Day late, dollar short

“Dear Lance, It’s 3 a.m. and I’m sitting in a deck chair, in a tux, with my bare feet up on the rail, watching the Pacific roll away in the wake of this great ship. It's 3 a. m. I should be dancing in the ballroom or balancing a Martini against the roll of the ship. It’s 3 a. m. I’m sitting in a deck chair. I think my shoes are long gone overboard. I’m stoned on the QE2 and thinking of you. ________.”

It’s so much easier to be nice, to be romantic and thoughtful, to love someone from four years past and 2000 miles away. It’ s what I always wanted him to say. But it is just too late. And not even close to enough.

But it was a nice postcard.

1999

Five years/I have been to..

“Here come the blue skies, Here comes springtime.When the rivers run high & the tears run dry.When everything that dies, Shall rise.”

The The, “Love is Stronger Than Death.”

I have been to Key West before.
And it damn near killed me again.
But this time it didn’t.
Instead, it made me stronger.

Five years at the end of March.
And I’ve never been or felt better.
Five years ago at the end of March,I was still falling and crashing, Tumbling further and further from home.

And now here it is, nearly five years later.
And now I have the strength,
And the objectivity,
And now I have the will and perspective to put it all down.

You can’t imagine how good that feels.

2000

The vision of the flailing babies

“Is it gettin’ heavy???? Well I thought it was already as heavy as can be. Tell everybody waitin’ for a superman that they should try to hold on best they can. He hasn’t dropped them, forgot them or anything…it’s just too heavy for a superman to lift.”
-The Flaming Lips, “Waitin’ for a Superman.”

“The truth is, there is no hope.”
-Tupac Shakur, “Keep your head up.”

At first, the vision was benign. My thoughts of babies were brought on with more exposure to them, I guess, hundreds of them, in various degrees of behavior, in a place unknown, the only description being dark ground against an even darker horizon. Just sitting there, they were, being babies. Then they became agitated. First there were just a few sounds of…imbalance and upset, and then those few babies were joined by more, then many, cries increasingly laced with a fear from beyond their realm of understanding. And then, they were wailing and wailing, all of them, in hysterical unison, their little arms awkwardly lifting upward.

The ground began to change, terra firma unbecoming, slowly dissolving into a lesser form, surrendering to their weight and swallowing the helpless ever so slowly. Those babies who cried first had sensed this immediately.

The wailing continued at full urgency for quite some time, then, the intensity began to decrease. Decibels slowly falling back, the crying not so sustained. A general quiet began to descend on the babies. More and more, then a majority, then, almost all, then all, stopped crying. They all sat very still. At this point, their expressions became visible. Wide eyes, open mouths, fear etched on frozen expressions as they sank deeper into the ground. They just accepted.

There was nothing to do. There is more to the dream but it is what is inevitable.

I think about such things walking the halls and offices of the Human Services Building for the City and County of Denver. I work for a non-profit called Work Options for Women. Our mission is to teach women coming off Welfare (Now called Temporary Assistance to Needy Families, or TANF) food service skills, and to help place them in the work force. We run the cafeteria and a smaller concession within the building.

The women attend life skills classes and are taught in the kitchen and on the serving line. I’m a manager in the program, cashiering and bussing and stocking and receiving shipments and catering and delivering food and distributing flyers for daily specials and counting cash and mopping one or the other location, sometimes both. We are a very small non-profit. We all do about an equal amount of work, because we all have to.

Another of my duties is to assemble lunch bags with condiments of mustard and mayonnaise, napkin, knife, potato chips, a ham, turkey, or roast beef sandwich, and a soda, and deliver them to women attending other welfare-to-work programs within the building, and to the main lobby, where people begin the wondrous journey of life on the dole. The lobby is also where the homeless, looking for somewhere, anywhere to turn, are referred.

Because of my many responsibilities, I travel the building more than the majority of others that work there. So I tend to see how the building works, actually functions, as a unit. Neither the building nor most of those employed inside really “work.” And it’s not pretty. Sadness, anger, misery, sexual and physical abuse, murderers, victims, pain, alienation, absolute despair…it’s all there. And this includes a lot of the staff, too. Some of it is more evident, but suffering is comprehensively represented here. And the air conditioning system is broken for weeks at a time. A smell-hell, indeed.

The ones who are paid to help these people don’t do a very good job. Some of the “Social Technician” cattle are worse off or more insane than the ones in his/her caseload. So while it has been an eye opening experience, it’s jaded me to certain types of these people (both case and case worker), whose entire existence is someone else’s fault. But the experience has not closed me off to others whose lives are more poignant and/or heartbreaking.

