there’s tiny little sparks all around, like i’m walking through the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension

you wouldn’t think i’d be walking through a blizzard when i took this picture, but i sure was.

it’s been going on for a while.
day or night, clear or cloudy sky, it doesn’t matter.
it’s sortalike strolling through tiny, magic snowstorms, the kind where snowflakes explode and tingle surreptitiously upon my cheek and eyes, causing my hand and fingers to search for these phantoms and wonders at points of impact, something the passerby might construe to be a “facial tic” or small madness on my part. i move slowly and casually to mask my anxiety which probably makes me look like a junkie.

i guess there’s no graceful way of straddling dimensions.

i consider these moments to be utmost magnificent windows into dreams and wishes, those places my eyes find each time i blink.
sometimes, i find myself in the darnedest places in the bat of an eye.
for a moment, as my fingertips searched for the phantom snowflake, i wondered if there was a game afoot being played by that lizard guy – the one who sounds like eduardo ciannelli and looks like omar sharif (or any of his associates) – and if my low-edged humanity, that which keeps me safe from being rendered a meal and a suit by these intergalactic gourmand hustlers, was being taken for a ride.

last week, in the blink of an eye, i found myself in a room in a house. i remember cream-colored drapes billowing gently at an open window as a radiant, dark-haired, petite individual sat in a rust-colored vinyl armchair, the kind familiar to hospital waiting rooms and state-run offices, next to it.
“do you come here often?” her gruff, whispery voice inquired.

i opened my eyes.
i walked forward, raising my camera and lowering myself so i could shoot just above maxx’s point of view. i had no reason to do this. it was a whim.
it was my homage to the canine-point-of-view.
i blinked.
“only when i masturbate,” i answered.
she laughed her conspiratorial laugh, the whispery kind akin to cartoons i’ve known.
a waft of peppermint drifted up my nostrils.
“yes. a hefty shower,” i said. “is dr. bronner a friend of yours?”
the sun was bright this afternoon of national parkery, a day when i went from airfield to beach to ruins to paths, all the while being touched by snowflakes from another storm entirely.
my mint-flavored friend, someone of near-legend returned to focus when i sat on a plank and listened to the breeze…

because time has its own rules in relation to these odd travelings of mine (at times), i felt safe in knowing that if i were to stay in this room with her, time would hold to its rules, meaning there wouldn’t be any.
the blink of an eye is the blink of an eye, as it goes.
it’s pointless to measure time when having these conversations.
i blink.

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sometimes i feel like a nucular accident

i owed beachtime to maxx.
i worked in the house all day trying to feel at home in my own space. this is not the same as when i’m not feeling, “at home” in my own skin or “at home” on this planet; besides, i have buddy and maxx to consider andi’ve been getting “visitoritis” because my place was becoming a “storagespacery,” two words not deemed words yet, though they’re fine with me, which brings to mind something i haven’t considered in ages – the glossary of mind and memory.
this decision was made days ago, but i can’t seem to get it together worth a damn.
i awoke this day.
that was enough for me.

39. – Visual imagery – The process of forming mental pictures of objects or ideas.
reading my morning e-mails and facebook notifications, i clicked a link about the federal reserve, a 7-trillion in bank loans at the time of TARP and dennis kucinich, triggering visual imagery unleashed in my head, remembering how the likes of kucinich, ross perot and “unsafe at any speed-nader,” were reduced – in astonishingly quick order – to caricatures of political buffoonery.
there, i used it in a sentence.

this is/was automatically-triggered by the two political parties, the press and media who give a skewed and distorted “critical look,” at “outsiders” when necessary.
i see this because i participated in it simply being here. i saw perot as a crackpot, after suggestions in that direction.
same thing with kucinich. i’ve been educated to believe that any third party is a crackpot party.
remember lyndon larouche.

before proceeding, here’s my disclaimer;
i’m as qualified to be leader of the most powerful nation on earth as almost every current republican candidate, with the exception of newt gingrich.
he’s as smart as he is evil and he’s very evil.

