Tuesday, August 14, 2018

I Figure He Can Always Come Over with His Violin and More Sad Music

  • Above better at other place (or click the hoisted Olive to the left just up).
  • I love vacation with Earthgirl, we talk the next while hiking the current.
  • I vacation suck, can't read sleep write eat.
  • Home, vacation digested, more fun at the time than I thought!
  • Photo above, last from last week's Acadia, thirty-seven years ago past Friday.


Charles Bukowski

he lives in a house with a swimming pool
and says the job is
killing him.
he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem to
get rid of
him. his novels keep coming
back. “what do you expect me to do?” he screams
“go to New York and pump the hands of the
“no,” I tell him, “but quit your job, go into a
small room and do the
“but I need ASSURANCE, I need something to
go by, some word, some sign!”
“some men did not think that way:
Van Gogh, Wagner—”
“oh hell, Van Gogh had a brother who gave him
paints whenever he
needed them!”
“look,” he said, “I’m over at this broad’s house today and
this guy walks in. a salesman. you know
how they talk. drove up in this new
car. talked about his vacation. said he went to
Frisco—saw Fidelio up there but forgot who
wrote it. now this guy is 54 years
old. so I told him: ‘Fidelio is Beethoven’s only
opera.’ and then I told
him: ‘you’re a jerk!’ ‘whatcha mean?’ he
asked. ‘I mean, you’re a jerk, you’re 54 years old and
you don’t know anything!’”
“what happened
“I walked out.”
“you mean you left him there with
“I can’t quit my job,” he said. “I always have trouble getting a
job. I walk in, they look at me, listen to me talk and
they think right away, ah ha! he’s too intelligent for
this job, he won’t stay
so there’s really no sense in hiring
now, YOU walk into a place and you don’t have any trouble:
you look like an old wino, you look like a guy who needs a
job and they look at you and they think:
ah ha!: now here’s a guy who really needs work! if we hire
him he’ll stay a long time and work
“do any of those people,” he asks “know you are a
writer, that you write poetry?”
“you never talk about
it. not even to
me! if I hadn’t seen you in that magazine I’d
have never known.”
“that’s right.”
“still, I’d like to tell these people that you are a
“I’d still like to
tell them.”
“well, they talk about you. they think you are just a
horseplayer and a drunk.”
“I am both of those.”
“well, they talk about you. you have odd ways. you travel alone.
I’m the only friend you
“they talk you down. I’d like to defend you. I’d like to tell
them you write
“leave it alone. I work here like they
do. we’re all the same.”
“well, I’d like to do it for myself then. I want them to know why
I travel with
you. I speak 7 languages, I know my music—”
“forget it.”
“all right, I’ll respect your
wishes. but there’s something else—”
“I’ve been thinking about getting a
piano. but then I’ve been thinking about getting a
violin too but I can’t make up my
“buy a piano.”
“you think
he walks away
thinking about
I was thinking about it
too: I figure he can always come over with his
violin and more
sad music.

Sunday, August 12, 2018

How We Misspeak and Mishear

All glory to the Napoleon Emergency Alert System, now deactivated.

I did one loop of the elementary school parking lot before pulling up to the house, he ran to meet us, screaming hello and where the fuck were you. Lifetime cat.

UPDATE 12:45 PM EDT 8/12/18

MomCat is here!

  • Someone yesterday, when I was sitting in Portland airport, tweeted the word Gaithersburg, the town I grew up in, regarding its Democratic mayor supporting the current GOP governor vs a relatively progressive (emphasis on relatively) Democratic gubernatorial candidate in November election (I meant to tag the tweet but didn't, I'm not going to try and find it), but an article on Maryland Democrats, relatively progressive vs motherfuckers.
  • To be fair, here, from an email from Marc Elrich, Democratic (Ho Chi Minh division) candidate for County Executive of Montgomery County Maryland (hello fellow mocomofos), who is running against eternal moco gadfart Fobin Ricker (GOP candidate) and fucking Flancy Noreen, former Democrat, now developer cowplop: Marc has now been endorsed by Senators Ben Cardin and Chris Van Hollen; Congressmen Anthony Brown, Jamie Raskin, and John Sarbanes; congressional nominee David Trone; chair of the state Democratic Party Kathleen Matthews; County Executive Ike Leggett; and Democratic nominees for Governor and Lieutenant Governor Ben Jealous and Susan Turnbull. He also has the support of the Women’s Democratic Club; the Association of Black Democrats; the Young Democrats; the Green Democrats and former primary opponents Roger Berliner, David Blair, Bill Frick, and George Leventhal.
  • So, credit due, credit given. 
  • On the other hand:


Albert Goldbarth

During Napoleon iii’s coup d’état one of  his officers, Count de Saint-Arnaud, on being informed that a mob was approaching the Imperial Guard, coughed and exclaimed, with his hand across his throat, “Ma sacrée toux! (my damned cough).” But his lieutenant, understanding him to say “Massacrez tous! (massacre them all),” gave the order to fire, killing thousands—needlessly.
                   —Guy Murchie
“He was mortared to death.”
A pity, how we misspeak and mishear.
—Or “martyred”? Not that/coin-flip/either
makes a difference to the increasingly cooler
downtick of a corpse’s cells. “We heard the crazy mating joy
of the loon across the water.” Yes, but what
do we know, amateurs that we are? Loon, shmoon.
It might have been dying, announcing
its pain in those trilling pennants. It might
have been the girl who was lost in these woods last week
and never found by the volunteer searchers,
it might have been her ghost
with an admonishment. The truth is,
even among ourselves we often can’t distinguish pain
from pleasure, not in our beds, our hearts, the tone
of a poem on the final exam (a coin-toss). A pity, because
we know the urgency of some utterance;
and the intended goodwill of our listening; and
the marvelous basic mechanics of speech,
of lung: 300 million alveoli that, “if spread out flat,”
as my eighth-grade science teacher preened, “would come to
750 square feet, the entire floor space of an average house,”
and she added that tired magic about how atoms
of Julius Caesar and Napoleon and Beethoven did
their fleet anachronistic dance in every inhalation
of ours, although at thirteen I preferred to think
that the atoms of Cleopatra’s body—my Cleopatra,
inflating her see-through empresswear
with husky breaths—commingled with my blood, and also
realized in my own dim way it wasn’t only Einstein,
Shakespeare, Madame Curie populating my oxygen,
but also the smelly and scabby old man
from across the street who’d died last year
when the late-shift ward nurse heard (as she said in her testimony)
“med injection” instead of (as the outgoing
ward nurse told her) “bed inspection”—altogether
an unfortunate example of my theme . . . although
exempla abound, misapprehension
also dancing inside us at the atomic level.
Someone thought the gate was locked, she always locked
the gate in the late afternoon when the haze set down
and the sun for a moment seemed to carmelize the lake top,
so the gate was locked; except that it wasn’t,
and seven days into it nobody’s found the girl
or a scraggle of hair or a single ribbon. I tell you
we’re amateurs, we’re sometimes bungling amateurs,
of the minutiae of our own lives. When I heard the sounds
that gurgled from my chest as my wife was leaving
into the dense, conspiratorial Austin, Texas night,
I couldn’t have said if it was defeat
or relief. She couldn’t have said which one
she’d have been happiest to cause. We only knew
that I’d been wrong at times, and she’d been wrong at times,
and that our total errors, if spread out flat,
become the house we live in. They’re another system
inside us, along with the cardiac and the pulmonary,
they’re moving us toward the horizon line. And when
enough errors accumulate there, that’s what
we call the future. Even now, as you read this,
someone in that unknowable distance
is breathing you in.

Saturday, August 11, 2018

Dead Birds in the Turbines

Buck Cove Mt Trail, Schoodic Penisula, Acadia National Park, yesterday, last hike of vacation.



We'll see tonight if first luck.

UPDATE, 2:30 PM EDT same day:
  • Sitting in the Portland Maine airport two hours ahead of flight home.
  • I am telling you three times for the zillionth time, there is no better metaphor for motherfucking America than motherfucking helmetball. 
  • UPDATE! With five minutes of tweeting out version of above, six unfollowed. Fine metaphors abound.
  • The ghost pilot's last instructions.
  • Twitter/blogger overlord Jon Schwartz - who I like! - tweeted 1. The most interesting thing about Ben Shapiro (the only interesting thing about him) is his deep commitment to being ignorant. Some people don't have access to knowledge. But he went to UCLA & Harvard Law School. They have libraries. His ignorance is an (unconscious) choice.
  • I replied (forgive me, I'm foolish, small): Counterpoint: his ignorance is his JOB, one he chose and chooses to excel at. Stop thinking those preaching to the pig-ignorant are pig-ignorant. They are turds of a different smell.
  • I do not understand granting cracker-whisperers the out of ignorance.
  • I do not understand granting Liberal-whisperers the out of ignorance.
  • Ben Shapiro (cashes check) doesn't know how the world works?
  • NPR says car, not white racist asshole, killed anti-fascist protester.
  • White supremacy has always been mainstream.
  • Rachel Maddow (cashes check) doesn't know how the world works? 
  • Waist deep in the Big Muddy.
  • The Southwest flight to Chicago, docked at the gate our plane will dock, has dead birds in the turbines. 
  • What another man spills
  • Crash - me, not plane - not quite but almost imminent.
Last morning view from porch until next year.

Friday, August 10, 2018

We had a grief we didn't understand while standing at the edge of some low scrub hills as if humans were extra or already gone

Wonderland Trail, Acadia, yesterday, (better at other place).


Cat drive-byer said she saw Frankie then fucked up a door. Thank you, SeatSix, for fixing.

Also too:


Brenda Hillman

We had a grief
we didn't understand while
           standing at the edge of
   some low scrub hills as if
humans were extra
   or already gone;—
what had been in us before?
          a life that asks for mostly
    wanting freedom to get things done
in order to feel less
          helpless about the end
of things alone—;
when i think of time on earth,
   i feel the angle of gray minutes
          entering the medium days
    yet not "built-up":: our
work together: groups, the willing
    burden of an old belief,
           & beyond them love, as of
    a great life going like fast
creatures peeling back marked
    seeds, gold-brown integuments
    the color time
  will be when we are gone—