I was on my way to drop off the last group of lunches before heading back to the cafeteria to cashier during the rush. Cranky, pissed off as usual at the general pervasive bullshit and pre-occupied, looking down, not paying attention, I barely noticed a little boy in a stroller. He was two years old or so (His mom was no more than 18, possibly younger.), sitting up and smiling big at me. I always try to smile at the little kids, so I smiled back and waved, and said “Hey man” while walking by.

“Senor, Senor…” I looked up at his mother. “Yes?”“The lunches…(she was pointing tentatively) can I have?” I said something like, Sorry, no; they’re for the TANF classes. They are all accounted for. “Sorry.” I said, beginning to walk away.

When I looked back at the boy to say goodbye, his eyes had gone from excited and smiling to sad, dull brown and resigned. I don’t know how much he understood, but he did comprehend that those lunches weren’t for him, and that someone else was telling him no, he couldn’t. Poor little sinkin’ baby: no child should ever have such an expression. I stifled a cry by pushing a breath out my nose.

I looked back to his mother. Are you registered at the lobby? No, they weren’t. They’d just come in off the street and were hungry. So I told her to stay there and I’d go get a couple extra lunches.

I made a call to Group Services for permission, called the cafeteria so the lunches would be ready when I got back, dropped the rest of the sandwiches off, picked up the new lunches, and brought them back. The woman and child were in one of the day-care facilities so I didn’t see them again. But at least they ate that day. I hid out in our kitchen’s dry storage for a few minutes after returning, crying over their situation, thankful for the childhood, advantages, and life I was lucky enough to have.

I have become a friend with our primary Case Manager. She is 24 and has come to us from a prominent hospital where she was a researcher and part time substance abuse counselor, which did not prepare her for her present responsibilities. She is charged with the task of helping the women in our program with their problems. And there are many. Sometimes she is overwhelmed with the burdens of her job, but gives everything she’s got. I couldn’t do it. Too much pain for one person to handle. And yet, every day, there she is, doing her best. But the implications take their toll on her, too.

She stopped me in the hall one day, obviously upset at one or some of the many, many complications she faces every day, playing advocate or mother or disciplinarian or friend to these women and their situations. We talked for some time, during which she looked at me and asked, “Is this all worth it?” The red tape, the frustration, the heartache, immersion in other people’s horrible circumstances…Is it worth it?

I keep my head down here, thinking while walking. How do some people live their lives? How do they find the strength to just get up in the morning? These people, living with such deficits, children and babies depending upon them, sometimes their parents, too, who might be sickly or dying or requiring as much or more attention than the little ones…all heaped on the shoulders of someone who might not be able to read, write, add, cope, has health problems, is dealing with other domestic issues…so many other “special situation” possibilities that are mind blowing and possible…How do they do it? I don’t know. And I don’t know if I’m really helping them, either.

But these women, with their heavy burdens, whose names I now know, and their children, the innocents in these situations, are what keep me here, at least for the time being. Maybe some, a couple, or even one child won’t sink into the system, dying before they even have a chance to live.

I hope so, but am not that optimistic.

October 2000

“It’s oh-so quiet-It’s oh-so still…”
-Bjork, “It’s Oh-So Quiet”

Even when it was loud, the restaurant was quiet. There were no screaming children (for the most part), no manifestations of violent anger and no psychically turbulent episodes wherever I looked. No, this was just a restaurant, calm and serene, as much as restaurants can be considered “calm, or serene.” And now I’m back, waiting tables again, away from the daily burdens of my recent reality.

I brought too much of the non-profit home. There were always too many people with far too many problems, and too, too, few people to help. The building itself held so much pain, and so much noise! Confusion roars at the Human Services Building. The others can handle it better. Too, too much comes home, overriding my thoughts, invading my dreams.

So now here I am, back in a restaurant. A restaurant can be a busy place. A restaurant can be a noisy place. The sounds of silverware ringing on dishes, chairs re-adjusting, people talking and laughing.

Sometimes, though, it’s so quiet it’s like a dream. Yeah, looking around, it's like an uninspired, but pleasant dream. I’m sad not to be able to stay there . But I’m also glad to be away from there. “There” being, away from all that anguish..

Notes after dreaming. Notes after dreaming.

1. We won. We lost. How do I describe it? A large moth (or a small bird) drops down from on high. Bringing and-or taking bits of information that were points of light.