a dimwit like sarah palin (remember her?) and the current cartoon characters the republican party trotted out this year – bachmann, cain the minstrel (yes, he is), perry and newt the catholic – are considered “real” to an entire electorate when there’s absolutely no substance to them.
gingrich has substance.
he’s made up of cancerous lies and hate and right now, he’s top of the pops with this party of scared white folks.
it’s these same people, for the most part, who put george bush (the cheerleader) into office – twice. remember the perils of the independent voter who wants things fixed yesterday.
whether it was stolen both times is immaterial; the simple fact that it ever got that close is testament to ignorance and misinformation as well as the stupidity and collusion of the other party.
john huntsman, the sanest voice i’ve heard amid the propped-up beautitudes of the grand old party is considered not to be considered.

the occupy movement is getting it from all sides, especially by law enforcement and surreptitiously, by our own government.
there’s a massive game of “good-cop, bad-cop” going on here
and the good cop wants nothing more than to hold onto the status-quo or at most, toss them a financial bone, but keeping the population under the thumb of servitude and debt.
there’s no win here, least of all for the 99% percent, students or the OWS.

but i digress…

fuck it – this post is old

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augie’s wake – a christmas story for the bushwick book club

the Guarino home – and this is only part of it;

Augie Maurello died three days after Thanksgiving, 1988. He was found beneath an Otis elevator car, the kind they have in high-rise buildings on the upper-east-side with a 2500 pound capacity that was indeed, filled to capacity. In a freakish moment, instead of coming to a stop in the lobby like the illuminated button commanded, the elevator car slowed, but continued to the basement where it stopped on what sounded like a crate of cantaloupe. That was Augie.

Apparently, the human ribcage being broken up in its skin- sack sounds sorta-like unlucky cantaloupe, but that’s neither here nor there. When the elevator stopped, the door opened and the annoyed tenants left the building through the basement. No one would know they were standing on a dead guy until later when the elevator mechanics arrived and found him and called the police. When the tenants found out about Augie, they were no longer miffed. They shuddered and were sickened, once again proving the power of information.

There was a big investigation. This could have been a mob thing or a union thing or a mob-union thing or just an Augie thing. Mister Maurello, in addition to being an elevator mechanic, was a low-level wise-guy who lived in a neighborhood filled with low-level-wise-guys. He was not a nice man, either to his wife or his children, but a saint to his capo (or “mob-boss”), his peers and his “women.” He loved the film, “Goodfellas,” and knew some of the actual characters from the story.

Someone who knew the cops on the case said all they could do was scrape him up and hose the rest away. His remains were subject to official scrutiny by crime labs and DNA collectors for almost two weeks before being released to the family which consisted of Connie, his wife of fifteen years; his twelve-year-old son Augie jr. and Celeste, their four-year-old “surprise” daughter—a point brought up on Thanksgiving by a drunk Augie when his daughter refused to eat the raisin and sausage stuffing, climaxing in tears and wails at the table. “Celeste, you’re the mistake that keeps on giving,” he slurred from his chair at the head of the table while mixing C&C cola into another glass of red wine. Celeste turned to her mom who was wide-eyed and speechless. “Mommy, what does Daddy mean?” she asked. Augie Jr. howled with delight, pointing at his sister, “miss-take – miss-take – mom’s unwanted stom-ach ache!”

But now, everything was different. Daddy was dead and Christmas was ten days away.

The body was transferred to the Gaurino Funeral Home on Flatlands avenue in Canarsie, Brooklyn. Needless to say, it was going to be a closed-coffin. Gaurino’s is a middle-income, family-run funeral home. The owner’s house is located across the street and every December the front yard of the two-story ranch-style home becomes a winter wonderland of motorized Christmas vignettes complete with Santa and Mrs. Claus, a sleigh with reindeer (complete with Rudolf and his brightly-lit red nose), elves working in their workshop, Frosty the Snowman and more. You can’t NOT see this as you enter the funeral home.

The grieving Maurellos arrived and set up grieving shop. Connie ran out of tears days ago. She was grateful that Augie’s parents were already dead and his brother Charlie was upstate doing eight years in the Dannemora Correctional Facility. Charlie was also a low-level wise guy who wasn’t as lucky as his brother until now. He was still here, Augie was not.

