Fear is a common topic in these sporadic belches. Dandruff, rare. Ah, dandruff! It's me coming off in smallish scaly pieces, a-blowin-in the wind, mingling with the junk that settles in the new settlements or on your new suit. I amused a band-mate in an airplane in 1978 or so by tilting my head ever so starboardly, scratching surreptitiously, and depositing bits of me on the traveler seated to my left. No charge! Sir, madam. Cocktails! yelled the band-mate, chuckling.
What would I do without dandruff?
I am told that habitual scalp play is classified with the OCD disorders (ATM machines), like compulsive hand-washing, rubbing raw of any accessible body part (no, not that! jeezus).
I like to think of myself as a little native American engaging in little mini-scalpings.
Okay, enough. Just let it be known, I am not a flake. Though advancing through my 60's I slowly gather more and more evidence that I am one. But the gathering of evidence belies the flakiness. Thing is, if you don't drink and don't ingest THC, you, like me, will retain at least enough clarity to be scared out of your wits pretty much all the time.
It used to be: Oh god, please don't let them find out the truth (that I am a fake). Now it's more, oh god, please don't let me find out the truth (that You are a fake). Rabbi Reblen, my cousin and truly my only remaining childhood friend said the clever thing: God delegates to Nature, and Nature has no conscience. Most folks are disturbed by the apparent presence of Evil in the world. What bugs me is the fear. Get it? "I see Evil" means "I am scared, mama!" Fear not. There is the world. It is perfect. An ongoing perfect mess.
Those who make the mistake of caring about the big world often mess up their own backyard. It is hard enough, even with a brand new push-mower, to keep the yards presentable. Syria? Be serious!
It is fashionable around these parts to be non-harming. Many younger yogic/zen friends of mine aspire, and in the aspiring they accidentally leave a messy wake. But nobody I know is throwing himself into anything like a full-tilt joust (possible exceptions, the 2 youngsters I just helped pack up to move to DC -- beware the unintended consequences is my caution to them, unspoken).
I started a list of dead friends of mine. This was a thoughtful move on my part. I thought it might help my daughter make good choices on her wedding invitation list. (Don't invite dead people -- then again, they are cheap to feed -- and in Texas, many vote!)
There are few constants in my life. There is music, for now, there is low level fear (Evil lurks), there is lonliness, and there is dandruff. There used to be writing! Now it seems I'm out of think.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Thursday, January 17, 2013
New Lease on Mystery
So, no more posts that matter. No real stuff. More just journaling. More just boring.
I was going to do a "New lease on Life" post, as a silly pun thing on the subject of leasing out a building. The bright idea of becoming a landlord. I actually expect this to happen in 3-5 years.
I am the not-so-proud co-owner of a piece of remarkable real estate. 8000 square feet literally a stone's throw from a state capitol building and also from a major major major university. Thus has the universe bestowed upon me, a fiddler, a former fiddler, still a fiddler, potential capital.
But I remember my default hero Burroughs and the seeing of exactly what is on the end of every fork(ful).
And hence to my real story: Mystery. There is no Naked Lunch, Bill B. There is only "I wonder if....."
I am fond of saying "I don't have any friends." This is absurd. My friends have started dying at an alarming rate. But there are plenty left! It's just that I never socialize with them. Some are angry, a few. Most just get that I prefer a self-inflicted life of quite restricted activity much like prison. But more the solitary confinement kind of prison. With pets.
There has been improvement with the pets. They like music, even bad music. They are less rebellious. They worry less about me. They see that my chronic melancholia is nothing really, nothing that will threaten their food and fun supply. Not soon.
I am going to take the position that there are few mysteries. I am saying that nothing surprises me anymore. I notice that a lot of people have sex and a lot don't. I notice that governments make lots of laws and enforce some, very selectively. I notice that children generally get upset when their parents live badly, but are generally more upset when their parents become ill or die. Upset, pissed off. My wise children make no attempt to change my apparently unhealthy habits. For now, there is nothing fatal going on. Though the solitary confinement is sad.
