It ain't all pizzas and cream

Jan 30.

The television in the mechanic's waiting room is big as a bouncer and loud as a bomb. We sit there, waiting for our sick and broken cars, our chairs arrayed in a half circle around the booming screen. Car trouble is like cancer, it does not discriminate: old, young, all colors and cultures. An older woman with a wool cap fidgets with her purse clasp, a young man tries to focus on a paperback, as the TV shouts at us about man-purses, diet tips, and ways to unleash our inner bitch. We are encouraged every few seconds to purchase somethingorother that promises to make our lives rich and satisfying. I drift into troubled sleep, haunted by dreams of carnival hawkers and con men. When I awake, the old woman and the young man have gone, replaced by different people, different faces. A local school, the TV tells me, is banning boots because kids hide phones in them. We make new laws every day, banning this or that. In the end we will ban everything except waiting rooms and televisions.

Happy 7th Anniversary: Pizzas & Cream

I know. This blog needs work. The paint is peeling, the shingles are scattered on the lawn, the ivy is growing in thru the windows, the mail is piling up on the front stoop. But it's still here. And after seven years, that's saying something. In that time, our family has struggled with the loss of our boys in late 2004. We regrouped, embarked again upon the journey of pregnancy, and welcomed with joyful tears the birth of our fierce and beautiful daughter, Tori, in June 2006. We have struggled thru the economic recession (2008-?), endured bankruptcy, and the near loss of our home. We've lost or beloved mutt, Bubba, and welcomed a new dog, Cannie-Belle, into our family. In 2011, we took in my mother-in-law after the loss of her home. Tori started school in September. She has grown into an inquisitive, creative, and loving 5-year-old. 

After an 11-year hiatus, I've started writing (and submitting) poetry again. My first collection of poems--Far from Luck--was published by Lucky Bat Books.  I embarked on an ongoing photo project--Everyone Has a Name--aimed at improving society's view and treatment of the homeless. Both projects have proven rewarding in ways I could not have imagined.

As the blog enters its eighth year, I want to thank you, my readers, for sticking with me, for offering your insights, generous support, and commentary, and for helping to give this blog its flavor.

I'll try to get around to painting the porch this year. Promise.

 

 

January, February, Mortuary

 

 

The winds pick 
up
and reanimate 
last autumn's leaves.

A knit beret 
flies off shouting 
RED 
down Locust Street.

In a nearby basement
a man
straightens the tie
on a corpse.

Like the wind
and the leaves
and the hat
it is his job.

 

SOPA, bootlegging, and what exactly is the big deal.

I remember back in the 1970s when a friend asked me if I'd heard the new Fleetwood Mac album. (Yes, I'll wait while you snicker.) I said I had and that I'd gladly make him a tape of it. Little did I know I had, in so doing, become a pirate, depriving Stevie Nicks and friends of one sale's worth of royalties.  In fact, I had a Panasonic stereo that allowed me to tape directly from records, so I made quite a few tapes for my friends, for FREE, thus earning myself a peg leg, eyepatch, and stuffed parrot. 

Fast forward a few years, and you have bands like Metallica, who owe their entire fame to fans who made and zealously distributed illegal home-made recordings of the band's live performances. Ironically, of course, Metallica turned out just a few years later (after getting rich) to be among the most vocal opponents of bootlegging. 

Then, of course, there's Napster... and with it the realization that people were sharing music (gasp!) for FREE, and on a global scale, not just at headbanger parking lot keggers. But we all know what happened to Napster.

Now, with the advance of technology, we have users sharing, swapping, Wiki-ing, and blipping copyrighted content all over the place. And in response we have SOPA (the Stop Online Piracy Act) as the latest attempt, through über-strict control of all online media, to stop royalty-free sharing of, basically, anything. The only problem is: such control would cripple the Internet. (For a concise review of SOPA issues and FAQs, check out this link.)

The closest analogy that comes to mind is the attitude sheep ranchers have taken toward wolves. Rather than accept that a few head of sheep will be lost to wolves annually, ranchers propose the irradication of the wolf (by gun, by trap, by bomb if necessary), regardless of any other effects that irradication might have on the delicate balance of the ecosystem.  Seems (to me) that a far more rational response would be acceptance. You're going to lose a few sheep (and yes, a few dollars) and I'm sorry. But extinction of a valuable predator species, and the shockwaves that event would produce, are no answer. 

Same with online media sharing, piracy, whatever. I know that royalty-free sharing hurts smaller artists, and I am truly sorry. I know musicians who are struggling to make a buck. But crippling the Internet is not the answer. Lawmakers, go back to the drawing board and come up with something else. Now I understand that SOPA's creator is from Texas, and that Texans have a history of, shall we say, overreaction. I believe the state motto is: If you can't sell it, fuck it, or turn it into oil, then kill it. (It's on the state flag. In small print.)  But this may be one time that restraint is a better answer.

Either devise a more targeted approach to online piracy or accept that it is part of a global society that freely enchanges information. So email your Rep in Congress, email your Senator, and tell them SOPA is not the answer.

 

Jan 6, 2012. Since you didn't ask, I'll tell you.