2. Wide window. The sky was full of stars. “Will you get me some cigarettes?” Someone says. “A gang of thugs is in the building.” The apartment looks out onto a small park. Beautiful but ominous buildings, they were. The gang is somewhere, laughing from an unknown location above me. I never went back. Raining. The road out of town was heavy with traffic. I was in a red Firebird, similar to a friend’s. The car has a sinister association. Chaotic event. Then, running through standing water.
3. A friend was appointed to the Supreme Court. He was emaciated and sick, and wouldn’t talk, looking away when I approached. College campus. Springtime frost. Everyone is singing. Waiting forever to see him. Was snubbed again in front of Carol Burnett. So I cut class, crying.
4. My childhood friends have gone insane. Nothing is, as it seems, of course. We are all at various stages of our development from my remembrance of them. A girl I always remember knowing grimaced and screamed, her contorting third grade countenance barely recognizable.

Continue to walk; keep looking around.

Moon in Gemini II

1. “What’s the most interesting aspect of this election astrologically?”“Every 20 years there’s a particular conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn coming together in an Earth sign. It is referred to as ‘Tecumseh’s Curse.’ And every president elected in a year ending in zero since 1840 has died in office.”“Not Ronald Reagan.”“Reagan’s conjunction occurred not in an Earth sign, but in an Air sign, and that is why he could survive his assassination attempt. But this next election goes back to an Earth sign. It’s likely that the person who is elected President will not fulfill his term…” -Ann Louise Bardach, interview with Frank Don, “Pol Stars.” New York Times Sunday Magazine, November 5, 2000.

2. “The ancients claim that this is an unfortunate number, and if the name equals a 43, the spelling should be changed to equal a more fortunate compound number. It is symbolized by the tendency towards revolution, upheaval, strife, conflict, and war. It carries the vibration of repeated disappointment and failure.”-Linda Goodman, Star Signs

Ladies and Gentlemen, our 43rd (P)resident, George W. Bush.

I’m writing this the day before Thanksgiving, 2001, but recounting an incident from November of 2000, a couple of days into the whole recount kerschwitz. So we know what's happened then, and since. But that really doesn’t matter. A bunch of us knew, knew something was coming, we just weren’t sure in which form it would arrive. Still.. that’s not the focus of this story. So here we go..

The first couple arrived about a half-hour earlier than the second. They were in their late 40’s/early 50’s, affluent, white (she was very thin), hailing, maybe, from one of the southern suburbs. As I was pouring them coffee, they let me know there would only be four of them, but they wanted a big booth because they were planning a New Year’s Eve party and would need a lot of room. “Sure, no problem. If you need anything, let me know,” is probably what was said. Then I left to take care of other tables.

While waiting tables, I tend to leave incomplete parties alone, preferring to visually check them, along with other tasks at the moment within the physical space of my station. It’s a good way to observe people before you have to wait on them. A psychological head start, an indication, as to the direction in which one’s waiting experience is, in relation to said table, headed. Forewarned is forearmed. And from a distance, it looked like I’d need lots of arms for this group.

The couple talked low, close together, tossing back and forth ugly facial gestures and angular poses to the other. One would become intense and intent, and the other would frown. His or her intensity would subside when anyone passed, but only momentarily. I watched their quiet psychic battle from the wait station, wondering if anybody else was seeing it also. No one paid any attention, or they chose not to notice. These two don’t love each other any more.

The woman spotted the other couple at the entrance, and poof! They completely changed personas. They got up to welcome their guests, smiling, laughing, bantering between them while this new dynamic situated itself in the large booth, that itself was to provide the necessary space to plan a party later. I poured the new couple’s coffee first, re-filled the first couple’s cups and left, for they needed time to “catch up and then decide what to eat!” Fair enough-I’ll be back.

As I left, the women began to gossip and the men put on their business faces to “talk shop.” They carried on in this fashion for another half-hour or so, calling me over twice more for coffee, before ordering. They each adopted a dignified manner while talking. Serious tones about something light… salads and bagels for the women, “Farmer’s Breakfasts” for the men, then they all returned to their conversation. When the order was complete, I left to find a terminal, and to do other tasks. I returned with coffee a few minutes later.

They were discussing the recount, and obviously in favor of Bush. They were shocked that Gore would even try to contest the vote, even though he won the popular vote nationally. The most striking aspect of the collective conversation was no one, no one, had anything remotely new and original to offer. They regurgitated the right wing spin by rote, gathered, I’m sure, from multiple exposures to Rush Limbaugh, Chris Matthews, Fox News, George Will, and/or William Safire. That whole line of “thought.” Nothing new, nothing but “pundit-spew.” Lots of “spew.”

They continued the conversation until midway through their stay, when they decided to focus on more important matters at hand: The Party. The busser and I cleared their table of everything but coffee cups, and the women began to direct the organizational phase of the process. Papers were spread across the table, and plans for the Best-New-Year’s-Party-Ever began to solidify. As I was walking by, the male of the first couple excused himself and followed me away from the table to the terminal by the bar, closest to my section. “I’m gonna need these checks split up,” he said. “I don’t want to pay for anything that’s not mine.” Of course. That was all he needed to say--about the meal, about himself.

