that shoots me down. Either way, Jon Thor can sew together the spider web coil that buffers and saves. I’ll want to go back to sleep.
But she’s gone, gone, lost in the exchange for wakefulness and life. Gone for a chance to make more memories that seem so integral and seem so important but are forgotten as surely as the strange faces that have marched before me all my days. Gone to seduce someone else, leaving only a note telling me she’ll back tomorrow night. “Enjoy your day.”
Eyes now open, sleepy crusted corners, I swim through the chaos and illusion until I find my mind. Your mind. Our mind. THE mind. I know what I am nothing more than an infinitesimally small conduit of this holy ghost mind. The only power I have is the ability to hunt it down and find it every morning. I take it back by force, but I do take it back. I make myself forget that it’s not mine for a little while. Yeah, it slips away sometimes. But I’m usually able to retrieve it before anyone notices. If there’s no one there to see, I’m content to let it roam.
My breath must reek. My mouth is dry and it tastes like something took a shit in there last night. Not that I would know what shit tastes like, but you get the general idea. The contributors to this ungodly stench: the Black and Mild “Wine” flavored pipe tobacco cigar I smoked before I went to bed. The detritus of pepperoni that cleaved to my gums after devouring an entire package, coated with mustard, before retiring (too lazy to brush my teeth) . And then there was the foul odor of the good, long hit of weed that helped me fall asleep. All in all, it added up to a smell that conjured the deep cesspools of the ninth circle of hell, guano and scum floating on it’s surface.
And yet, I debate whether or not I’m going to brush my teeth this morning. Another aspect of the morning routine I’ve abandoned of late, having developed a taste for the sickening flavor that coats the inside of my mouth. Maybe I’ll go all day without brushing, see just how many variations I can make on the original by the addition of various foodstuffs.
Foodstuffs…that reminds me. My belly is stuffed to the gills with a potpourri of vittles that I gorged myself on earlier in the evening. I was in the tight grip of a serious case of the “munchies” before Thor banged his mallet on my cranium. Can I even remember all the shit I ate? Flamin’ Hot Cheetos…Barbecue flavor Wavy Lays…Orange sherbet…Sunflower seeds…practically an entire Supreme pizza…so much food that I feared, even as I ate it, that I might very well vomit it all back out. Even as this notion threatened to manifest itself into reality I took another bite…I wondered what else was in the house I could eat.
So it was, I fell on the bed. I felt like a beached whale about 8 hours ago. Surely I gained 10 pounds. 10 pounds worth of calories I sure as hell didn’t work off in the middle of the night. So this morning, as I wake, I’m still that beached whale, smashing his sunk impression into the mattress.
And so it is, I lie here, still breathing. Another chance to do something worth remembering tomorrow. So much time to do it between the horns of the day. Inspiration to be found in all that I am, in all that we experience together. Choices to be made. Worlds of consciousness to explore and map out. Intoxicating words I can use to describe them. Concepts not yet discovered by mankind, ideas that could usher the world into a new age.
And so I lie here, still breathing. Wondering if ANYTHING is worth remembering tomorrow, still grasping at the moment before me. Time changes it’s tune with regularity, and right now he moves with the speed and precision of a NASCAR driver. It moves along, passes inspiration right by, careless of experience past, present or future. Any choices to be made, I realize, are so trivial, so inconsequential, they barely pull at the fabric. I’ve bombarded my consciousness with atomic bongs, I’ve given up trying to describe it all. I know, deep in my being, that I have nothing whatsoever to offer the world, nothing even to offer myself.
New age? Ha. Same old shit. Another generation begging someone to pull the plug and make way for the whippersnappers.
So Joker turns over, tries to find sleep again.
Fails.
7.06.2008
I do not understand your language
I don't speak your language
but I'm trying and I'm trying and I'm trying
not to giggle as the sound of the words you're makin'
but I ain't understanding a goddamn thing
it's like we live in different worlds
yeah, we live in different worlds, an infinity away
I don't understand you
I don't understand why you make me do the things that I do and if not for you for you if not for you it's not
I don't understand you
I never bothered to teach myself your language
and now we're at loggerheads
it's got to be a few blocks away
someone is popping firecrackers left over
from the glorious spectacle of fireworks
the day before, the day before
yesterday, today, the day before
they had gathered together to make plans
guppy lost his marbles
it all became too much, would fall apart at the touch
but plans were made far in advance
You've nothing to worry about, guppy
Your marbles are safe
In the strong arms of a carpenter
Gripped by hands blistered and bleeding
The hammer strikes the nails and a door is made
His door, his muscles, his hammer
His hammer blows that rip his skin, tear and bleed water
oh, no, dear guppy, your marbles are as safe as if they were in your own front pocket
This is so much gibberish to me
There are parts of my brain that do not work anymore
What am I supposed to do about it?
