latent discoveries of a musical genius

I’m taking jazz vocal so I can release the dusty blues musician playing vibes with my ribs inside me.  Every week we bring in a song to shape.  I remembered I had this old Tony Bennett album he recorded with my favorite jazz pianist, the late Bill Evans. The album is from the early 70’s I think and it is just the two of them singing some thickly beautiful tunes. One of the is called ‘Some Other Time’, a slow, stick a tap in your heart and chug ballad made for piano.  It turns out the tune was written by Leonard Bernstein.  It seems every time his name is attached to music I love it, I feel it, I ache it.  West Side Story is the most perfect musical ever written in my opinion. I don’t dig musicals in general. Certain songs but that canned kind of Broadway voice doesn’t do it for me. Breaking out in song when you’re about bob for apples  makes me want to run home and take a naked roll in Hamlet bedsheets, should anyone else besides Kenneth Branagh, who I imagine has Hamlet bedsheets of himself as Hamlet, have Hamlet bed sheets.   A couple of months ago I got called in to do a reading for a musical; I won’t get more detailed at this point except to say there was a song about everything and it lasted three and a half hours long. If the main character dropped her brush in the toilet, there was a song about it. What I didn’t understand was that the main character, who was supposed to be in her early thirties, was played by the writer, who was at least in her late fifties and her love interest, same age, was played by a man who looked like Rob Reiner’s warm-up clone;  meanwhile, myself, who was the youngest man in the room by a generation, was playing a character who was older than me with older than me personality issues. I got home and thought is this what musicals do to people?  Although I have to say when a musical fails, it fails bigger because music is the deepest purest expression of the human soul of all the arts, the way I feel, like a man born with B flat branded on the inside of lungs. To quote Charlie Who-Horse from my play-film Whorapy, “Don’t believe in no strategies, colors and music’s all I see.”  It is a swift set of notes from prayer to hymn. Sometimes I can hear music, violins in the trees, drums in the benches, and I can almost get it written down. There are symphonies, cantatas floating in the air, homeless rootless fruit that you can’t catch with your hands or even the eardrums, but I still hear them brush by like aliens shifting dimensions around me.

Off to bed, but maybe not to sleep.

 

Stuffing the suggestion box of the Evan Almighty

One quick note; if God plans to upgrade our species design assuming he/she/it wants to or has budget for it, please design a dribble free penis.  I don’t know how many times, even after owning my member for every day of my life, or renting it, depending on your outlook, I pee and then I get dribble, sometime after I tap, down the side of my legs like it was splashed upwards from an invisible miniature spitting gnome at my feet. I urinate sitting down at home because it’s neater, keeping me from having to clean the toilet every fifteen minutes because when I aim standing up I can start drifting in my thoughts and next thing I’ve crashed my jet into the mountain, so to speak; i.e., gone on the wall.  Plus it’s just not ladylike.  So I go sitting down. All I ask is that, using some form of New Physics, quantum mechanics and mechanical engineering, to redesign the penis so it empties out, full force without having to tap fifteen to one million times. It’s a flawed organ. And another suggestion is to put the scrotum on the inside of the body, not the outside.  It’s like having your liver in a sack stapled to your side. Imagine how it must hurt if someone smacks you in your liver sack.  The only time I have used the word elephantine was in the men’s locker room a few years ago at my gym when an older naked man had scrotum that were so large that other scrotum in the room could have revolved around them like satellites. These were as abnormally large to his body as Charlie Brown’s head to his body.  In that moment, I saw something elephantine and that to me is the only useful purpose for keeping testicles dangling on our outsides, so I could use that word.   Men’s bodies came first according to the Bible so we were practice for the superior female body. In my opinion.

 

Turning into the Tsunami wearing a Tuxedo

Reading my title I wonder if it sounds like I’m wearing a tuxedo while turning into the tsunami or the tsunami is wearing the tux. either way, it’s cool.