They all left together, eventually, walking to their respective upscale cars, I’m sure, the comfort of home another 30 to 45 minutes away. Plenty of time to choose and adjust the personas they would soon adopt for the long ride home. Plenty of time to say what little remained to be said. The moon was in chatty, adaptable, duplicitous Gemini, and the whole restaurant continued to talk, all day long.

II

Fallout from the country song I wrote in a parallel universe.

In one of the more conservative of my personal universes, I write and sing country songs. I am successful and controversial simultaneously. The moral climate of this universe hovers around rural America in the mid to late 40’s. Any un-conventional behavior, no matter how inconsequential, is deemed shocking to the masses, and is met with judgment and disgust, or titillation and adoration, depending upon with whom you speak.

I am the male Madonna of country music in an alternate reality. I am a divisive figure within this culture for my singin’, my git-tar playin’, and my songs. My last single, “Sideways Jesus,” is the latest offering in a string of what Newsweek has called “polarizing counter-culture entertainment from the ever-strengthening ‘New-Left.’” The song takes its title from the horizontal placement of a representation of Jesus-as-night-light in the protagonist’s kitchen, while he waits for his unfaithful mate to return. The apartment is dark, save for the glow of Jesus’ light in the next room. The protagonist wonders what he should do, what his savior floating sideways in the next room, would want him to do. Darkness crawls into dawn with no resolution, and no sign of his mate.

The controversy, articulated by President Richard Roberts (Son of former President Oral Roberts), is the word “sideways” and corresponding imagery when describing our Lord. “Any entertainment I might derive from the music is washed away by the blasphemous imagery of Our Savior, floating sideways, electric light emanating from his posterior, tied to the theme of infidelity. Light DOES NOT shine out of Christ’s bottom! This is not wholesome or suitable entertainment, and should not be condoned in our Christian society.” None of what Roberts objects to is actually written within the song, but has been collectively inferred (out of context; for distraction) by members of the majority party. The Right’s backlash concerning my and other songs and artists rising up from the Left regarding our choice of subject matter is frustrating to a growing segment of the population.

These people think the Right’s condemnations are displaced and irrelevant in comparison to other societal dysfunction(s), such as staggeringly high infanticide rates from women carrying unwanted fetuses not able to abort them, opting to kill their children after giving birth. This growing, but still disorganized block of people is concerned about skyrocketing rates of familial abuse and incest within the lowest economic segment of our population. Cancer, emphysema, and cirrhosis rage throughout the land, due to no industry regulation of tobacco and alcohol. Corporatism and false religions exert unlimited political power. It is a desperate time in a desperate universe.

Also, there is the ever-growing chasm between those who are abundantly wealthy, and those who are not. 47% of the population makes under $4000 a year, and 82% make under $6000. About 240 families within the entire country control 98% of the entire country’s wealth. The next highest income bracket is about $100,000 a year, occupied by celebrities and most politicians, myself included.

This is why I’m so threatening to the establishment in this experience. I am in opposition to them and I am extremely visible. I have no privacy. I am overexposed. Those who deem my views “dangerous” spit at me and threaten my life. The oligarchs fear my country music song stylings. A sideways Jesus threatens them and their lavish existence.

I find amusement sometimes, waiting tables, here, now, when the occasional person says they know me from somewhere, and is quite insistent about it. I smile and say; “Yeah that happens all the time. I have a familiar face.”

Conversation with Kyrri, Sagittarius. January 2001.

Disparities of time and place are inconsequential. Together, we have all begun from the same place, in the same form, born into this form. And so we all began together, encountering, along the way, others from foreign worlds, with customs and experiences unknown to ours for understanding, of them, of ourselves.

“Do you know where we get these?” She said, pointing to the divot between her nose and lips.
“No, I don’t.” I say, touching my own.
“I read in a book, how, just before you’re born, an Angel tells you everything about your life. What will happen, when you’ll die, who you’ll love, things like that.”

She is animated, standing before me as I sit on the three steps leading from the living room to the bathroom, explaining her philosophies, making dramatic gestures, telling her anecdotes. She giggles a bit in between sentences, beautiful brown eyes shining, her head filled with the overwhelming belief of the good of humanity, and a supreme, and wonderful God-force, whatever name he/she/it assumes.

“The Angel then puts a finger over your lips, to the bottom of your nose, and says ‘Shhh…you’ll forget everything you know…’” She smiles at my reaction. The impact of her anecdote is significant.