It's all in the moment...I don't miss a thing in the moment
Except the articulate glossolalia coming from your mouths
I have explained this on countless occasions e're we came to this pass
You seem not to be listening when I say
"I do not understand you.
I do not understand your language."
You are as impossible to fathom as the depth of the ocean
guppy had some marbles
guppy had some cash
but I'm trying and I'm trying and I'm trying
not to giggle as the sound of the words you're makin'
but I ain't understanding a goddamn thing
it's like we live in different worlds
yeah, we live in different worlds, an infinity away
I don't understand you
I don't understand why you make me do the things that I do and if not for you for you if not for you it's not
I don't understand you
I never bothered to teach myself your language
and now we're at loggerheads
it's got to be a few blocks away
someone is popping firecrackers left over
from the glorious spectacle of fireworks
the day before, the day before
yesterday, today, the day before
they had gathered together to make plans
guppy lost his marbles
it all became too much, would fall apart at the touch
but plans were made far in advance
You've nothing to worry about, guppy
Your marbles are safe
In the strong arms of a carpenter
Gripped by hands blistered and bleeding
The hammer strikes the nails and a door is made
His door, his muscles, his hammer
His hammer blows that rip his skin, tear and bleed water
oh, no, dear guppy, your marbles are as safe as if they were in your own front pocket
This is so much gibberish to me
There are parts of my brain that do not work anymore
What am I supposed to do about it?
It's all in the moment...I don't miss a thing in the moment
Except the articulate glossolalia coming from your mouths
I have explained this on countless occasions e're we came to this pass
You seem not to be listening when I say
"I do not understand you.
I do not understand your language."
You are as impossible to fathom as the depth of the ocean
guppy had some marbles
guppy had some cash
Grateful Dead: "Aoxomoxoa"
I once liked this album quite a bit and considered it to be in the top 5 best Grateful Dead albums of all time.But I'm coming to the point where I just don't like much of it anymore. I've always hated "Dupree's Diamond Blues", so I don't fault it for losing it's charm before the other songs did).
The version of "St. Stephen" is not as good as any of the live mixes. That stands true with "China Cat Sunflower" as well.
"What's Become of the Baby" is what I always thought "acid rock" sounded like, when I was a kid and had never heard any. I even considered it my favorite song on the album, warped as I was. But now it just seems to drag on and on and on... At points it sounds like Jerry's in the final stages of processing a burrito through his intestinal system. My tolerance level had to have been really low to have considered "What's Become of the Baby" a great stoner song. It must be really high right now.
I was once enlightened, in the parking lot of a Dead show and by a reeking Dead Head, to the true backstory of "What's Become of the Baby".
It seems that Jerry and Grace Slick had conceived a daughter out of wedlock. One day Jerry took the little girl to the laundromat. There were not a few dirty clothes that seriously needed laundering. The last load of trendy duds had been placed into the dryer and JG's daughter is playing pinball when in comes these three hoodlums, all duded up in Harley-Davidson this and Harley Davidson that and a veritable walking advertisement for Harley Davidson.
From their cup holders to the huge tattoos on their scrotums, their allegiance, displayed with pride, was to Harley Davidson.
They walked up to Garcia and a conversation ensued in which these bikers apparently mentioned a topic that fascinated him, as a huge smile replaced the grim and apathetic masque he had worn for the last several days. As terms were offered and rendesvouz plans formulated, with a small, yet significant sum of money changing hands, they arose from their crouches and put to use the bars on the EXIT door.
They were gone for at least 15 minutes and when they returned Jerry had this hitch in his gait and a look on his face like he'd just come back from a mission to Mars. He stepped into that laundromat, thinking that the load in the dryer ought to be long since done.
Not too much later, gathering his things, Garcia made his way to the car. He bent over and pattied the bulge in his sock, just to make sure the bag of dope was still in there, had not fallen out. This was a ritual that began shortly after an incident, some years ago, in which $500 worth of China White heroin fell from his sock as he jumpstarted a Harley-Davidson...
For some odd reason I feel it necessary to point out that Jerry Garcia was never a biker. He liked to hang around with bikers, and I've no doubt that many bikers liked to hang around him. He dug their culture, their fraternal code, their uninhibited free spirits and their old ladies who wanted nothing more than to flash a tattoed tit to anyone with eyes that cared to see. And that wasn't all...biker parties are, hands down, the absolute best parties ever thrown in America, if not the world. He knew it from experience, but he never had the nerve to join their ranks.
But I digress. I waste time. The whole thing boiled down to this. Jerry "Captain Trips" Garcia went and left his own daughter playing on a pinball machine in a laundromat, forgot all about her. Who knows what could have happened to her in the hours forgotten by her own father. A father who, once it dawned on him that he'd left her behind, was way too deep into a heroin joyride to care. Instead he wails, seeking an answer to the song title's fantastical question, "What's Become of the Baby?".