Connie did a quick emotional inventory. She figured she was on the fourth or fifth stage of grief. She didn’t have them in any particular order. It was all too blurry. At 7pm, she was stationed at the chapel door, her children to either side, her mind hovering somewhere between “acceptance,” “glee,” and “please kill me now,” when the first guests arrived to offer their condolences.

The weight and gravity of the night needed to be recalibrated for everyone who came. Augie was gone for two weeks already and everyone had begun to move on. Because of this, people were less convincing in their heartfelt-ness regarding Connie’s loss, particularly her mother and father who, in light of whispers about their deteriorating relationship, were quietly delighted with these events.

At eight pm, Sal and Maria parked their Plymouth in the lot adjoining the funeral home on the opposite side of the building where the Christmas display was. The car’s back door opened, releasing their eleven year-old son Nicky and Louise, their five-year old daughter. Sal and Maria were among the Maurello’s oldest friends because of the the proximity of their homes (a block away), the age of their children and Connie and Maria’s high-school days.

Connie’s big secret was that her daughter was totally planned. When Maria became pregnant with Louise – something they considered “a wonderful surprise” – Connie orchestrated the “Celeste project.” Augie’s death was as much a mistake as his daughter’s birth, if you know what I mean. His death would end the use of that word regarding their daughter. Tonight, as they walked across the parking lot, Augie jr., at a loss for words, began to taunt her sister again with, “miss-take,” and was solidly smacked across the head by his mother who, through clenched teeth said, “call your sister that again and i’ll cripple ya’.” She said this while pressing his cheeks together until they almost met in the middle of his mouth.

Sal, Maria and the kids walked from the parking lot and were immediately drawn to the huge Christmas display across the street. A scratchy rendition of “deck the halls” came out of a set of old speakers placed atop a display that had a group of yuletide carolers swaying back and forth in mechanical meter. Behind the crackling music, you can plainly hear the whirr and click of mechanical gears and pullies. The Gaurinos put the same display up for almost thirty years with little change. It was charming and old-worldly. Looking at it made you think of music boxes and The March of the Wooden Soldiers.

Sal, a carpenter and contractor by trade, sized up the display to be in excess of one hundred feet long and over a thousand square feet in total area.
He silently priced out the job in wood, aluminum framing and plexi-glass. It was instinctive. It was what he did. He shoo’ed away this thought and before everyone could get too wrapped up in the window scenes, he said, “C’mon, not now,” and guided his family back across the street and into the funeral home. They walked across a large common area, glancing at the other chapel rooms—there was one other wake in progress—before seeing Connie. They smiled and hugged. The children bolted toward each other, finding comfort in familiarity.

Sal and Maria stood talking to Connie, asking how she was bearing up; this was more about how the gauntlet of death unleashed itself upon her family than it was about Augie. He was old news. I mean, he’s been gone two weeks already.

Connie recounted detective-talk and police interviews and questions and business cards from investigators and members of the organized crime task force. As she spoke, she looked down. She wanted to lay down where she stood—right there on the burgundy, thick-pile-commercial carpet—and go to sleep.

Maria steered the conversation to the future, and Connie became more animated because of the potential for a new life; a new page. She raised her eyes. Sal excused himself and walked over to a group of men who reminded him of himself. Augie Jr. and Nicky disappeared—probably outside—while little Celeste sat on a chair at the end of an aisle and stared at the flower-draped box while Louise sat beside her. They were silent. Connie looked at her and wondered if she understood the Augie-in-the-box-thing.

The night went on for another hour or so. People chatted. There was hushed laughter with the occasional squeak of children.

Connie thought about how “this was it.” This thing tonight, this funeral at ten tomorrow, this burial at noon. Done, done and done.

Gradually, the fifty-or-so people who had signed the guest book gathered themselves and their others and found Connie to say goodnight. She thanked them for caring and made half-hearted, “maybe” plans for the future. Maria’s words floated in and out then back into her head.

“Huh? what?” Connie asked, her eyes re-focusing on her friend.

“I said we’re getting ready to go, hon,” Maria chimed. ”You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Connie answered. “Just worn out.”

“You want us to wait around? Want us to take you’se home?”