Nick the Prophet

He talks into fire.

He must find people and places sympathetic to his plight.

Now think for a moment, about the possibilities and implications of the following hypothesis: What if all those crazy people talking to the air, no one, no where…What if someone was there, in the air, of which we were unaware? Hmmm..

He used to come in, grab a box of matches, and go directly to a table in the back. He’d order coffee no matter what time of day, and whoever got it usually didn’t charge him. Sitting there against the wall, he’d go blank for a little while, then he’d light each wooden match, staring into the flame, and hold conversations with whatever was talking back from the other side. Sometimes he would run out of matches, so he’d go to the bar and get more. Sometimes he took multiple boxes.

We let him stay for an hour or so, if the restaurant wasn’t busy or if it was cold out. Eventually, he’d become agitated and one of the managers would ask him to leave. He wasn’t threatening, but a threat nonetheless, as he could have easily accidentally started a fire in the building at any time. Eventually, he wasn’t allowed back inside. One day, before he was 86’d, I heard him say, “I can’t tell them that! Nobody ‘ll believe me!”

With each match-stroke, sulfur flashes to fire, flashing off his eyes, his mouth an ‘O’ shape. The flame creeps quickly down the match’s bulb, providing a doorway, for a time, for communication to the other. Every extinguished match, simple, wooden matches from a restaurant in Central Denver, is hope lost. Each successive match struck, friction igniting the spark igniting the process, is contact re-established. The spreading reaction signals that, for the moment, hope lives again.

He hears the wind laugh at him, sometimes, as he walks the city streets, alone and rudder-less. He so desperately needs the wind to be silent. He even begs. The wind pays him no heed. The wind offers only resistance.

Someone, somewhere…

“..Any kind of fool could see: I was wrong, and I just can’t live…” -Player, “Baby, Come Back”

So tell me…Do you think there is just one “right” person for each of us, or do you believe there are many? Will you know for sure when you meet that/those person(s), or will you just be given the opportunity with no guarantee of a successful outcome? Is there someone for everyone? I have to believe there is. Please let the answer be yes.

Sitting in a bar, smoking a cigarette (which he never used to do), looking at the people, and recognizing no one. He looks down awhile, at the smoke of the cigarette; while the present melts away once again to could have been, with all its crossroads and turning points in their relationship. The times he should have said yes. The times he should have said no. Had they just behaved differently..

Maybe it’s Oklahoma, or Texas, or Arkansas, driving through, towards an unknown point over the horizon, they stop for gas. His favorite songs always occupy the background while he stares and nods and looks at his love, smiling while pumping gas, mouth moving slow, comforting timbre, sparkling eyes… They will find a hotel soon. It has been a good day of driving. They are nowhere together, headed wherever, in love.

Now they are hundreds or thousands of miles from the other, no physical disruption between them. His love moved on years ago, attaching little significance to the experience anymore, and would actually feel an unexpected amount of pleasure from a chance encounter with him. Of course with the distance between them, this is impossibility. And besides, the past is the past, right?

They look at each other and smile as a noise or distraction snaps him back. He looks around to see if anyone else saw his tangent, and for the familiar face he longs to see. No one did, and he sees no one known. So he leaves, like he always does, no contact, unfulfilled, alone and invisible, as no one acknowledges his departure. It’s as if they know.

He drives the city streets towards home with the interior lights dimmed and radio off. He needs to concentrate, as he drank just a little too much again tonight. He looks at all the people he can, while he drives, just in case. He doesn’t fully give up on the night until his front door is re-locked and his coat is hung.

He goes to the kitchen and turns on the light. The fluorescent bulbs spark to life, accompanied by a comfortable hum. He fills a glass with tap water, shuts off the faucet, and sits at the table. He looks at the bottle of pills for a moment, the opens it, taking only one. “That should do it,” he thinks, washing the pill down, gulping twice, waiting, listening to the humming of the light.

They go into the restaurant and sit in a booth by the window. They are continuing a conversation started miles ago, two states away. Not straight through, but then they could pick up discussions whenever they wanted, developing their thoughts, their bond, across the vast expanse, while they drove. The waitress was friendly and polite taking their order, and then they had drinks, and he was looking around at all the other faces, confident and assured, as he was with his love. People walking outside in the parking lot could see them laughing and smiling, looking at each other when and while they talked.

Anyone could see they were happy.

Fragment from another restaurant dream.

October 2001, Provincetown, MA

Waiting tables, but before it got busy. Furiously writing, the words flowing faster than I could transcribe. Before I knew it, my section was full and I was terribly confused as to what to do first. So close(!) to that perfect thought-can’t finish-can’t finish.. too far behind; I can’t catch up.

