Peru

Tom Waits - Ninth and Hennepin

From Australia Way Back When

Bless This Job

My head is bowed in supplication. I am saying the words and making the motions and trying to maintain the appearance of normalcy and tranquility. We will act as though tragedy, bad luck and economics can't hurt us. We will all pretend to feel safe and warm, and in reciting the myth together, we will come closer to believing it again. I will act confident, like I have endless options at mid-life. It's the holidays, and we will participate fully in the illusion of plenty, mercy, grace and love despite what the rest of the world knows.

S.D.

Sitting up there in the darkness with the wind, the night sounds of buffalo and the distant lights of cars, motorcycles and far off towns, he started to fear that a mountain lion was stalking him. There was no real basis for this fear except for a sudden and complete state of alarm inside his mind and body. There was no finding the trail in the dark and the drop would be steep if his sense of direction was off, besides on the hill you commit to die before coming down prematurely. This is where Crazy Horse suffered for his vision, white boy, show some respect. At the moment of his despair, in a rising wind with lightning approaching, he stood and felt the flapping of large wings around his head. He sat back down now scared, humble, reverent and sick with the notion that they want to build another biker bar less than a quarter mile from here.

Stooges - Dirt

The Witch of November

There Are Some Remedies Worse Than The Disease

The You That I Knew

I.

So it seems that you didn't tell me, or anyone else, everything about you. You owe me no explanation, and I am neither disappointed or surprised. We do this thing alone, all of us, and how you walk your road is yours. I am fortunate for having walked a piece of it with you, am better for having known a part of you, and though still alone - I was somehow less so then. You're gone now, and I am still walking. What I know doesn't matter.

II.

I'm not angry with you, that's what I was trying to say, but I am worried. I'm worried that for all those years you kept a secret because you thought I'd think less of you if I knew the truth. Didn't you know it would have made no difference to me? But then you told me more than once you always hated labels and avoided using them on anybody. Then again you just might have thought it was none of my damn business, and that's cool too. What makes me sad is the possibility that maybe you were more like me than I knew - locked up inside, secretly looking in through cold glass, one thousand miles distant - and that would be a damn shame.

Low

Update

I've been down and out for four days with a fever and some accompanying symptoms. It hit me really hard. I've spent the last four days sweating, shivering, and fitfully sleeping. I guess it's good that I'm not currently employed. I have never taken three days straight off for being sick in my life. This thing just took the spirit right out of me. I haven't written a word - no desire - besides it would be infected writing. A certain way to ruin an activity I enjoy is to do it when I'm sick - the associations remain forever. I can still think of so many former favorite songs ruined by listening while feeling terrible. My strategy is to turn the lights of, convince people to leave me alone and slip into a coma until my body works it's internal healing magic. I'm writing this, so maybe I'm starting to feel better, but my chest makes funny sounds.and I'm still feverish. Who knows, this could all be an elaborate procrastination scheme to protect me from the daily discipline of writing 2,000 words all month (my current sum total is less than 5,000).

Job interviews last week and two resulting offers. I'm going to accept the one for a little less money, but it allows me to continue the work I was doing, only for a smaller, and lower paying, agency. Just means I'll be grinding a way at second and third jobs for another year - nothing new, but I'm glad to have health insurance, etc.. If all goes according to plan I'll start Monday.

Below is a song that's been another anthem to me over the years. It's a getting through it song, whether you're dealing with illness, love sickness, loss, anger, betrayal, self loathing or just trying to write. It's no happy song, but I've found that it makes hell a little easier to endure. Singing this live on stage is about the closest I've come to having a direct religious experience. Listen to it in the dark. You'll be okay, as long as you know how to turn the lights back on.

Today's Quotable Brought To You By Jack

How come we can't go to Cracker Barrel?
Because we don't have enough money.
Well, get a bunch of money. BE LUCKY!

P.S. Jack says seeing this picture makes him nervous.

Tug of War With Davy Jones

Some folks juggle chainsaws, torches. cleavers and axes. Others folks juggle kids, a marriage, a job and the grind. I seem to be juggling sinking ships lately. As I throw one or two up to the surface another one slips past me down into Neptune's mysteries. Right now my novel is sinking past a depth of six thousand fathoms. That means I owe about six thousand words- but hey it's only words, right? - the little buggers.

NaNoWriMo 2

Thomas Nelson stared at the phone in his hand. He was a professional man, a moderate, gainfully employed since the age of 14, respected in his field, steady in a pinch, the guy you want on your side when everything turns to shit. And then he laughed. And then he got back out of his car and pissed right there in the parking lot. And then he took another pull. And then Trent Reznor said, “you make me perfect” in a falsetto that made him nearly spit out the green liquor. And then he got back into his running car; put it in drive; flipped open his phone; read a text message from his former boss – tough day, tommy... stay +, you’ll always land on your feet; hit the gas in anger; texted back - GO FUC... and entered the highway in front of an on-coming car filled with singing teen aged girls. And then he went to sleep.

A little piece of my NANoWriMo project

She put her dollar in the box, made her song choices and sat at the bar. He considered her for a long while and that consideration mixed with his stream of memories just as smoothly as rum mixes with Coke. With the soundtrack to his life pouring from the jukebox behind him, he came to believe in short order that he was communicating with her and that she understood. The next song was White Room by Cream and it propelled him up and in her direction with exuberance.


"Hi, do you feel like dancing? I love this song," he asked too close, too loud, too drunk.

"No," she startled nastily, and she had this look on her face like he was crazy or criminal - some lower form.

It hit him like a slap that she didn't understand at all. She was probably twenty five years younger than he was and obviously devoid of a soul. It mixed with the booze and pissed him off, not the rejection really, but the lack of understanding. He danced alone then, out of pure defiance, and felt exalted and like wrecking the place all at once. When the song was over, he stood there sweating and breathing heavily for a moment until Tea Party let him know it was time to leave.