A-runnin. You cannot catch me.
I will pick up the phone,
But I will not slow,
Not for a moment.
OK, maybe for a moment.
But then it's down the road like the famous
Cartoon character,
And his ever-failing nemesis
With the ever-falling anvils.
Upon his haid.
His name is this:
Wiley ironically.
A wild animal,
But relatively speaking,
Slow.
In the spring, it's all green.
Saint Patrick.
Grass
Ass in grass.
Mustard, collard, and chard.
All green.
Seeking experience,
Seeking, sweating,
Running,
Never sleeping
Springening
In the Beginning
God created the ....
Without form and void.
The ova walla?
The spinach line.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Good Writing
Although sweetly written, the previous entry, "Had," is full of wrong.
And, sadly, I don't remember writing it. Let's blame sleep deprivation.
Here is the wisdom to be added. Relations among humans are complex, murky, unpredictable, volatile, simple, direct, honest, frightening, sexy, disgusting, moral and immoral.
I have noticed that I NEVER receive calls from the dead people whose numbers I have kept in my cell phone.
Here I feel some certainty.
Otherwise, we were made in His image, and He looks funny, big, little, beautiful, intense, stupider than a fence post, and more lovely than a thousand shimmering diamonds. Among other things.
Some say He is holy. If so, in His image, so are we.
So, for the record, I don't mind being "manipulated" in the course of human interaction -- even though I wasn't. And flopping is less painful than it sounds. Unless you are a TV pilot.
Sorry.
No fish were harmed in the posting of this blog.
And, sadly, I don't remember writing it. Let's blame sleep deprivation.
Here is the wisdom to be added. Relations among humans are complex, murky, unpredictable, volatile, simple, direct, honest, frightening, sexy, disgusting, moral and immoral.
I have noticed that I NEVER receive calls from the dead people whose numbers I have kept in my cell phone.
Here I feel some certainty.
Otherwise, we were made in His image, and He looks funny, big, little, beautiful, intense, stupider than a fence post, and more lovely than a thousand shimmering diamonds. Among other things.
Some say He is holy. If so, in His image, so are we.
So, for the record, I don't mind being "manipulated" in the course of human interaction -- even though I wasn't. And flopping is less painful than it sounds. Unless you are a TV pilot.
Sorry.
No fish were harmed in the posting of this blog.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Therapy
I had the idea that a post that gave the history of my various therapists and their input and my growth or lack thereof would be funny, fun, poetic, or philosophical, all in that sardonic way of mine.
Then my friend, yes I have a friend, said "and what would that accomplish??" Friends. Cheaper than therapists, sometimes.
I just like my darkness to ooze out on paper. Is that so bad? It's creativity...or at least a bi-product thereof.
Tonight I played varietal jazz to a small crowd in Westlake with the great Mitch Watkins, and the quite fine Rhythm section of Terry Hale and Arthur Kidd. Really quite a nice evening!
But imagine this post as entertaining, negative, dark, and funny. And true. So lets try, shall we.
I had one guy 4-5 times who I don't really remember, But he was the one who told my folks that LSD can do permanent ego damage. (and this a bad thing....it really is.) Later.... 1969 or so I was arrested for possession of heroin. I had a habit (intermittent), and I was young and busted. Went to a full on spychiatist named Pollatsek. Nice place in the West Village. I have no recollection of what we discussed, though I kind of remember a couple things: 1) The Doc was gay and once asked me to "step into the bedroom" (a Freudian slip -- he might have been wearing one -- no actually was fond of pinstripes....) 2) he gave me 100 10 mg valiums to take with me to the WVirginia mountains where I was cut off from all the good opiates and learned about liquor and smoked weed, I'm proud of my ivy league degree, but those mountains were a turning point.
Inbred homebrewin crazies. Loved those folks. And we were the best thing that had ever happened to them.
The NYC shrink was not all bad, though he lisped, and I guess what I got from him was the understanding that I could not get real, that it was a waste of time, if I came to the sessions loaded. Something/ Nothing. And the valium for the road.
Next flash forward MHMR in about 1987-8. I don't remember the woman'sname. Cocaine and a vehicle collision. Then her.
Then a little intervention.
Then I'm in outpatient rehab. Got sober. 4 months later I threw a cat through an open window --- And ronda she be gone. We were only separated 4 months then though. We slid back together. I had been "ANGRY." Then I was sweet I guess. The relationship was strong like coffee and heroin can be, and we just did not choose to "work on it." Then....or ever really. It was ostensibly perfect. Love should suffice. Didn't.
My growth? I got off cocaine and whiskey, pills and weed. Attended AA regularly. WANTED WHAT they had. It appeared.
New Shrink: Jewish man from Pittsburgh. 1992. I went because I was living sober but in odd fear. This fella told me I was Jewish. Did a little excavating. OK, dad's the enemy, the ogre, but
mom's a bit cool and away and busy. And they didn't sleep together. Stan F PHD, pictured me wearing armor that blocks all authentic feeling -- kills the highs and lows (though I was sober then). Worried that I would forever "stuff." And then when I treated panic disorder with benzos and vicodin, I drifted off into addiction again. The sober period had been about 14 years. And Doc F said, "Danny, Choose Life!" enough to make one consider anti-semitism. (I have no problem with being labelled a self-hating Jew, except I don't really hate myself at all, and if I did it wouldn't be for being Jewish -- which I really am not. The Talmud drives me up the wall, except when I read it as like Jack Handy humor. (is that his name?)