I squatted down with my hands over my head and took my waiter’s shirt off, wanting to quit right then and there. My friend came over, patted my head, said something nice and told me to relax, as everything would be all right eventually, even if it weren’t just then. “You will finish, Lance.” He said, smiling at me. I was still smiling at him, even as I made the transition back to this world, to my bed. Work’s repetition, on this plane, was still a few hours away. I can and will finish writing this book.

Little sweethearts with sweet little hearts.

There are now reports of child porn cyber crime where the perpetrators are as young as ten years old. Most of them are from rich, white households, with digital cameras and web-cam and real-time and access their parents have provided, with no equal responsible restraint. The well-schooled children of the wealthy, with everything, the kids that all look like the models in all the print ads appealing to them, are victimizing those their age and younger, then making public their actions via the Internet.

What? How? Us? Do children--can children--our children--really behave like that? Sure. I fear the answer is sure. Sure they can. Yes they do.

They do worse. They do things you’d have no concept believing they’d do. And they will get worse, in other ways, as time progresses, as more of them are born. Worse.

My apparitions of the future contain little worth living for, so much less than even now, where the inhabitants live in fear of the random, the unexpected, and of the expected. The young and old are terrified just the same, as monsters in human form freely and savagely roam the populace. There are no monsters under the bed. They walk towards you on the sidewalk. There will be much fear, because the waves of children born with no souls, the ones being born now, will be adults, and their children will already be walking and talking, already living shocking, sad, and horrifying lives of experience. Remember: They will only look human.

Connected with this series of thoughts is the image of someone exposing their neck to the jaws of the killer, one who looks so beautiful and so innocent and so fresh, who laughs with glee as his teeth clench muscle, and his tongue tastes blood. The victim is surprised, yet stays still and submissive until the end. The killer is one of many killers.

2001/provincetown, massachusetts

September 18, 2001 - Provincetown, Massachusetts

Nothing about the landscape, the bay, the beach, has changed. If it were possible to be oblivious to recent events and the dam-burst of related information, one would not notice any shift in our societal circumstance. But the vibe is very different than before. A week ago, almost to the hour, we as Americans could not imagine the enormous spectrum of visual, psychic, and tangible burdens placed upon our collective beings that began initiation with The Attack.

Now… we all wait, attempting to breathe slow, calming ourselves, still not grasping the full implications of what has happened, and what is to come. Panic rises, just underneath our skin. The transmutation has begun. Our future life is unknown.

The War of Terror, the Aquarian War, forms.

It assumes shape, becomes real, from the very air itself.

last day of the world/On the last day of the world

“The sweetest price he’ll have to pay-The day the whole world went away.” -Nine-Inch Nails, “The Day the World Went Away”

He woke up late. No work today, so why not? The TV came on and the bong appeared. “But first, a little more rest.” He thought, repositioning, clutching the comforter. Minutes later, 30 or so, the phone rings. He fields a call, then another, then makes one or two more, drinking coffee, hitting the bong throughout, then jumping in the shower.

He loves showering stoned. The heat of the water running down his body, his senses refreshed, cleansed, the buzz remaining. The shampoo smells good; his hair feels clean. He opens his mouth to accept the hot water. Day off. Not wearin’ deodorant. Not shavin’. No need.

He finishes the coffee, changes into some sweats, and heads out the door. The air is cool, and possibly one of the last cool springtime mornings, as the temperatures during the day are steadily rising to the 60’s and 70’s, and soon, beyond. Walking the sidewalk, he watches people coming towards him, the people passing him, and the stationary people window-shopping. He watches them all.

He watches the traffic respond to the dictates set by the traffic lights along the arterial road. He notices the curious patterns of car clusters and pedestrian crossings in their wake. He pays attention to the down-tempo synchronicity of busses crossing paths along the far lanes of the same street, stopping at almost every stop. He watches people walking dogs. He looks around at the High School kids. They’re all there, on the street, all around the other.

The roar was the last thing they all heard.

Dreaming of runningDreaming of running

During states of deep concentration, often during extended repetitive actions, usually running, I can look down and see my naked black feet striding over dry grass sometimes, sometimes over the barren earth. I become aware of my breathing then, inhaling deep and blowing, nostrils wide, lungs strong, mouth open, lost in thought in this form also, somewhere else through the repetition of running. I am aware of the others running on both sides of me. We run together for the same purpose. They are also dark skinned, and like myself, somewhere else while their bodies exert. We run for hours over long distances.