I used to say romantic things like "The only possible explanation for human existence is that we are here to help each other." Sometimes I still say that. Usually when I'm trying to have sex with someone (I like girls). Silly thing to say. The explanation for human existence is evolution, and I think I sort of understand what that means. I read a lot of SJ Gould. Some cool stuff there, no mystery though. The genetics confuses me. I skip that. Confusing does not equal mysterious.
Some things get to be called mysteries due to my confusion or incompetence. Some electronic anomalies. But these too are not mysteries. Throw away the old stuff, buy new, usually what didn't work will now work. i.e. the current will flow, the monitor will not flicker, the headphones will not feed back, the receptionist will answer the phone, the check will not bounce, the oil leak will be revealed to be benign, the tumor will be revealed to be benign, the cost of living will not go up because no one has any money, the incorrect choice will be made because the committee that makes the choice gives power to silly people who are too busy or too uncool to see right answers ... sometimes.
Why did I write all this junk????
A mystery.
I was going to do a "New lease on Life" post, as a silly pun thing on the subject of leasing out a building. The bright idea of becoming a landlord. I actually expect this to happen in 3-5 years.
I am the not-so-proud co-owner of a piece of remarkable real estate. 8000 square feet literally a stone's throw from a state capitol building and also from a major major major university. Thus has the universe bestowed upon me, a fiddler, a former fiddler, still a fiddler, potential capital.
But I remember my default hero Burroughs and the seeing of exactly what is on the end of every fork(ful).
And hence to my real story: Mystery. There is no Naked Lunch, Bill B. There is only "I wonder if....."
I am fond of saying "I don't have any friends." This is absurd. My friends have started dying at an alarming rate. But there are plenty left! It's just that I never socialize with them. Some are angry, a few. Most just get that I prefer a self-inflicted life of quite restricted activity much like prison. But more the solitary confinement kind of prison. With pets.
There has been improvement with the pets. They like music, even bad music. They are less rebellious. They worry less about me. They see that my chronic melancholia is nothing really, nothing that will threaten their food and fun supply. Not soon.
I am going to take the position that there are few mysteries. I am saying that nothing surprises me anymore. I notice that a lot of people have sex and a lot don't. I notice that governments make lots of laws and enforce some, very selectively. I notice that children generally get upset when their parents live badly, but are generally more upset when their parents become ill or die. Upset, pissed off. My wise children make no attempt to change my apparently unhealthy habits. For now, there is nothing fatal going on. Though the solitary confinement is sad.
I used to say romantic things like "The only possible explanation for human existence is that we are here to help each other." Sometimes I still say that. Usually when I'm trying to have sex with someone (I like girls). Silly thing to say. The explanation for human existence is evolution, and I think I sort of understand what that means. I read a lot of SJ Gould. Some cool stuff there, no mystery though. The genetics confuses me. I skip that. Confusing does not equal mysterious.
Some things get to be called mysteries due to my confusion or incompetence. Some electronic anomalies. But these too are not mysteries. Throw away the old stuff, buy new, usually what didn't work will now work. i.e. the current will flow, the monitor will not flicker, the headphones will not feed back, the receptionist will answer the phone, the check will not bounce, the oil leak will be revealed to be benign, the tumor will be revealed to be benign, the cost of living will not go up because no one has any money, the incorrect choice will be made because the committee that makes the choice gives power to silly people who are too busy or too uncool to see right answers ... sometimes.
Why did I write all this junk????
A mystery.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
why not
Why not post your innermost stupid middle of the night fearful crap half-thoughts?
Because somebody might read them and kill you?
Yes. That's why not.
A little metaphysics: If you believe, as I do, that the world is all that is the case (the sum of all true sentences), then there isn't much world as we like to know it. The Cartesian human predicament is very much of a predicament. Satan may be tempting us --- is. It is probably all a dream, several dreams in fact. So there are no really really true sentences. No certainty. No world.
What feels certain is when we say to our children "Good job!"
I had a good job once. I overdid it. Trudat. or Turdat.
Because somebody might read them and kill you?
Yes. That's why not.
A little metaphysics: If you believe, as I do, that the world is all that is the case (the sum of all true sentences), then there isn't much world as we like to know it. The Cartesian human predicament is very much of a predicament. Satan may be tempting us --- is. It is probably all a dream, several dreams in fact. So there are no really really true sentences. No certainty. No world.
