The deepest rung where you are wrapped

In 2001: A Space Odyssey, when Commander Bowman returns to Discovery in one of the space pods after retrieving the dead body of Commander Poole, HAL refuses to open the pod bay doors, plum drowned in madness and conflict.  Commander Bowman takes a risk and goes through the emergency airlock, which is not pressurized and without a helmet, has few precious seconds to last the few feet to the entrance of Discovery. He manages to do it in a taut few seconds.

When I have spells in my life where it feels like I’m between lives, or pressed up against the  new life by the old and have reached a stalemate, I think of that part of the film.   Or when I have to walk through a patch of hurt I think of it because it’s dive in, hold your breath and get through it and the air will return no matter what chaos that’s supposed to be order won’t let you back in the conventional way.

I’ve only loved two women in my life deeply enough to say I really know what love is. For that I am fortunate; for the circumstances around each I am extremely unfortunate.  The first love, a dark and disastrous affair, I was discussing with a friend and she said it seems that I have a large capacity to love given what happened.  It was a good thing to hear because it reminds me of what I call the Inner Sanctum Heart, that secret roaming ground that words can’t hold and usually lays sleeping.  The second woman, in a seemingly difficult marital and health situation, I realized this week still sits in that Inner Sanctum heart.    Sometimes when too much time happens by with dark side of the moon silence, I worry something may have happened health wise. Today I poked around on the Internet and through one of her relatives, found her husband’s Facebook account and a picture of he and she in a Christmas Card photo.  That’s when the Inner Sanctum heart opened house and dropped a mile wide of heartache all over the place. I feel a bit the sucker but it’s no one’s fault.  In fact, it set off a whole buffet of looking back and wading through all of the opportunities I’ve had over the years with women; one’s I’ve passed up and usually I do this when I feel lonely. But I don’t feel lonely, I just feel like I need to hold my breath and walk through the vacuum hole without my head exploding.  I must be clearing the catacombs for something new.  Or at least clearing the catacombs.  The rest I can’t put into words, except that Love explodes from the inside where you sit, hang, linger, powder, and flip a coin of pain and joy a thousand times until I lose your face on either side.

 

Launch

I thank those who came to my show in sub arctic armpit cold weather last week and those who flitted by in spirit, including Abraham Lincoln and Mrs. Edith Grovella, who died in a 1 BR on the lower east side in the late 1950’s.  Sorry I didn’t get to your bit Abe.  Will do next time.  Good show with a small but might crowd.

Video is up on my Youtube channel.   Now what?   Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat, gentle cycle, tumble dry low,  that’s the order of things this month with my material. It’s good to crack the egg salad open on stage; now I give all I can to it for the next 3 months and nothing else. At least this month, February, the moth of frolic and fury. A lot can change in a month.

When I was a teenager in Indiana I had a run of subpar Februaries; I became convinced February was a cursed month for me.   It was nothing extravagant but for me small things were painful, like depth perception shifts and other intangible psychic elements that dotted  my landscape. Part of it was probably the weather, living off Lake Michigan it got cold.  I can’t recall any event per se that got me into that belief but I held to it.  Parts of me were not happy and parts of me were fine, I guess the usual combustible mixture for a pubescent kid.  But with a real rushing undertow of rapids of latent living left untouched. I had some trouble with authority and yet ended up Class President in 7th and 8th grade, a bizarre mix that made me realize if I want something in life it seems I’d be best to answer to my own boss to do it.

However, this February I want to be the greatest month in my life.  If I were a jet, I would have crashed by now after running out of fuel for being in a holding pattern so long.  After the show, I had trouble sleeping because I hit some power grid in my soul and I know I can’t go back.   It’s a healthy fever, and one I want to break only after I run amok for a while. I’m due for a crazy stunt.  We’ll see what Rev66 Peachnuts (the name for my higher self) dials down over the next few days.  Could involve nudity. We’ll see.

My prediction for Puppy Bowl:  Golden Retriever puppy 7 kissies, Shitzu puppy 1 chew toy gnarled. I hope they have the Hamster Cam. I have big money on this game.