I only spend so much time on it because I once thought it was so great. And now I can hardly endure two minutes...
"Doin' That Rag" was one of my favorites on the "Long Strange Trip" retrospective. I cannot, for the life of me, now understand what I could ever have liked about this annoying song.
"Mountains of the Moon" and "Rosemary" were the same way. I thought they were two of the best tracks here. I can hardly tolerate either one of them now. This original "Cosmic Charlie" doesn't quite seal the deal like the one on "Europe 72".
And finally, trivially perhaps, the album cover has some of the most kick ass cover art you're ever gonna see. The name is cryptic, the uttering of a junkie in flight. You see an album cover like this and you are expecting something out of this world, something that will transcend the boundaries of where music can take you. It's an album cover that invites you to contemplate the mysteries of the afterlife.
But the music inside? Nothing at all like that. And there you have it. The straw that broke the camel's back. Eight half-ass songs. A bitchin' album cover that doesn't deliver.
I am honestly shocked, though, at how much I dislike this album right now. I've always enjoyed it before (with the exception of "Dupree's Diamond Blues"). I can only hope that this trend doesn't extend into my appreciation for other Grateful Dead songs. I've always liked the Dead, even if I lost all respect for Jerry when he lost his daughter.
7.05.2008
7.04.2008
Lot of hard work yesterday, as my son and I helped my mother-in-law move HER mother out of the house and into an assisted living apartment complex (I think that's what they're called). She didn't have a whole lot of stuff, but some of it required extra attention and care (a glass china cabinet, for instance). It was sweltering hot, so the sweat was pouring. I guess it was worth all the labor...we got $75 a piece and dinner at my favorite restaurant (a nice, Mexican place called Rodolfos). To top it all off, she had an extra 17" computer monitor that she's replaced with a 19", and she said we could have it if we wanted it...Uhhh, all we've had was a 13", so yeah, we took it off here hands. It's all hooked up and it works fine, I am hoping that the larger screen will be better for my eyes (actually it's just "eye", the right one).
Stacie's asking me if I want to go to the lake. She should know I won't. First off, any and every lake in the state is going to be packed and overloaded today, since it's Independence Day. Second, and she's fully aware of this...I don't swim in lakes anymore. I haven't done so in several years. There's no way of knowing what kind of shit is in the water (and that, to a small extent, can be taken literally as well as figuratively). Many is the time I've been told about someone cutting their feet up badly having stepped on a broken bottle in the lake. Swimming is all we could do, seeing as how we don't have a boat. I would think a little more kindly of lakes if we had one. I would really enjoy getting out in the middle of the waters to do some fishing. But swimming? No thank you.
No, this 4th of July will be exactly like every other day of the year, with the sole exception being the fireworks display we'll be able to see from the comfort of our back porch.
Took some of the money I earned yesterday and hopped online, couldn't wait to go to Amazon.com. I ordered up the two albums that were left on my wish list after I got the last Sigur Ros CD. Within the week I hope to be enjoying the latest from Sun Kil Moon and Autechre. I've tried to think of something else I might want badly enough that I wouldn't want to wait until my SSD back-pay check comes in. There are a few I could think of, but they can stay on the back burner for now.
I ordered a DVD of "Wild Palms", which I've only seen once, and that several years ago. I remember how great it was and figured it would probably something I'd want to own...which is high praise indeed, as my DVD collection is very small.
Finally I bought the "The Complete Conversations With God" box set. I've been wanting to get this for a while, having long since gotten rid of the copies I once had. CWG is kind of a hot topic between Stacie and I. She has good reason to be leary of my wanting to read them again. The first time around the thing blew my mind to the point where it contributed to an episode that put me in the hospital. I stayed away from it after that, but recently I have wanted to read it again, partly to try and see just why it had that effect on me in 1998. Plus, I recall that much of what Walsch wrote in these books made absolute perfect sense. A lot of the Eastern mysticism and religious thought that I've absorbed to a certain degree is reflected in the CWG philosophy. I'm not afraid, because there were other factors that led to the "Conversations" commitment. I was a daily pot user, for one thing. Plus, I was not taking any medication for my bipolar disorder. Those issues are resolved, and have been for some time, so I honestly don't think I have anything to worry about. Except maybe Stacie's displeasure and abhorrance of the books......