“No – I got the car. We’ll be fine.”

Sal gave her a hug while Maria did the same with the kids. “We’re gonna go ‘cross the street,” she said, tying her kerchief. They left. The other wake emptied, too. Connie and the director stepped into the small office in the main room. They spoke a little while. The chapel was emptying and partially dark.

When Connie returned, Celeste was asleep, her head on her brother’s lap, sitting on a couch in the main room. She stepped over and lifted up her daughter, her ringletted hair resting on her mother’s shoulder. Almost whispering, Connie apologized to her son for hitting and threatening him about “that word,” but asked him to please never use it again, because it’s hurtful and “your little sister might be hurt-enough right now, OK?”

“Okay, Mom,” he answered. She stroked his cheek lovingly.

Walking out, they passed the director who smiled sadly. Connie wondered if he had that smile down to a science…then guiltily dismissed her thoughts.

Exiting the funeral home, she looked across to the Christmas display. A couple was walking past it chatting and pointing.

Augie Jr.’s eyes asked and Connie’s answered. Smiling, they crossed the street to the big Christmas display. Celeste raised her head from her mother’s shoulder and awoke to a winter wonderland and a crackling rendition of “Joy to the World.”

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slow-motion, like what i see in my head at times

…or in a movie directed by ridley scott..or when young lovers reunite in a 1970’s romance film…or what happens when someone puts a gun to your head. (just for the record; i did experience the last thing mentioned not once but twice and it was the same thing both times …extreme s-l-o-w-moving through a crystal-clear glob of mucus).

maxx (my loose-cannon of a dog) is asleep, rolled in a circle, his head resting on his tail – he has a very comfy tail – laying on the gray poncho i placed on the daybed he took over three years ago.
buddy is positioned to my immediate right next to this keyboard; sphinx-like, his paws tucked beneath him he sits, his head up and eyes closed on the red poncho folded into a plush-square and placed on the desk for him.
he has a BB in his hip from when he was used for target practice in his feline-youth.
i saw it in an x-ray.

but i digress.
i can’t help talking about buddy like he’s some sort of hero. he is my zen-master.
i’ve been inventorying heroes lately, but if i go on about this i will sink (or float) further into digression that might land me in a world of vague discomfort…or not.

while i was laying out these articles of clothing that used to define me, i promised to start wearing them again.
i have no idea if i meant what i said.
keeping promises to myself isn’t one of my strong suits. i’ve settled for promising the thought and letting it go. shame on me.
this plays in my mind like bitter fruit.

i’m better than this.
what of my public? (i have no public)
what of the children? (i have no children)
usually, by the time i get to this, i’ve forgotten what i was talking about.
it worked again.
i just have to make sure i don’t proofread this.

for a while, the night became one of black and white.
i spent a few hours composing this while listening to the television.
the greys and whites danced with the shadows at the edge of my right-eye’s periphery.
turner classic movies was screening “gold diggers of 1935,”
a depression era gem that i hadn’t seen in a while.

toward the end, when i heard the music begin to weave the melody from, “the lullaby of broadway,” i noticed the screen blacken, gaining my attention.
i forgot this particular busby berkeley number…it’s almost 15 minutes long and at moments it’s pretty intense;

but back to slow motion.
i’m not sure if it’s where i need to be, but something tells me i have to go here. i need to continually close my eyes and hope to see the paths my eyelids lead me, like tracerlines from dreams, traveling to the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension.
in the past, i wondered if my imagination played tricks on me in my goings and comings out there, marveling at the “slowness” i felt when traveling at the speed of light.
i remarked about this from time to time (and place to place) over the years, never once figuring there was a chance dreams might travel faster than light.
that was until those supercollider guys at CERN found out about those bang-zoom neutrinos.
i might say my dreams are neutrino-powered, but through years of conversation between me and my friend, i’m sure we travel faster.