 

 

 

 

Nights of Harlem Granite

Sometimes characters I create feel more like me than I do.  Pure distilled parts of myself that don’t get ovations in the day to day world filled with the dents of my mind.   One of my favorites is Charley Who Horse, the trumpet player from Harlem in my play Whorapy, sort of the bartender of the speakeasy and when I need advice on something, sometimes I go back and read what he says. It sounds a bit vain, but sometimes when I get muddled by the maelstroms of the boiling blood in my veins, I go back to something I wrote to put my feet back on Earth or at least under my knees.  Sometime at the beginning of Act II he tells Madeline, the madame
“Don’t know. Colors and music’s all I see!
Don’t know much ‘bout no strategies!
I’m here but I ain’t, here but I ain’t,
that’s how I gotta be in this world.”

One thing is for certain no matter what happens in life from this point on and I have no idea what the hell that will be, but that’s a quote I live by. I trust my writing as more of a topography of my soul and the world and others in my life than what my brain tells me sometimes.  It’s honoring the Real. And on night like this, where every emotional condition seems to have a megaphone strapped to its lips, the night asks that I show up alone.  Last week I had a screaming session with the Universe, to express some what I feel are glaring deficiencies in the cosmic pruning of my life. It’s been a hard three years. Starting on an air mattress in Fall 2009 and ending a few days ago.  I feel slowly drilled into and I guess it’s necessary to enhance and unify my life and soul. Some nights you’re tied to the bumper and some you’re behind the wheel/Some nights the Guardians of the Mist tell you how to feel/The wicked servants burning from the shadows of the train/passing through the station to light that crooked path again…life’s a spinning circle.

My show is next Thursday. And that’s the beginning. After that, I eat and sleep and shave performance and acting.

 

Briefly now, on the waning heels of a second wind

Happy 2013 and suck on it Mayans. Or really what I mean is congratulations to all of those who cashed in on writing books about the apocalypse.  I missed that boat.  I’m going to check in on some Aborigine tribes in Australia, see if they have any ancient relics that could land me a literary agent.

I have another show coming up on the 24th and I must edit. It’s hard to parse material into 35 minutes, at least for me and what I realized in looking at all of my pieces is that I did write a good deal last year. As solitary as it was, I did produce.  Right now, I’ve been recovering from a cold as I seem to bring one back with me every time I go back to Pittsburgh to see my family.  So I’ve been watching old movies and more so reading about the stars from the  “day” and what fascinates me is how strongly one would feel towards another artist or their work or an entire way of expressing.  Robert Mitchum and Cary Grant both were not fond of method acting.    Marilyn Monroe solicited opinions from across the spectrum, from deep empathy (Marlon Brando) to light scorn from more than one person.

It fascinates me how artists can peck at each other, despise each other but somehow maintain respect for each other’s work and yet sometimes have completely different opinions on one person or piece of art.  I guess there are people out there who think Hamlet is a shitty play, or overrated.  I wouldn’t want to be paired with them in a hospital room for a week, but it begs what’s relative vs absolute, even in art.  I’m going to quit before I start drifting into a Russian novel.

May everyone have a high end magic ham radio that grants a dream or two for you through the airwaves this 2013.

 

 

 

Gulag

Even though Gulag represents Soviet concentration camps, I like the word and it popped in my head for a title.  I trust when seemingly random words pop in my head when I’m writing, even if it seems to have nothing to do with what’s happening they’re the fumes of a deeper psychic fire, so in this case maybe Gulag means there’s part of me feeling a little boxed in or viciously so but with my temperament that’s a constant tune in the background.

I’ve gotten another performance slot for January at the same place. Now, this time, I’m going to to  warm up elsewhere first and roll in with momentum.   I’ve spent the last week or so swinging out of those post-partem blues after finishing my novel.  Now, thundering ahead.