What feels certain is when we say to our children "Good job!"
I had a good job once. I overdid it. Trudat. or Turdat.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
why good things change
Why good things change? Huh? That's my hearing. I was tested about 10 years ago, and I have a mid-high frequency scoop (deafness) in my right ear. So when I am mixing music, I generally lean in with my left ear. A lot of stuff I've heard professionally mixed lately sounds like the mixer is deaf. Or is using headphones. In this special way. The headphones cover the ears while the sound comes out of speakers in a room on the other side of the studio or house.
Everything changes. Even God. Immutable? No. Omniscient. Omnipresent (what's that other word for that? Ubiquitous). Omnipotent. God does not die. The rest of us do. There's a fair amount of stuff in the Bible about us humans being fashioned in His image. Or His Image? No way. God is not a man. God does not have a prostate. Some men don't either, but that certainly does not make them God. My father used to say "Dead men have no tails." He did. Say that.
Ubit off more than you kin chew.
Why bad things happen to good people: They don't. There are no good people. Since all people are good. Do you follow? Another example. A violin with its strings off is not out of tune.
Hear that?
I'm on my way to a memorial service. It is a social affair. God will be in evidence. I hope he was around when my old dog Bear, aka Buster, passed, aka died or was killed by a car. Or committed suicide.
Bear was deaf and mostly blind I think.
Blessed. Not a mixer, Bear.
Everything changes. Even God. Immutable? No. Omniscient. Omnipresent (what's that other word for that? Ubiquitous). Omnipotent. God does not die. The rest of us do. There's a fair amount of stuff in the Bible about us humans being fashioned in His image. Or His Image? No way. God is not a man. God does not have a prostate. Some men don't either, but that certainly does not make them God. My father used to say "Dead men have no tails." He did. Say that.
Ubit off more than you kin chew.
Why bad things happen to good people: They don't. There are no good people. Since all people are good. Do you follow? Another example. A violin with its strings off is not out of tune.
Hear that?
I'm on my way to a memorial service. It is a social affair. God will be in evidence. I hope he was around when my old dog Bear, aka Buster, passed, aka died or was killed by a car. Or committed suicide.
Bear was deaf and mostly blind I think.
Blessed. Not a mixer, Bear.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
broccoli v. pharmaceuticals
First of all broccolli? bracoli? broughcollie? Eek coli! I mean thank god for spell check. Whereas Pharmaceuticals, well it couldn't be spelled any other way. Eh? A beauty of a word. It comes from the pharm. It wears a suit, which suits. It tickles! Brocolli. Ew! Even salt and butter no longer help, not for me. And you have to wash it. No butter on my pharmaceuticals, no salt -- and by golly gosh no wash! Pure pharm fresh the way the Indians intended. Untouched by human hands mostly. Wash em down with a nice Cab. Or Perrier if you prefer. The bro collie is liable to come right back up. Without the sis collie. From the same litter probably.
Pharma has ma in it. Love ma. Yo yo, it's Ma! Ma's arm, her right arm which she bares, picking the detested brackooly down on the pharm. A ma will do whatever she must for your chicks. Or her chicks. No actually thats a hen. Ahem. The only question: Do the ceut pants have cuffs?
I'll need em. Bad.
Folks who like to eat broccoli: broccooligans. Those fond of pharmaceuticals: seriously now, who isn't?
Pharma has ma in it. Love ma. Yo yo, it's Ma! Ma's arm, her right arm which she bares, picking the detested brackooly down on the pharm. A ma will do whatever she must for your chicks. Or her chicks. No actually thats a hen. Ahem. The only question: Do the ceut pants have cuffs?
I'll need em. Bad.
Folks who like to eat broccoli: broccooligans. Those fond of pharmaceuticals: seriously now, who isn't?
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year
and heave ho the Eighth of January, and get that last quarterly 1040ES in by 1/15, and then more weeks will come and go, and in them the dogs will get loose again, and a neighbor will scream a stream of undecipherable invective. At me. And I will not kill the dogs. They got baths yesterday.