Sometimes when I dance, flashes of a fire, other dancers dancing, and similarities of rhythm snap deep within my unconscious mind. Music and movement combine within the psychically linked group. Our movements are different, but complementary. The ecstatic, hypnotic transcendence of the moment supercedes all. The connection from that past strikes my conscious world like lightning. The whole world shrinks in, and for a split second, the divinity of the universe can be glimpsed. Only for an instant. Still, the impact is profound.

For some reason, I had never really given much thought as to the validity of these flashes; rather, I have accepted them quietly. Although I could not always articulate my response to these occurrences, there has never been any doubt that they exist in my mind for a reason. And, if they are in my subconscious, but not others, there is a reason for that, too. I’ve joked about it in the past, something to the effect that, yeah I was black in a past life; I just kept the lips this time around. And whatever it is that snaps in my mind.

But I do believe I’ve run before.

Take a deep breath

1. "Initiate, and stand waiting for your vision of the Tree of Life to be grounded in your body…See with your inner eye so you may know that what you’ve been told for a long time is a lie. You have been barred from listening to your own inner mind. You have been taught there is only one lifetime. But you existed when the eternal search for the Golden energy happened. We all did. I, Chiron, have returned so you can see again and hear again.

What we have been told is a lie from the ancient ones, the stealers of our hearts, the priests. As long as we think we come here once and there is a final judgement at the end of our time, we miss the chirotic point. It is very simple when you realize you have always existed and you always will. As you exist right now, you can see and resonate with all time and all places. Come with me…and see with the eyes of timelessness. Let us round the large bend on the spiral together."

-Barbara Hand Clow, Chiron, Rainbow Bridge Between the Inner and Outer Planets.


"This is the time, and this is the record of the time…"

-Laurie Anderson, "So Happy Birthday"

How I Feel/Flood

How I feel

..“I noticed that he had a watch in hand that looked familiar.He was me from a dimension torn free of the future. ‘We’re not gonna make it..’ He explained how the end will come. 'You and me were never meant to be part of the future…All we have is now. All we’ve ever had is now.'” -The Flaming Lips, “All we have is now.”

I feel like.. my future self has come from the future, back to the past, in order to arrange the correct circumstances for the future to take place in the way that it already has.

I don’t know what else to say.

Flood

“Speaking of tomorrow, how will it ever come?” -Wilco, “Ashes of American Flags.”

At first, the entire panorama was bluish-green. Pure, rippling, color. Then I realized it was water, enveloping the land, rising, climbing toward us. Looking out at isolated points not yet covered, processing the inevitable, we all were mostly silent.

The water was so beautiful, but how was that? Shouldn’t it be muddy-brown? Combinations of colors and reflections between water, sky, and the sunny/hazy conditions did not fit the scene. The rising water fuels our dread. We must now act. We begin to walk again.

The location is unknown. Clay is the predominant soil, so maybe it’s the southwest. There are maybe twenty of us. We walk quickly in silence. Onward and upward, amongst us the tension is tangible.

The only sounds are footfalls, redistributed rocks, and breathing. The water overtakes a mesa to our west. A glorious sunset frames the slowly disappearing high ground. Some in our party stop and stare. The others continue moving. The land is no longer visible. The moon begins its rise. Those who have stopped once again begin walking. The cave’s entrance was the last image I saw before waking.

It’s 7:30 on a Wednesday morning. Grabbing a pen, I struggle with grogginess to at least write a key phrase or word to remember this most recent dream. The feelings it evoked. Just one word to describe the soft, washed-out beauty of the dream’s surroundings in contrast to destruction’s inevitable outcome. My attempts to return to that dreamscape were futile, like the dream’s situation itself.

Eventually, I turn on the television. Cloudy skies cover Denver after overnight rain. The high temperature will be 44. Today is just another day. People continue to go about their business. Yet, on another plane, the water slowly rises while those left behind plan their plans and hope, just a little.

Now go back.

1. “No one ever really dies-Do you believe that? If not, then for you, it’s almost over now; it’s almost over now…”
N.E.R.D., “Rock Star”

2. “There’s only so much time left in this crazy world; I’m just crumblin’ ‘erb, crumblin’ ‘erb…”
Outkast, “Crumblin’ ‘erb”

3. “It’s just a dream he keeps havin’, and it doesn’t seem to mean anything…”
Wilco, “Summerteeth”

4. “For a minute: I lost myself, I lost myself…”
Radiohead, “Karma Police”

5. “You don’t know how it feels,You don’t know how it feels,Baby,You don’t know how it feels, To be me…”
Tom Petty, “You Don’t Know How it Feels”

Foreword

"You are the difficult wizard, Capricorn – the bracing revelation whose tumult ushers in fresh, sweet order.
You are the whirlwind that destroys those things that need to be destroyed, and the medicine that tests and tempers
as it cures. You are the ringer of bells and the maker of myths, the catcher of falling stars, and the only one
who could possibly get away with tickling the sleeping dragon’s tummy. So be our dogged and inspired champion,
O winsome one. Figure out what no one else has be able to make sense of in over a thousand days."