Last night I lay in bed awake like I could play racquetball because I had a chai latte at eight pm and that was a wrong turn Clyde. I didn’t think the caffeine would bother me but these days if I smell coffee I’m out sewing dresses and vacuuming curtains until 3am; it’s just my system.  But last night I had this great easy feeling, no relief, relief of a feeling wash over me that what ever isolation and obscurity that I seem to relish more than my anatomy likes is over; a cycle of life is done, like seeing a thunderstorm end, the hind end of a cloud formation wiping away death clouds and for me, as I’ve mentioned, the last couple of years have been truly face on  gravel lonely.  Finding my birthparents was a big chunk of my life. Unfortunately both of them (living separate lives, at least on a physical plane) weren’t in a place to meet or share; both definitely have their own little junkyards to rummage and it rubbed off on me; getting better at integrating dramas like this into my day to day life so I don’t run off and hide in a cave with some annoyed bears. But  last night it was a relief. Maybe it was Chai babble.  But earlier that evening on the phone with my film producer she said it seemed like I had no friends.  That’s not true;   but I’ve been in a vacuum state, that sort of weird cloud of social purgatory while resetting the bones of my life and I told myself before I move from my loft I was going to get all the crap and dark out on the floor and leave it there; cleaning every closet and walk through whatever sludge and antiquated crap that’s hogged my spiritual-emotional RAM, so to speak.  For the last few days I’ve had one skull bob to the surface in the form of jealousy in mate but twisted to keep me in a bind.  A nasty flashback involving me feeling helpless while everything went right for my partner while everything I touched turned to distilled purified shit.  Twisted in this was the fact we were doing lots of drugs and she didn’t treat me very nicely and I had trouble separating what was truly jealousy versus what was just a black mask of a dark connection that would disappear when she did from my life.  I did leave and it did disappear at least a few feet down. Over the last few days it’s come back in a weird sense of timing right before I’m about to make the leap towards making myself open and known and juicy. So part of me thinks it’s a mind trick, a dumpy illusion to make me feel badly about myself so I don’t try anything. It frightens me when I see these horrid mental smudges that keep me from Love.  And this awful helpless feeling I got years ago of feeling desperate for attention and full of vengeance and wrath came back for a couple of days.  So I keep my promise, sit with it, let it process and stick a filter in it’s mouth so the air around me’s cleaner. I am terrified of living fully most times.  I despise fear. But it keeps a poker near my slender ass to keep me moving forward.  I’ll ride this out.

BTW a friend of mine said that mrleebarton can give off a bit of a 1950’s jack benny maybe a bit showman smug vibe.  The reason I use it is that I have an ambigenderous name and my name is a subset of janet lee barton, a christian romance writer. I’m all for Jesus sponsored orgasms but I’m a man with man parts, unless ovaries are actually inside my scrotum and I have 100 eggs sitting on my vas deferenses like birds on a phone wire waiting for one of my sperm to swing by; if I get pregnant, I’ll know. Point is Mr is to say, Yes, I am Man.

And to Kim, you also have been a mirror that asks to look at the whole reflection and yet, with gentle hands like microsurgery with vines,  heal with kindness and nobility.  Thank you.

Buddha’s eating all of the hotpockets

Memories have shadows.  At dusk, right before night, the shadows are longest.  So when it’s darkest are when the junk stuffed inside those shadows comes out to play.  or not play. I prefer imagination to memory.  Well, one of my memories or cluster of them was in graduate school where I majored in statistics. One thing I heard a lot, usually from people who are insecure, was “Oh, can you do my taxes?”  That’s like asking a surgeon if he make shoes out of potatoes.  One thing I did during those two years was drink, after not drinking for the first twenty two years of my life, an unofficial Amish boy driven by official Catholic guilt and perfection or packed away really.   I pictured the pope for years with a holographic projection of my balls next to his throne that he could zap anytime he was too exhausted from eating babies for fuel.  At Church on Sunday I would make sure to control my thoughts while praying, staring at the Jesus statue waiting for it to move, feeling like a deep rigid stone.  When I was home a few months ago I read to my mother pieces of what the Catholic Church taught me about sexuality at CCD (Cockish- coital disruption) during my 7th grade. It was a book written by a passive aggressive fetally damaged pastor and was titled ‘Reverence for Life.’  In one chapter he says masturbation happens, don’t feel too bad about it and then a couple of chapter later tells you that it’s one of the two worst things that can happen to your soul, outside of being gay. This is in the mid 1980’s when the Chrysler K series and Ronald Reagan were both national epidemics.

Now, in grad school, (I’m sorry if I jump around, I haven’t written in a while and it gets all bunched up inside my soul and it’s projectile rejuvenation vomit), I was drinking, smoking and eating crap, or McDonald’s quarter Pounders and Big Macs cause grad student live on a salary and that’s when they started the Monopoly game so some of us in our department would go there too much because, if we pooled, one of us was bound to get Park Place cause we had Boardwalk.  But McDonald’s took my stomach’s mind off hot pockets, which I ate; ham and cheese and then cheesebreads and Icehouse and occasionally if a piece of lettuce flew in my mouth from the Iowa wind outside, I allowed it inside.