And a bit of a hair touch-up for the girl dog. (I know what you're thinking.)
I was invited to a party which takes place today, the day on which, annually, I (mostly we) threw a party 32 years in a row. One after the other. Until there was no party that needed to be. Just a walk in the woods, a howling neighbor, an orange soda (HEB brand), anti-depressants, and wavering, shimmering knowledge of my failings and failures. (I worked about 30 hours on ad music Dec 30 and 31, 2011, and may well fail to sell any of it. At midnight last night, I was adding a mellotron track. Happy New .....? !). For more than 32 years there was so much music in my life, it was almost entirely forbidden, absent from the New Years Day party. I have no music playing now. I have my mind, in which are still swimming melodies. These are not helpful in the current minimalist music world --- perhaps my melodies are just too maximal....... sorry, self-indulgent digression))))))))------------->
My body aches from nothing in particular. My list of deceased friends lengthens every week, it seems. Pneumonia (never had it), cancer (might, haven't really checked) ((Fight Cancer with a CheckUp and a Check!)). Heart attack? Not many. More: drug overdose. Liver disease.
Auto incident. Gun.
The new New Yorker Talk of the Town opens with a piece by R. Angell on letters v. email. Nostalgic. Check my blog of 10/5, my first on email. And its dangers. Angell spends more time recalling the inimitable intimate life-giving aspects of the post card, the letter. Angell is limp. Not a right Angell, not a wrong Angell.
I like to think of the New Yorker as about a week ahead of Jon Stewart, 2 weeks ahead of Time/Newsweek, a month or so ahead of the gov'nment. I recall a story of successful job hunting in the wonk world, success achieved by promoting as ones own the US communist party line of about 1955. We had one then, illegal, but alive.
An illegal party. There will be gumbo.
These are my choices. 1 Reclusion 2 A party in which the wind picks up from the cold north 3 Close my eyes tightly and repeat "There's no place like home...there's no place like home...."
That's for sure. Do you have a way to get there from Oz? or perhaps this Bermuda Triangle?
(And what exactly is triangellation?) ((March Fourth! I go east then.))
And a bit of a hair touch-up for the girl dog. (I know what you're thinking.)
I was invited to a party which takes place today, the day on which, annually, I (mostly we) threw a party 32 years in a row. One after the other. Until there was no party that needed to be. Just a walk in the woods, a howling neighbor, an orange soda (HEB brand), anti-depressants, and wavering, shimmering knowledge of my failings and failures. (I worked about 30 hours on ad music Dec 30 and 31, 2011, and may well fail to sell any of it. At midnight last night, I was adding a mellotron track. Happy New .....? !). For more than 32 years there was so much music in my life, it was almost entirely forbidden, absent from the New Years Day party. I have no music playing now. I have my mind, in which are still swimming melodies. These are not helpful in the current minimalist music world --- perhaps my melodies are just too maximal....... sorry, self-indulgent digression))))))))------------->
My body aches from nothing in particular. My list of deceased friends lengthens every week, it seems. Pneumonia (never had it), cancer (might, haven't really checked) ((Fight Cancer with a CheckUp and a Check!)). Heart attack? Not many. More: drug overdose. Liver disease.
Auto incident. Gun.
The new New Yorker Talk of the Town opens with a piece by R. Angell on letters v. email. Nostalgic. Check my blog of 10/5, my first on email. And its dangers. Angell spends more time recalling the inimitable intimate life-giving aspects of the post card, the letter. Angell is limp. Not a right Angell, not a wrong Angell.
I like to think of the New Yorker as about a week ahead of Jon Stewart, 2 weeks ahead of Time/Newsweek, a month or so ahead of the gov'nment. I recall a story of successful job hunting in the wonk world, success achieved by promoting as ones own the US communist party line of about 1955. We had one then, illegal, but alive.
An illegal party. There will be gumbo.
These are my choices. 1 Reclusion 2 A party in which the wind picks up from the cold north 3 Close my eyes tightly and repeat "There's no place like home...there's no place like home...."
That's for sure. Do you have a way to get there from Oz? or perhaps this Bermuda Triangle?
(And what exactly is triangellation?) ((March Fourth! I go east then.))
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