Panic disorder. I could go on and on. The treatment at UT cured me. I had to go through twice. But it seems to be holding. Sort of. I still have Clon. in the drawer. Why? It is not my friend.
Denial helps cure this problem -- Unlike addiction. Denial is known to be part of the disease of addiction. If I can deny or minimize the importance of my panic episodes, they will abate. I know this. So different. Less serious by far than addiction -- though it doesn't feel like it when one is in panic....
My current therapist will remain nameless. The issues: recovery, balance/boundaries, self-care, grace.
Crap it's exhausting. Think I'll nap
Then my friend, yes I have a friend, said "and what would that accomplish??" Friends. Cheaper than therapists, sometimes.
I just like my darkness to ooze out on paper. Is that so bad? It's creativity...or at least a bi-product thereof.
Tonight I played varietal jazz to a small crowd in Westlake with the great Mitch Watkins, and the quite fine Rhythm section of Terry Hale and Arthur Kidd. Really quite a nice evening!
But imagine this post as entertaining, negative, dark, and funny. And true. So lets try, shall we.
I had one guy 4-5 times who I don't really remember, But he was the one who told my folks that LSD can do permanent ego damage. (and this a bad thing....it really is.) Later.... 1969 or so I was arrested for possession of heroin. I had a habit (intermittent), and I was young and busted. Went to a full on spychiatist named Pollatsek. Nice place in the West Village. I have no recollection of what we discussed, though I kind of remember a couple things: 1) The Doc was gay and once asked me to "step into the bedroom" (a Freudian slip -- he might have been wearing one -- no actually was fond of pinstripes....) 2) he gave me 100 10 mg valiums to take with me to the WVirginia mountains where I was cut off from all the good opiates and learned about liquor and smoked weed, I'm proud of my ivy league degree, but those mountains were a turning point.
Inbred homebrewin crazies. Loved those folks. And we were the best thing that had ever happened to them.
The NYC shrink was not all bad, though he lisped, and I guess what I got from him was the understanding that I could not get real, that it was a waste of time, if I came to the sessions loaded. Something/ Nothing. And the valium for the road.
Next flash forward MHMR in about 1987-8. I don't remember the woman'sname. Cocaine and a vehicle collision. Then her.
Then a little intervention.
Then I'm in outpatient rehab. Got sober. 4 months later I threw a cat through an open window --- And ronda she be gone. We were only separated 4 months then though. We slid back together. I had been "ANGRY." Then I was sweet I guess. The relationship was strong like coffee and heroin can be, and we just did not choose to "work on it." Then....or ever really. It was ostensibly perfect. Love should suffice. Didn't.
My growth? I got off cocaine and whiskey, pills and weed. Attended AA regularly. WANTED WHAT they had. It appeared.
New Shrink: Jewish man from Pittsburgh. 1992. I went because I was living sober but in odd fear. This fella told me I was Jewish. Did a little excavating. OK, dad's the enemy, the ogre, but
mom's a bit cool and away and busy. And they didn't sleep together. Stan F PHD, pictured me wearing armor that blocks all authentic feeling -- kills the highs and lows (though I was sober then). Worried that I would forever "stuff." And then when I treated panic disorder with benzos and vicodin, I drifted off into addiction again. The sober period had been about 14 years. And Doc F said, "Danny, Choose Life!" enough to make one consider anti-semitism. (I have no problem with being labelled a self-hating Jew, except I don't really hate myself at all, and if I did it wouldn't be for being Jewish -- which I really am not. The Talmud drives me up the wall, except when I read it as like Jack Handy humor. (is that his name?)
Panic disorder. I could go on and on. The treatment at UT cured me. I had to go through twice. But it seems to be holding. Sort of. I still have Clon. in the drawer. Why? It is not my friend.
Denial helps cure this problem -- Unlike addiction. Denial is known to be part of the disease of addiction. If I can deny or minimize the importance of my panic episodes, they will abate. I know this. So different. Less serious by far than addiction -- though it doesn't feel like it when one is in panic....
My current therapist will remain nameless. The issues: recovery, balance/boundaries, self-care, grace.
Crap it's exhausting. Think I'll nap
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The Beautiful
In the eyes of the beholder, whatever.
Many things are beautiful.
A full dance floor, these kids these days who've taken classes in Lindy Hop and frantically hop to any beat.
Beautiful really.
My children, all Gor Gee Us!
Growth and change. Skin.
Personally I don't find myself beautiful, but I do have good tone -- and I don't mean muscle. Though the heart muscle is a beaut.
The obvious: sunrise, sunset, tenderness, passion (although I must say passion can be pretty ugly, twisty, lumbering....)