Grad school was an awful stretch of two years.  Two loves were being built, one where my heart was smoking a pack a dayer somewhere under what I call the Colorform lifestyle above.  Colorforms were (are?) these thin boxes with toxic little sticky plastic pieces you could lay on the backdrop inside the box to create a scene. I loved them, probably because the plastic was toxic and sent me places a nine year old shouldn’t go.  Doing statistics sometimes twelve and thirteen hours a day in the middle of Iowa for two years sent me on a path straight to a nervous breakdown. I started to make quietly irrational choices and that’s where capitalism comes in handy, because you can buy new cars to distract yourself, like I did. But the first quietly irrational decision, or QID, was choosing a major professor because he looked like Conan O’Brien.  He still may.  He was young, too, and non threatening and I hadn’t had a scrap with him yet like I had with the older Australian teacher who had a voice like James Mason on his deathbed. He twice chastised me, the first time for reading the paper when he had started teaching, which no one knew he had because if James Mason tried to teach statistics on his deathbed to a roomful of students who the hell is going to hear that? The second was for yawning while he was talking and yelled at me “Didn’t your mother teach you manners?” and I stood up and said “My mother taught me a lot of things” and walked over to the Dean’s office to make stink about it; I should have kept walking, should have packed a bag like Dr. David Banner and hitched a ride out West or up North or wherever Jack Kerouac hadn’t moved yet; inside was this gnawing winding fleshy stained glass of words and sounds and I had no idea, no idea, none of how far I really had to travel. The best I could do was keep shoveling ham and cheese hot pockets into that swindled little hole.  I’m still fighting. Once you pull one false thread it leads though time, maybe before birth in some ways and like strange floss what’s dangling off that thread you can’t believe you ate, right through the shadows of memories.

The man with a babushka brain

I’m sitting here eating a NYC bachelor’s dinner: sabra hummus with genetically engineered Dole carrots. If I eat enough I imagine I’ll spontaneously give birth to a crack baby made out of carrots while I’m sleeping but being genetically engineered, the crack baby will crawl to the end of the bed and die and fall to the floor where my dog will eat it since she is completely addicted to baby carrots and the symbolism will be to much for my dog. She will eat the crack baby made of carrots and then throw it up and do what all dogs do and eat the vomit.  I’ll wake up with a strange genetically modified form of emptiness; then I’ll sprout another head.   When I walk through a grocery store and actually look at the stuff called food I have no doubt cancer will be in business for the next hundred years.  It’s hard not to eat crap when it’s so available and the world practically dares you to eat it.    Every time I see a new Dunkin Donuts or Uncle Hottie’s BBQ Gut Destroyer Rib Joint open, I can’t help and think we’re moving a little backwards in evolution. But it’s better than another bank.

It seems I need a fear poker swimming somewhere around my sphincter in order to move forward in certain areas because I can jostle between being very lazy and exceptionally motivated which has been as miscast as Johnny Depp going to play Tonto as manic depressive or bipolar.   Now it’s slid over to lazy and focused.  I am evolving beyond the lonely halls of the DSM IV.  The fear here I create is unemployment and homelessness and when I used to prep my Oscar speech now I edit it to use on the subway to beg for money; they’re really not that much different.  For now, I am drive, getting driven and like all artists there’s about fifteen things I want to do right now, mentenant! As I’ve stated before. it has been such a lonesome streak if I knew it would have been this much aching and solitude I’d a taken a life as a squid on Saturn.  I live in a hipster type neighborhood here in Brooklyn and when I look around everyone it seems like a college campus.  I feel like another species at times and I look in t he mirror to make sure I don’t turn into a talking plant or a werewolf, though as I said, the moon moves inside me like Loch ness.  When I walk around at night and I see couples hold hands, sometimes it’s a bit hard to take because I know I’ve had my time in the twenties, not so glorious as in the brochure, and now when I know what I want it becomes harder to find; aiming for the top of the pyramid where there’s only room for one, not fifty.  I am moving towards something and fear of staying where I am in certain areas of my life is fine. The worst people we have in our life are our best guardians in disguise; they push us, they kill us, we rise again like a mountain full of sunrises and thank them later when they’re seven hundred miles in the rear view mirror. Right now there is someone in my life and this person feeds darkness and suffocation like she owns a warehouse for Overstock.com. There isn’t much I can do about it except push myself to move ahead so I do, I let my guardian dressed as Satan’s barber prod me in the ass until I feel burned enough to scream.  Unhappy people are a quiet epidemic because they murmur their blues;  quiet deaths are the bloodsong of the lost.

So tonight I get ready to send reels out, the best I’ve ever made and marvel at where my life has twisted and yawed to this point. I have no idea where I spent my first forty five days on Earth (I’m adopted). At two, I had two imaginary friends and I hated one of them.   That’s already a dose.  We’ll talk more about the rest as time unfolds either like a nice homemade American flag or like a dead snake.