For 10 years I stopped writing. I still wrote as work required, but as for poetry: nada. Zip. During that time I'd sometimes run into a person from the old days, and they'd invariably ask, "How's the writing going?" I'd tell them it wasn't and they'd ask why not. I was never really sure what to say, so I developed an answer. "The hawk," I said, "has flown. Someday she might return. But she might not. In the meantime I'll leave my window open." That seemed to do it, both for them and for me. Truth is, I have no idea what happened. Looking at the dates, it would be easy to say Nine-Eleven. That is, I stopped writing in September 2001 and didn't start again until early 2011 (shortly before Osama bin Laden was killed). Problem is that, while those might be convenient mileposts, they have little (if anything) to do with my writing drought.  The one small possible exception is that, after Nine-Eleven, it seemed that my gripes (and yes, my poetry consisted primarily of grievances) seemed vain and foolish in light of a true national catastrophe. I just couldn't see writing a poem about what a flaming douche-rocket the guy from the gas company is. So there's that.

And then there's my mid-life crisis. Unlike most heterosexual men, who simply buy a sports car and start playing 69 with their dental hygienist, I decided to chase trains. Freight trains mostly. With my camera. It was a second adolescence, and since my first one had been spent in celibacy, perhaps it only fair that my second should be its echo. So, like my pudgy tween self (tho not in plaid pants this time) I ran around snapping photos of locomotives. And it was fun. A true simple pleasure. I learned a lot about history, and got to hang out with others who shared my interest. I got to visit Steamtown in Scranton, and the revered Horseshoe Curve near Altoona.  

And then one day, on my window sill, there was my hawk. Returned and refreshed. I hesitate to take credit for what happened next, because as other writers have said, the poems seemed not to be coming from me but through me. I am porous as limestone and they are water. I do not understand the process but I welcome it. I nurture and feed it. Because I do not know when it may decide again to depart.

So many thanks to all who have provided so much encouragement, validation, and support. To those who've reached out and helped my family when we struggled, to those who've published my work, to those who've bought the book.  Thank you all. 

Jan 5, 2012. Solitude

 

Don't try to frighten me

with solitude. I've climbed into

the jail cell of my mind before.

One bed, one table, one chair,

one window, one typewriter

and a handful of books. 

 

I've watched the freighters

slide thru the harbor, the orphan

boys in the street as they picked

the pockets of rich tourists.

 

I've watched the birds

come and go with the seasons,

stray blessings caught

for a moment in the trees

then released to heaven.

 

I will outlast you. 

Jan 4, 2012. Stop breakin' down

I've set off down that road, the one behind my eyes, with the top down and the Stones on the radio. There's nothing but desert in every direction. Along Rt 66, the old spine of America, somewhere in the New Mexico high country, there's a train wreck waiting to be cleared. The cars are stacked side by side, as if an immense child may soon return to play with them. They've taken on the colors of the mountains. Red clay. Burnt gold. Blood on the sand and snow on dead buzzards. Ghosts of '58 Buicks and Airstream trailors pass me doing 80. Something far older, airborne, shadows my ride. Something birthed from the very stone of this place. As I pull into Grants, in the old uranium hills, it begins to snow. A squall has come to scrub the desert clean of my traces. 

Jan 3, 2012. Chance would have it

 

Step thru the King of Clubs

and out into the cold cobbled street.

 

The air smells of exhaust, tobacco,

and industry. The buildings stand

 

close as gossps. Do not bother

searching your pockets for money.

 

You won't find any. The sun spins

like a gilder's wheel. Your mind

 

is a room unfurnished with names.

Here you are no more than a leaf

 

gambled  by the wind. 

 

.

Jan 2, 2012

"Grace / to be born and live as variously as possible" - Frank O'Hara

 

We tend to think of life as a line, a road, a tightrope, a string of pearls. Western thinking encourages us in this direction. Birth to death. Then, as the Christians would have it, a speedy disposition to either Heaven or Hell. Forever. 

I am not a spiritual person. But I am also not a person who enjoys being told what to do, where to go, or how to get there.  I distrust authority, mostly because I've been given ample reason to do so. I was brought up to believe that God's love is contingent on our behavior. I was also brought up to understand that the slightest infraction of house rules could cause my mother to pack a bag and walk out, usually when my father was away on business. She never got farther than the elevator, but to a 5-year-old who believes his mother is on the verge of abandoning him forever, that's far enough.  I distrust "forever." 

As I say, I am not a spiritual person. To me, adherence to organized religion is much like letting a drunk drive you home: it may turn out fine, but chances are it will be a spectacular catastrophe. I'm just contrary enough to dislike those odds. So, out of sheer contrariness, why not assume that life (and whatever lies after) is not linear. Let's say, for fun, that it is more like the ripple created when a raindrop strikes the surface of a pond. The concentric ripples move outward, growing ever larger until they are at last absorbed by whatever other forces (other raindrops, a sudden breeze, the movement of a carp below) are having their whim with the surface of the water at that time. So life is then expansive rather than linear. And the purpoae of life then shifts from being one of "getting to point B" to one of including as much as possible within your circle of experience. (And no, material acquisition for its own sake does not count.)  So we go from a universe based on processing and judgment to one based on the unending an expansive search for variety. The endless creation, combination, and demolition of things. So the end is not to achieve salvation through austerity and self-denial but instead to increase one's experience without diminishing the experiential search of another. No, I am not saying you should go out and set fire to a cat just to see what happens. In fact, the contrary, for that would impede the cat's search for variety. What I'm saying is, pay attention. Open your eyes. Listen. Love. And when forced to choose between A and B, select C.

 

In 2012 I resolve to...

...accept the fact that being wholly inconsistent, often confused, and sometimes fitful may just be who I am.