As some of you know, I dated five Lisas in a row. Actually, it might have been four Lisas, then a break of one person, then the fifth.  Still.  Lisas are my Hapsburgs.  This spanned from the age of 18 to 26, off and on.  Lisa I’s reign was longest, Lisa IV the most tumultuous, Lisa II the William Henry Harrison of the troupe (She lasted thirty days), Lisa V my only lesbian conversion. But the one I’ve been dreaming about and have done so consistently over the last few years and a couple of times within the last week is Lisa III;  the only natural blonde, I met her in grad school and like most of my life, it was bizarre.  Maybe I dream of her because we were together during grad school, a real face to the gravel two years I’d love to forget, incinerate and shoot into space to be reformed as some harmless comet in some other solar system.  Those two years split the rivers of what I felt and what I was doing so far I had a nervous breakdown two months later. So I dream of her and last night, others we went to school with.  See, I was very sexually inexperienced. Amish were porn stars next to my record.  It was bizarre in that over the year we were together, we never had good old regular official sex. I was still a virgin and too inexperienced and completely lacking confidence to even broach the topic, so it was a bunch of oral satisfaction. I thought the topic would come up in the first week but she didn’t bring it up and I sure as hell didn’t want to so week after week went by until you start realizing that if two adult/kids in their early twenties can’t discuss this, there’s more trouble inside this machine than just a low battery.

Eventually she cheated on me; she never told me but I knew; how could I blame her? All my self worth was locked up in anti-matter in some alternate universe and I was skidding into a meltdown of a lifetime.  Ah, romance.

I lost my virginity proper with Lisa IV a short time later, though it was through tears and the rugged terrain of a nervous breakdown.  An acting teacher once said in class that we attach the emotional experience with the first time we have sex with the act for the rest of our lives. Empirically I have found that to be a bunch, or a hectare if I may, of shit.

I know I’m a late bloomer, as Henry Miller and Charles Bukowski are two of my patron saints in this regard, unchiseled grimy genuises of grout and deep true chasmic living,late game spelunkers, but when I look back I have to say it’s been one bizarre parade of events, mostly unfulfilling as I grow into myself in my early forties, I can feel that deep sense of self worth that removes loneliness.  Scrubs it away, at least finishing this book has opened up that painful and joyfully releasing path. And yet I don’t know a damn thing I think I know.  Still, to drill further down until I hit a floorboard of a Chinese hut. It gets larger, louder and harder.

Taptaptap your eccentric arcs, see what falls out.  A gulag tonight.

 

 

Endings on days of numerological and cosmic significance

Today on 11.11.11,  I finished my novel Point of Venus.  Like most pieces of art or pieces of something, flow a few strands of wiring mostly based on personal experience. For me, the title comes from when I saw a palm reader a few years ago who told me I had a point of Venus on my hand. It wasn’t great news in the context of the rest of my hand.  Then I had the longing dream seven years ago with the woman in it.  That is also a thread. Fashion and the awakening of deeply latent selves is a thread.  Parents and fluctuating psychic and emotional distances and between them as well as loss is a thread. There are minor spinoffs, NYC, love and sex and the undertones of Christ-healing in sex.  Other potencies I hope. I have to say, finishing this feels like opening a chasm, opening and beginning and once I spell check it and copyright it, I’m going to find the person I dedicated it to, that tall thin blonde in my dream, cause that’s who I wrote it for and live the dream.

Some fun tidbits:
# pages in double spaced  Courier new font 12: 496
# words: 117,502
# times word ‘fuck’ appears or one of its wonderful offspring:  4
# times word ‘orgasm’ appears: 10
# times word ‘love’ appears: 236
# times word ‘purple’ appears: 24
# times word ‘vampire’ appears: 0!

Some days travel faster and light than others and after finishing something like this the day is walking on foot through tundra. restless and a bit heavy and yet on 11.11.11 which in some circles is a day of some portal opening across space and time and my newer pairs of underwear and  spiritual shifts occur. It was a conscious accident I finished this today but I do not believe in accidents or coincidence, only very crafty deep roots that spring it’s tentacles all over space and time. So you have to dig deeply to find the connection. Tonight, I’ll sleep and tomorrow is new and full of its own clan destined joys and aches.

I also celebrated by getting gas for Sheila, my bike, only having to wait 45 minutes in line.  That is not a lot.

Congratulations to Obama. I voted for third party candidate Rocky Anderson. I’m sick of this two party dig three inches below the surface of America shit.  I hope Obama grows out his afro, gets some 70’s button down quasi psych-Afro-punkadelic shirts and takes charge and does all the stuff he was supposed to do in his first term. Speak for yourself, man.  Please.  I also congratulate all the uteruses and ovaries across our great land for escaping the 1790’s policies towards women under a Romney-Ryan administration.