Good night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Familiar hurts streaking through the tundra of silence

The deepest relationships in my life have dug up the ugliest bones inside me.  Sometimes it’s too much to bear at once and at least once, it almost sent me off to the showers, to be sporting analogistic about it;  I use sports analogies quite a lot; they’re great for matching wits with life.

And at times, once that connection is gone the hurts go quiet, the heart goes quiet, all is silent like the night after a Midwestern thunderstorm.  And so some of the hurts seem to rebury themselves and the temptation is go somewhere where they remain buried, to clamor for someone without a shovel or a rake or a hoe or even the gentlest hands to cultivate the compost of the soul and grow something magnificent, like a lilly crossed with a unnamed flower to create a new species for the garden.  I am not much for compromise; I’m stubborn as a barn of bulls at times, I despise cowardice in myself and the thought of living a compromise in a relationship has I think kept me alone for a while.  I had a life between life session where essentially one is hypnotized and can speak was their higher self about what they’re doing between incarnations.  Mine had a lot to do with forgiveness among other things.  I could see my Cosmic Steering Committee as I call them.  The other issue is unburying those bones, except these bones inside still have flesh, like misdiagnosed zombies.  Somewhere things got buried and that’s where I want to start my show again, to remind myself of the struggle, of entering this immense colorful mouth of soft teeth like a whale made of silly putty and old pianos, and that is the battle, the fatigue, the real jihad, to sauce up and face myself or oneself in totem, in complete view and see that not all things that are buried are rotten; no, some are waiting, unopened, and I call this looking for the black box of my soul.  Search, scrounge, through any damn means possible to stay awake, deeply awake.  Lately I have been skimming the surface and creating a silent little tundra for myself and it takes a moment or a crafty series of them to wake the yawn and enter. To be hungry, so starved for most of my life, and know that it is part mulch and part joyous release is the essence of living.  I can be jealous, petty, almost inwardly tyrannical in my moods that may seem to last for days.  When someone thinks I’m ‘mellow’ as a neighbor I just met the other day said, I honestly cringe; I get pissed; I am losing the battle.  The fervor is sitting in the bottom of the pan like old Crisco and I need to reheat.

I am upset with myself for maintaining radio silence when I should engulf the entire FM spectrum, or in my case AM at this point until the music unfurls.  I am shy, I mutter when I should shout and when that happens, a false life begins to create itself and it’s like mold. And even though my brain understands that, getting the visceral thrust to finally erupt is a real grappling with the angels, grabbing one of Michael’s horns and playing it out of any orifice available on my person.

Like after going to the gym after a week; all the muscles are sore and it feels good; that’s how it is writing; my heart has that ache of expansion. mouthfuls of rainbows with tattoos of dead generals on them.  Every scoundrel has an idea of paradise; it’s the ones that think it’s the same for everyone you have to watch.

Good night.

 

 

 

 

 

Born again Titanium Virgin

So, after about five or six incarnations of a blog which is almost as many therapists I’ve had over the years and much like I’ve settled on one therapist, mainly the hieroglyphic looking cat I see in the mirror, I have settled on a blog and with it, the first and only official rambling arena for Lee Barton, the true and only half brother of Obama. The resemblance is stunning; we have the same third toe nail and our kneecaps you can barely tell apart, especially the patella once they’ve been removed and hosed down. Beyond that, you have to squint a lot; plus I haven’t had electroshock therapy, outside of the pleasurable experience at my birth of being yanked out of my mother’s vagina with salad tongs and lacerating my nose.  Already I was born wounded, like any warrior worth it

Over the next few weeks I will consolidate and connect everything of my twitters and facebooks and such to create a mass fervor of reading about what brand of almond butter I bought and why it affects my male menstrual cycle; I am tied to the moon, and so as she warbles and grunts and pulls the earth’s liquids to and fro so it does with me.  I look forward to getting consistent with my writings.

Alternate title for my blog is ‘my animated drooping wiener dog heart’;  I believe that will be my WEB blog once I figure that out here.  Because the last two years have been very lonely.  I can hear time.  That’s how lonely it’s been.  Cavemen’s unwanted thoughts come barreling through my third eye at 2am when I can’t sleep and am wondering if I should trade my king size bed for an army cot so it feels appropriate for the usual quota.  It’s my own doing and yet, my dang-sloughed penis, full of floral prints and empty frames, is waiting, tapping its foot on my thigh, for someone to pique its interest;  I have this theory that the world’s first orgasm still breathes somewhere on the planet, like the world’s first living singe celled algae unless Monsato found it and turned it into Sugar Corn Pops that makes your kidneys turn into ice cream sandwiches.

I will wring out ache until it yawns and then screams and then sings.  Good night. Bonnuit.