-Rob Breszny, "Free Will Astrology/Capricorn"

"Oh Lanny, you think too much." My family, my friends, co-workers, have all said variations. You think too much. Too much. Too much? I don’t know of any other course but to think the way I do. An active mind can be a blessing or a curse. The ability to live in the moment without over analyzing that moment until it passes sometimes eludes me. The ability to do a simple task simply is difficult. It seems as if this time around, in my current skin, I have chosen to do most everything the hard way, the long way, to over-complicate. But I would never, never consider my hyperactive synaptic network a curse.

I think of life as a series of stories. Some you never remember. Others? Sometimes they’re there, faint and fuzzy, a feeling, a grin or a wince. Still others have a clarity untarnished, thought of often, all the attached feelings ringing still as they did at the moment of experience. Good or bad, they come to the forefront of my consciousness with ease.
I live and remember and process and experience simultaneously. I’m obsessed with "The Simpsons." I’m gay. I was born a geographical hillbilly. I’m the baby in our family. My parents have been married 53 years. I grew up on the campus of a Christian college. I love all types of music, as you’ll see.

I share a birthday with Katie Couric, Kenny Loggins, Nicholas Cage, and a birth date with Robert Bugoky, the man who survived 41 days in the Australian Outback in 1999. 40 of those days without food, the last week he says, without water. He walked 250 miles in a region Aborigines stay clear of, all to strengthen his faith in God. Very committed to his own experience regarding his spirituality, wouldn’t you say?

I am a Capricorn. My planet is Saturn. Esoteric numerology deems me a seven. I sometimes reside in the Seventh Dimension. I do think too much. My friends and loved ones know it’s true.

I’ve written sporadically over the last fifteen or so years, producing the following pages, in a backward order, not knowing the outcome until late into its creation, which is fitting I think. I want this out of me so I can pursue other pursuits.
I hope you like it. B. Who am I? Why should you care?

Why should you read this book? Who the hell am I to tell you anything? You don’t know me. Or maybe you do.

I am…
The good lookin’ loner at the fringe of the party, observing.
The one you see on the street always wearing headphones, always walking alone.
The fat kid who “got beautiful.”
The one who reminds you of other friends you have.
The most popular introverted person you’ve ever met.
The “gypsy friend,” always on the move.
The one you call when your other friends “wouldn’t understand.”
The unbalanced friend with equal parts compassion and anger.
The “jack of all trades, master of none.”
The one walking towards you obviously lost in thought.
The “flaky” friend heavy into astrology.
The “coolest” gay guy you know, the one, you know, if you were gay...
The one who’s always said, “I’m writing a book…” A book you’ve never actually seen…

I’m the waiter who brings you your food.
I’m the one who doesn’t really “belong there.”
Engaging, aloof, warm, cold, caring, vindictive, present, lost … all apply at different times.
The walking contradiction? That’s me.
So maybe you don’t know me, after all.

This is who I am, and how I got here. These are my thoughts.

Here is a small part of the sum of my experiences; an explanation of how “here” became the reality. And how, from now on, my focus and drive will be spent in search of the hidden knowledge of the ancients. This information will be used to show others the value of their own lives. These stories are but some roots of a unification in my life’s purpose.

C. Funnyhow…

It’s funny how life comes full circle. After completion of this manuscript, and after two plus years of silence, my former love interest called. Our relationship was significant. There were some difficult times. But there were some wonderful times, also. The good times led us into love. And the bad times took awhile to heal. But they were both there, in close to equal parts.

After two years of no contact, almost five years of no physical contact, and seven plus years after relationship’s end, here we are, talking again. He’s older. He’s calmer. He sounds like he’s been learning many lessons. He says he’s closer to the person he’s always wanted to be. I’m glad for and proud of him.

As for myself, I’m thankful to not feel hurt or angry anymore. I’m thankful for the blessings dressed as negatives. I’m thankful to have experienced a love relationship so profound it altered all life thereafter. I’m thankful for pain or disappointment’s transmutation to love or acceptance. And I’m thankful for our story coming full circle into friendship, once again.

So much left unwritten, for the moment, which leads to this next thought: I have been ambivalent as to the relative completion of this manuscript. I feel frustration at the amount of information left out, but am also satisfied that what is written is enough for the time being. So this is what it feels like to be complete. For the time being, of course.

One last note: The mystery rash mentioned in the Key West section? The correct answer is “Scabies.” Enjoy!