the favored instructor & goodbye to gentleman jack

There is a force that resides in the east, my origin. And at times, delicate times, it feels as if there lays vast oceans between now and there (between here and what has been done - the complete and unfinished, living and dead, the real and potentialities). And yesterday as I retraced steps with a departing friend (Espuma is gone but it is doubtful I will ever forget the anticipation of walking towards it, as long as Alamo Street remains) it occurred that if Time has been so chipping away at what I treasure here, what has happened back east that I can not see? Would I recognize so little of what remains that I would feel as a stranger must? Making it now less real and leaving me center-less? Is this as it should be, must be?

But of course anyone everyone knows that Place must change, it has always been so. Places get taken down and new places put in their space and the people close will choose to scatter, take jobs and lovers and opportunities in other distant places and perhaps occasionally think wistful thoughts about those they left behind. That is likely the absolute most one can hope for. And so I do not then find it strange amongst the swirl, the desolation, the absolute emptying, to take great comfort in finding someone exactly where they were left, doing what (correctly, I say) they were doing, believing/espousing (I love you for writing to the readership of one! even as I disagree) what they were saying before and before and before and before, sweet then. And maybe that constancy was understood/felt then, before it demonstrated itself it was implied, and maybe that was part of the gravity. And gravity will not be denied (pulling us to your porch, to knock on your door, to break from decorum because a few words, a look, from you will remind us so absolutely we will not speak, should not speak, for miles).

And so the beat goes. I fear gentleman jack forever gone, his carcass shipped west towards his country. And good for him I say. Sail the ship sail the ship a pirate ship must be sailed. And gentleman jack was for another time, place. He doesn't belong anymore so bury him already.

At this moment when I look west I see the sidewalk I walked with the poet, always a hurry to our steps (the poet with so much to explain in those days), and the balcony attached to the room belonging to Earth Mother and I can almost make out her outline (statuesque, regal, but bent, slightly). And I clearly see the spot where a dear friend and I smoked several cigarettes and she gave me counsel (she must have known it was her opinion mattered most?) that I have mostly ignored but not forgotten.

And when they smash that building? When I can no longer visit that place, what then?

(you will forgive me for not returning your calls today?)

the sorcerer, the slut, a snitch, and the lady of ten thousand needles

Hurt here? hurt here? here? here? ... as your fingers trace my spine and it isn't possible for me to feel the hurt, only the gentle heat of your touch. The calm precision. So I remain quiet as you stick me blindly, trusting the aim of ten thousand years, the keenness of your fingers. Qi blocked, you tell me much later with the face of a prophet, your great sadness born of deconstructed magic. Then why not stick me all over I think, empty your arsenal, repair what I have broken, FIX ME.

She speaks of outfitting in Paris (Well, of course Istanbul is better for shopping. Much better) and lounging about a cafe or three and then maybe catching a glimpse of royalty in London when everyone listening knows she will be on her back and knees and cloistered to the whim of another that will not include her pleasures or fancies. But it is polite to entertain illusion and the trip is not until October: Do account for less sunlight and pack some warm clothes. And oh, the rain. Bloody rain.


He holsters a sword made of your discarded invectives and when he deigns to part the air (slowly, regally) the result is poetry of the highest order. And so (but?) he is always collecting debris and contaminants and failures. When he chooses to appear it is not sudden but rather he bends time to confuse you into thinking he was always there. Before the first of your memories. And whilst you claw through the embers of certainty (he does not visit the uncertain), tearing at what little remains untouched, he chastises your absurdity with a full-feckled grin. Like a skinny hairy runt of a Budha or maybe a diminutive idiot Jesus Christ. And he has minions. An endless supply in constant motion, his bidding absolute, as breath.

Snitches get stitches bitch.

the beat, the goddess, a pack of strumpets, the doctor, and the holder of kisses

I accused her of not knowing who she was talking to - that went about as well as you might expect. Yet with some things I remain quick, adept, and so it was diffused, put to rest. Not without damage but I will say only a small loss. Measurable but harmless.

He argues less and writes more and I say how can this be anything but an excellent development. His proclivities shame me and so here I am scratching out a few words again. Looking for what I know to be _______ - it is much the same however filled. He rattles words around his mouth now, off his tongue, breathes. Makes choices like a hyper-monk. On acid even? It is all good.

We must talk. Doctor doctor give me the news (and do not continue the lyric, a bad decision already amok - the beat would spit it out, yes, do spit). Mysteries I need explained. I have been told that I am thick sometimes and this is very true.

I will boldly suggest that the Thief has been converted into a Collector. It was a sudden change, no? Tables turned and bold met bold. What is next? (have I mentioned the insistence on decolletage has not gone unnoticed? that I chill a secret vintage? that peaches are amongst the most moist?)

They walk with backpacks and then strip and dive into my pool, airborne for elongated moments like a crashing of sympathy or symphony, you choose. They hide in ladies business attire (look in the briefcase! it is not what you think) and dress like brainy college girls and slam shots in the bars you might expect and claw their way through crowds with sharply painted nails that tickle the senses. So fine. And with a baseness that will shock all but the dullard. Or the most crude or cavalier. But screw them and open your eyes fully, see what I feel.

He is quiet now and might be sleeping. But it is more likely he be gathering: the things of noise-making, of exaltation, of declaration, of hear me. Yes that.

Aside: still you send them to inspect me? to jostle a few words?

Cast Off!