 

 

 

New Age Tectonics

I just  returned from two weeks in Rochester, NY working at RIT doing computer consulting, staying at a hotel with my slightly disgruntled dog.  Leaving NYC is a balance in polarity; here too long and I want to flee; gone too long I need to be back.   The hotel reminded me that good pillows should be a constitutional amendment, more worthy than right to bear arms and other obsolete nonsense that litter our little legislative ditty.

I love hotels.  I glamorize them because I always imagine myself on tour performing. Then it’s a triumph o’er the spirit.  I just realized ‘ o’er ‘ is not red squigglied to be spell checked.  That’s retro fantastic. Thine. Fie.  Just checking. I digress.   This time, I was doing computer stuff, a career that has sustained me but is winding down and fizzling away and making it harder and harder to sustain while my inner life is ballooning outward as chunks of verse and notes and Hamlet monologues.  However, I get to work from home the remainder of my stint and I am grateful.

Today I went to the New Life expo, a trade show for health practitioners, psychics and such to peddle their ways. I always go and usually have a mini reading done. Today I had my aura photographed with a followup interpretation by their empathic minister.  Russians developed this technology and I know I sound like a Communist for simple minds who think 1 to 1 like that, but I trust Russian technology in some ways more than American. They seem to have ins on a lot of roads that we haven’t spent time plowing or grazing or paving.  And so I found out about my aura and my reading rattled me a bit.  Good rattling, Reminder rattling.  Sometimes you need to remember what you are, and for me that is a creative servant to the world through harmonics of words and sound.  Spiritual chiropractic adjustment.

One thing she said which I will share and which I agree is that we the species are tumbling towards destiny where we’ll either ascend or blow ourselves up, as we have apparently developed the skill of doing it more than once.  In the spiritual crosshairs we are right now. Twist the DNA a degree this way or that and there we go.  It’s good to grapple to get there. This way or that.  The other thing she said is to not let religion and dogma get in the way of my self expression which I not only embrace but fight to relieve myself in terms of Catholic upbringing, mental coffee stains, papal rash, many more euphemisms on their way soon.

I did get to write in the hotel for one day which is all I could muster, sitting all day buried in a computer at my job.   Still approaching the end of my novel.

I did watch the debates.  I’m voting third party. That’s all I want to say about politics.  Too close to my bedtime.

 

Latency eggs

Some nights are laced with deeper whispers than others.  And when those prehistoric weather patterns sneeze the way out of your soul at 1am on a Thursday I suppose the best thing to do is listen and keep your bones from flying apart into powder.  For me, it’s constantly asking what kind of life do I want? And if I can get deeper, that’s where I usually go, which may explain partially why waiting has become an Olympic sport in this household.  When I can capture these film or words or even some rant only my dog and my invisible friends can hear, I call it a sacred rupture. Always dig. I don’t know what I’m after but I’m after it, no doubt.  It’s a wicked plunge into the unknown and the old stains of the mind circle in and circle out like shadows of abandoned planets and the key is not to get lost in the shadows too long.  A mystic I saw years ago said resiliency is the key. The mind will drift and skip and fly into garbage zones but how quickly can you recover?  It’s no longer about the mind, but the MoonAche prowling around my chest plate.  It’s an uncompromising gambler with its ass glued to the craps table so I wait and push and wait and push and each push hurts a little more, and I imagine your hair like woven anchors and I simply wonder where am I and where are you? It seems the search is coming closer to an end. There have been clues dropped to me about who you are. When the book is finished, I’ll have more to say about prophecy and imagination in love and memory.

Meanwhile, I went to another comedy open mike. Anyone who does them knows it’s a ratio of about 20:1 man-woman so thus the room is filled with men and one woman.  It’s a sad imbalance and I find it not useful for my material.  The rule is if you can make a room full of comedians who are half paying attention laugh, you have something. I think I disagree with that. I like women.  And if there were  a third gender, like glorbots, then I would like glorbots.  And I’d want to test material in a room that was proportionally representative of the population of men, woman and glorbots. And I don’t want to bend my material to accommodate a room full of men if it compromises the integrity and joy of what I do.  And it’s always the rub with rooms full of no audience and male comedians.  It’s nothing personal against a room full of men, it’s just having women’s energy in the room is like electrified balm on my material.  I guess I’ll have to comb around until I find a room that has that. I do know I have to be back on stage. I have to do it.