Stacie's asking me if I want to go to the lake. She should know I won't. First off, any and every lake in the state is going to be packed and overloaded today, since it's Independence Day. Second, and she's fully aware of this...I don't swim in lakes anymore. I haven't done so in several years. There's no way of knowing what kind of shit is in the water (and that, to a small extent, can be taken literally as well as figuratively). Many is the time I've been told about someone cutting their feet up badly having stepped on a broken bottle in the lake. Swimming is all we could do, seeing as how we don't have a boat. I would think a little more kindly of lakes if we had one. I would really enjoy getting out in the middle of the waters to do some fishing. But swimming? No thank you.
No, this 4th of July will be exactly like every other day of the year, with the sole exception being the fireworks display we'll be able to see from the comfort of our back porch.
Took some of the money I earned yesterday and hopped online, couldn't wait to go to Amazon.com. I ordered up the two albums that were left on my wish list after I got the last Sigur Ros CD. Within the week I hope to be enjoying the latest from Sun Kil Moon and Autechre. I've tried to think of something else I might want badly enough that I wouldn't want to wait until my SSD back-pay check comes in. There are a few I could think of, but they can stay on the back burner for now.
I ordered a DVD of "Wild Palms", which I've only seen once, and that several years ago. I remember how great it was and figured it would probably something I'd want to own...which is high praise indeed, as my DVD collection is very small.
Finally I bought the "The Complete Conversations With God" box set. I've been wanting to get this for a while, having long since gotten rid of the copies I once had. CWG is kind of a hot topic between Stacie and I. She has good reason to be leary of my wanting to read them again. The first time around the thing blew my mind to the point where it contributed to an episode that put me in the hospital. I stayed away from it after that, but recently I have wanted to read it again, partly to try and see just why it had that effect on me in 1998. Plus, I recall that much of what Walsch wrote in these books made absolute perfect sense. A lot of the Eastern mysticism and religious thought that I've absorbed to a certain degree is reflected in the CWG philosophy. I'm not afraid, because there were other factors that led to the "Conversations" commitment. I was a daily pot user, for one thing. Plus, I was not taking any medication for my bipolar disorder. Those issues are resolved, and have been for some time, so I honestly don't think I have anything to worry about. Except maybe Stacie's displeasure and abhorrance of the books......
7.01.2008
It's the start of a new month, and that means NEW MUSIC VIDEOS posted at THE LISTENING STATION. So far there are some classic performances by Kate Bush, John Cooper Clarke, the Sugarcubes, Public Image Ltd., David Bowie and more.
In case you didn't know, the Listening Station is a storehouse for music videos of songs and bands that I like a lot. I invite all of you to visit, sit back and listen to some of the stuff that gets stuck in my cranium.
In case you didn't know, the Listening Station is a storehouse for music videos of songs and bands that I like a lot. I invite all of you to visit, sit back and listen to some of the stuff that gets stuck in my cranium.
I had strange dream last night. Sigur Ros was playing at a venue closer to home and I decided to go see them again (this would have happened in the waking world). Only this time I brought my wife as well as my son. The theater was very much like the Uptown, where I saw them a couple of weeks ago. We found a seat more or less in the same area where Bryan and I sat last time. The long line to get into the theater was not part of the dream, so I was not sure how filled up it was. I decided to go up to the balcony and see if there were any choice spots there (realizing that I should have done just that at the Kansas City concert).
So, I'm climbing the steps and I notice that they are getting smaller and the surrounding walls seem to be closing in on me. The staircase is in a spiral and it seems to go on and on, turning right every three or four steps. I do eventually get to the top. I look in and all I can see are the back rows, which are not too filled up. I think I'll turn around, slither down the steps, retreive the family and bring them up.
But as I look down I realize I won't be able to do it. My fear of heights kicks in as the understanding of just how high I've climbed dawns upon me. Not only that, the halls have narrowed to the point where I am actually squeezed tight, as if they are a trap. I'm stuck up here, but I try to go back down, one small step at a time. It went through my mind that the last time I was there (and I'd definitely decided this was the same place) the crowds pouring down from the balcony exit did so with ease.
I was still stuck between the walls when I woke up.
If dreams really do have meanings, I haven't a clue what this one represents.
So, I'm climbing the steps and I notice that they are getting smaller and the surrounding walls seem to be closing in on me. The staircase is in a spiral and it seems to go on and on, turning right every three or four steps. I do eventually get to the top. I look in and all I can see are the back rows, which are not too filled up. I think I'll turn around, slither down the steps, retreive the family and bring them up.
But as I look down I realize I won't be able to do it. My fear of heights kicks in as the understanding of just how high I've climbed dawns upon me. Not only that, the halls have narrowed to the point where I am actually squeezed tight, as if they are a trap. I'm stuck up here, but I try to go back down, one small step at a time. It went through my mind that the last time I was there (and I'd definitely decided this was the same place) the crowds pouring down from the balcony exit did so with ease.
I was still stuck between the walls when I woke up.
If dreams really do have meanings, I haven't a clue what this one represents.
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