No, not like Bon Voyage! The cast on the broken bones in my wrist came off today for good because the x-rays said I am healed. 29 days after the fall. My neck still hurts but Doc says Time may be sufficient.

So expect a flurry of words as typing and writing is now a privilege restored. Not a chore. For now. Maybe longer.

a Time of Quiet?

Lately I have taken to noise. Well, more than lately. Certainly since I got home from the hospital after being split the hell open. And there has been acceleration to a now constant TV on or something streaming off of the internets. Sometimes nice noise like the smoky jazz channel I found on iTunes. Or a ball game. More often bad noise like the ineptly inarticulate and disingenuous skip bayliss or his screaming sidekick (as a coping skill I always read when this particular noise is on, or open mail, or fix breakfast, or do physical therapy homework, or housework, as if to say, Well I'm not really listening to that crap) stephen a smith. There are other similars, but must I name them all?

This feels very much like a 5th Step. Such a weight lifted. And yet I blush. This is some shameful shit I confess to. And there is more. Much. Podcasts while taking a shower. Or to go off to sleep. Do I really need Keith Law's spoken (24 minutes) opinion on the Red Sox 2012 draft class? Or to hear Danny Ainge guess whether KG will be back? Or SportsCenter in virtual endless loop?

I have always felt a sadness for those who needed noise. The ineffectual treatment/medicine for a fear of aloneness. What is more natural than alone? (who said the only two things man has in common is that we all come in and go out alone?) I have treasured the alone and the quiet, the calm or unease. The comfort in knowing the sound of my voice, the pathways from my head into my body. The necessities of this. The assurance. Pleasure.

And so now it has become The Time of Noise. I did not read about this in Iron John; it is nothing like the leaves or the ashes, a necessary, if unpleasant, step. So clearly it is optional, unnecessary. Clearly it is me avoiding hearing me, what I have learned from my adventures, the time spent so close to the Great Void. Clearly it is weakness and ought be excised. Discarded. Rebuked. Throttled. (Others, more healthy others, might argue it need be loved into submission; I am not in such a frame - who could be in my noisy condition?)

But now I am so sick of the other voices. They no longer comfort or even ably distract. Fuck me, they so annoy. Christ, I feel like Holden Caulfield on something. Christ, I'll say that again for emphasis, and because it feels good to say. No more of those bastards (and they are very much bastards! they must know they sow poison). Aside: reminds me of Zamyatin personifying characters in such an original odd way - surely he would refer to them in poisonous terms throughout: venom and dripping fangs and slippery and slimy and snakelike and much better than I can grab at this minute; Read We if you get a chance.

I feel ready to gather the quiet with both arms. To sail with it. To soak. To suffer (well, as someone I know likes to say: the pain is mandatory, the suffering optional - so maybe not). To choose noise like one chooses company and wine and groceries. To listen to what I have to say (even though I most don't want this). I am on record.

In Search of Beauty

I had promised the thief that I would search for beauty. It was a homework assignment that I have not as yet been taken to task for not fulfilling. I have reported back no findings. So much pain and sadness and shit all around me, that has been what I notice. I thought when I took the assignment that the beauty was out there, eluding me only for the time being. The thief I could tell was certain of it (and that was almost beautiful in and of itself, in fact, might be - but if wrong, if beauty is but illusion, then the cruelty of that face might never be described).

And so it came to be that I stopped looking and like all things lost it was now available to be found (an aphorism! bring on those that argue!). And so it is that beauty has visited, (re?)appeared like the burst of a wave or the spastic giggle of sweet Jocelyn when she finally decides that I am worth her attention in between naps and feedings and general crankiness. The little ones beauty is so unmeasured, so inexact, so perfect (I am thinking of you Max and Sophia, trying to tackle your Uncle in tic-tac-to and hangman).

And I have seen more. I have felt new connections that are both uncertain and promising (what is more beautiful then what might yet be?)

But do not be so fast to count me a believer. I have been tricked before. But perhaps at last the game is afoot.

The Courtesan, The Goddess, The Poet, and a Thief of Kisses

It seems that there are things that show up and those one must show up for. And those that are yet to come, perhaps Now in a cosmic thread, but otherwise over there, just over there or way over there (the illusiveness in measuring exactly how far is a source of great distress for many, I suspect - myself included).

She has a PhD and looks me dead on when she corrects me. And she is correct so I nod. We have banished "I think," and so certainty is not only preferred but insisted upon. The additional rigor does tire. And I napped in the hammock by the woodpile, the book unopened in my lap.

To label it is tempting. Assign it a box to place it in, which leads to a definition - "It means this ...," will follow, and there is nothing wrong with that. Really, who doesn't like to know what things mean? Particularly if a sleight is performed, a piece of magic that surprises with its suddenness. But I am feeling compelled to resist and instead play this sudden game. It should be assumed that The Thief will again pilfer, it is a thief's nature. Then let us see how successfully, and what might follow.

I mocked her curiosity, gently. Promised a poem. That will put her back on her heels (who ever is offered poetry as either compliment or bribe or recompense?), the failure of that enterprise ending this dalliance. The pause between disappointments. She writes with a joy that would be minimized by calling it a twinkle. (she actually mentioned sealing a letter with a wax seal - I know someone who would be most enamored with that, might fall in love)

The talk of food and strangers and accents and noticing life was exactly what this outpost needed delivered. Not mentioned were the struggles and we might get to that another time when my strength is fully returned, my resolve reinforced. At present I will cherish the thoughtful gift. Pull some amusement from it. Try to keep back tears.