Grey hair is beautiful, they tell me.
Love is beautiful, and therefore my marriage is beautiful, and the potential lack thereof is beautiful, because in its negation it promotes that which it negates.
And again we say, whatever.
The day I took LSD in the spring of 1967, and it wasn't real or wasn't enough, but I spent the whole afternoon roaming around various parks and woods with a friend who kept asking "Are you OK?"
Beautiful.
I think the final episode of the Wire is beautiful, though I keep just catching a few scenes at a time. I know, sacrilege -- a TV show! Beautiful? Beholder, dude, beholder.
Love is beautiful. And the greatest of these is desserts, which spelled backwards is stressed. and love spelled backwards is evol, so Darwin was right and the Bible is metaphoric, dinkbrain.
The Big Book of AA is beautiful.
A lack of pain is beautiful.
And pain is beautiful.
Swelling is not.
Tears are.
Genitals, well not really, sorry.
Eyes, always.
ears, rarely.
And if you want to fight about any of this, that's lovely.
A bounced check. Is a joy forever.
Overdraft protection. Beauty.
The word ass is beautiful, though most associations are not. Well, some are not.
AAA (Triple A) can be quite lovely. But not as good as AA. And of course a single A is what millions strive for.
Ending this post. Nice.
Many things are beautiful.
A full dance floor, these kids these days who've taken classes in Lindy Hop and frantically hop to any beat.
Beautiful really.
My children, all Gor Gee Us!
Growth and change. Skin.
Personally I don't find myself beautiful, but I do have good tone -- and I don't mean muscle. Though the heart muscle is a beaut.
The obvious: sunrise, sunset, tenderness, passion (although I must say passion can be pretty ugly, twisty, lumbering....)
Grey hair is beautiful, they tell me.
Love is beautiful, and therefore my marriage is beautiful, and the potential lack thereof is beautiful, because in its negation it promotes that which it negates.
And again we say, whatever.
The day I took LSD in the spring of 1967, and it wasn't real or wasn't enough, but I spent the whole afternoon roaming around various parks and woods with a friend who kept asking "Are you OK?"
Beautiful.
I think the final episode of the Wire is beautiful, though I keep just catching a few scenes at a time. I know, sacrilege -- a TV show! Beautiful? Beholder, dude, beholder.
Love is beautiful. And the greatest of these is desserts, which spelled backwards is stressed. and love spelled backwards is evol, so Darwin was right and the Bible is metaphoric, dinkbrain.
The Big Book of AA is beautiful.
A lack of pain is beautiful.
And pain is beautiful.
Swelling is not.
Tears are.
Genitals, well not really, sorry.
Eyes, always.
ears, rarely.
And if you want to fight about any of this, that's lovely.
A bounced check. Is a joy forever.
Overdraft protection. Beauty.
The word ass is beautiful, though most associations are not. Well, some are not.
AAA (Triple A) can be quite lovely. But not as good as AA. And of course a single A is what millions strive for.
Ending this post. Nice.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Negative More
Great moments in music today at Guero's. Great dust and wind, grooves and songs. Applause. Guest band, The Fire Ants, were awesome, expecially, well, all of 'em but the keybord looked nine and had quite a right hand. Somthin happend to his left. He mostly rested it.
Erik sang a T Texas Tyler tune, Leah play Nuages and it was a very long cloud, but pleasant. Many folks were there: Greyhound, Obermeyer, Myra Spector, the ring girl from the Cont. Lounge, special friends of special friends.
Tomorrow I will slide outta bed, shower, shave, make a CD of new BOB S material to learn by 3 as I fly around central TX seeing waht might have happened to Ringo. I picture him behind bars or dead. No tags, on the street, lotsa traffic, so splat.
WE MISs HIM. Again our home is discombobulated. The pack has turned neurotic, depressed, dysfunction reigns.
That means the prevailing attitude is "The heck with the word, There gonna turn us into sweaters for cats any day now.
They never liked me anyway. (thinks Oscar)
Sad sad sad, bab bababba. Sad Sad bababababababa. I want my baby, Ringo, with the healed pelvis and the whiny aspects too.
Come back to me my Ringo, you really make me singo. You dingo.
Erik sang a T Texas Tyler tune, Leah play Nuages and it was a very long cloud, but pleasant. Many folks were there: Greyhound, Obermeyer, Myra Spector, the ring girl from the Cont. Lounge, special friends of special friends.
Tomorrow I will slide outta bed, shower, shave, make a CD of new BOB S material to learn by 3 as I fly around central TX seeing waht might have happened to Ringo. I picture him behind bars or dead. No tags, on the street, lotsa traffic, so splat.
WE MISs HIM. Again our home is discombobulated. The pack has turned neurotic, depressed, dysfunction reigns.
That means the prevailing attitude is "The heck with the word, There gonna turn us into sweaters for cats any day now.
They never liked me anyway. (thinks Oscar)
Sad sad sad, bab bababba. Sad Sad bababababababa. I want my baby, Ringo, with the healed pelvis and the whiny aspects too.
Come back to me my Ringo, you really make me singo. You dingo.
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