I will be in Rochester, NY for two weeks on a contract gig living out of a hotel. I am looking forward to being out of town, finishing my novel and spending time with Gladys, my guitar.

Hurtling toward Inevitability

Life is always changing.  We’re always changing. That’s one reason why I roll all of my eyes  when politicians say ‘We need a change.’  Wait ten minutes.   Under that premise, a cloud could run for Congress: ‘Stratocumulus 2012! Change you can hope for.”

So life always changes and occasionally there are spikes in the interest rates, so to speak and right now, my personal economy is a great time to invest cause rates are through the roof.  I am looking for a job and actually have been trying to do so whereas in the past I have been half hearted in looking for day work. I am at a crossing point.  I will try to articulate this the best that I can but I feel the dead parts of my life are being destroyed, gobbled up by something that is demanding my attention and it seems to come down to moving beyond survival. There’s what I call a magic roving wave that at some point, I feel I must turn into but must be done whole heartedly, with every fiber of faith, so that’s it’s honest; you can’t fake an ID to get into this joint.  I can viscerally feel a unity as I move from one life to another and it comes paradoxically with great effort but without force and it is cycles, like I imagine a space explorer falling slowly through the atmosphere of Saturn or some other more hospitable planet but the rate of descent is so slow it seems nothing is happening until you get a glimpse of clarity and then another glimpse and then the regular old nine to five fog.  And there comes a point where the hesitation melts away and there’s what I call the great jellybean mouth of awareness and you have to dive in, unfettered. I always believe that we can shit on ourselves better than anyone else can do the job and in any situation, there are always glimpses of clarity where you know what’s right for yourself and wrong. But you have to be looking and then you have be ready.

I imagine I will get a job but it sounds like a passing whirlwind made of moody crickets on its way somewhere else. I’m catching the back end. Something in me pushes and pursues for something better and I suppose death is about the only thing that would slow me down for a bit.

I am hurtling towards the end of Point of Venus, my novel, and estimates two more weeks. I have been writing a great lot over the last couple of weeks.  I wish to honor Lona Margolis and the supernatural mystical fashionable sewn path she is taking. When the novel is done, I most certainly am going to dinner somewhere special.

I want to act.  I have the urge to do Shakespeare and do my own material.  The gods are scratching at the inside of my solar plexus to step it up, lover. OK.

 

Bouts of everlasting forgiveness

Chipping away at my novel Point of Venus , my first attempt at this genre I feel like I’m making it up as I go along but things seem to be working out so I must be on the road to the vine covered golden archway of an Ending/Beginning.   Over the months people have asked me what it’s about and when I start rambling I usually know I don’t know what the hell it’s about yet because it’s like a reverse pyramid of ‘abouts’; there’s surface things skidding around and as your drill deeper and deeper it becomes more and more pointed and becomes the driving force that stains or coats or galvanizes or cauterizes everything above it; to this point, Lona Margolis has done things and interesting things with fashion, poetry, pursuing the Faceless Man, self delusion and handling her dynamic trans dimensional SexEssence beauty but I haven’t been able to answer the question of what it’s about until a few nights ago when I hit what intro to fiction writers classes refer to as a ‘plot point’ though if I hit one of those it better crack open and some pretty relevant tendrils better spill out.

Sometimes it spills out like creamy black beans running from spatula police and sometimes you have to grapple and shape and wrestle until you have smelted something that shimmers in the reality of this world, through words.

The answer to the question, “What is your novel about?” is forgiveness. or release, or however you coat it in whatever culture you inhabit.   I like to say holding onto a sin is hard but holding onto a forgiveness will age you like a raisin in two suns.  Lona is about other things too but if I can grind and release through as much forgiveness as possible I’ve really lost a lot of lead in the soul belly.

The next four weeks of life will be juicy and dicey.   More will be described August 29th.

Also, once I read about how much sex Olympiads had it makes me wish I stuck with ping pong and tennis when I was in high school. Or better yet, one of those sports like shooting  where you can play into your forties so having sex every four years in a different country or being around people who are having sex would be guaranteed. More power to them.  If it relaxes you before hitting the high horse, go for it USA.