yeah, i know it’s a stretch, but maybe busby berkeley saw something back then…

the inside core at CERN looks girly-powered.
of course, this is just an opinion.
i got loads of them.
they might morph and develop but they don’t ever do a one-eighty. a one-eighty is an unreasonable swift change-of-mind.
people who do that, who think black on one moment and white the next, give me the creeps.
people who do that, “in the public eye,” are most-likely liars.
people who do that in the political arena ARE LIARS.
big stinking liars.
my biggest hope regarding occupy wall street is the birth of a non-aligned political party, but i’m not in too much of a hurry for it. anything that pops up without massive roots and inner growth is doomed to be taken apart by the sinister self-interest of the “two current parties.”
i state it in quotes for obvious reasons.
want to see the democrats and republicans work together? start a political party.
they’ll work hand-in-glove like good soldiers to destroy anything that threatens them.
they will work shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling.
they will roll up their sleeves and perspire.
ask ross perot.

general motors and ford and chrysler teamed up like that in the late forties against Preston Tucker.
his story is nothing short of extraordinary.
they made a movie in the late 80’s called “Tucker; a Man and His Dream,” but his story was much bigger than the movie could ever be – though the film was pretty great.
these were the biggest corporations in america at the time and they went whole-hog to protect their market shares.
imagine entire political parties going after you.
throw in the influence peddlers of wall street, the banks and insurance companies and every well-heeled greedy bastard on the planet.
that there is one big, powerful lobby of self interest, you betcha.
hence, the need for a huge, undefined group of about a sixty or seventy million people who are just plain tired of the endless bullshit being proffered by the powers that be.

while i’m at it –
please, get the hell out of afghanistan.
i’m asking nicely.

one last thing;
dolores told me to tell my sweetest friend on the planet that she’ll be waiting on the corner of joy street and eternity avenue.
they’re already acquainted.

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how much nothing do i have left?

the title of this note came to me for a number of reasons.
it might have more to do with a sense of tedium, unsure if it’s physical, emotional or spiritual.
maybe it’s a combination of these, mixed in with the wearying sense of “aww, shit.”
“aww shit,” is what watching or reading the news gives me.

on the bright side, now there’s only one war – that i know of – left.
in iraq, the US license “to war” expired and the iraqi parliament isn’t going to stamp our government’s war-visa for next year.
our president spun it his way (which is fine) and it made him honor a campaign promise he wasn’t ready to make happen…yet.
the republicans got all sort-of indignant and woeful, which is about their speed. they think they can still bully the planet. these guys be nucular dummasses.
the behavior of these scared white guys is despicable.
and the republican teaparty has loads of them.
i’m not sure what rates higher in their mind – greed or hate.
i could try to veil this by using nicer words, but sometimes you gotta call’em like you see’em.
even considering another texas moron who’s stupid or stupider than the last texas-republican president is an act is sheer insanity.
understanding it can happen AGAIN is testament to the wholesale ignorance propagated by the powers that be the “99%” is up against.
fool me once, shame on…uhh…
i cringed just finding this boob’s video.
how can a large portion of this country even consider someone even remotely like him?
when half the population of over 300 million people think men like these deserve to sit in a position of power, you know we’re going to hell in a handbasket.
i’m not going to blame the movement downtown for my inability to sit and write something here.
i attempted to employ this lame excuse a few nights ago in conversation with a performer after her set. having been reduced to a yammering fan, she mentioned how she enjoyed reading my notes here and i lost all composure.
i attribute it to the long, frilly gown she wore and her crystally-blue-water voice.
this morning i found a link to something someone in california wrote that as i read, my mind said, “yeah, uh, huh,” and other under-the-breath mumbles of agreement.
i understand that it doesn’t speak to the entire occupy movement but it DID speak to me some…
this is what it was and it came out of occupy oakland this past week, around the same time as the police assault.
i read it once and will give it a 24-hour rest before reading it again. it’s a broad stroke.
it touches on what’s terribly wrong in this country, but then again,…
reading it, i recalled a book entitled, “the greening of america,” written by charles reich, something that bordered on fantasy about “changes of consciousness,” that would permeate our culture, sorta-like a huge “ohhh, i get it now.”
i remember my older brother leaving the issue of the new yorker that introduced the book and can recall the cover of the issue even now. he got the paperback version of the book which i read, probably the same year i read “fear and loathing in las vegas,” making my choice of reading material as varied as my drug intake.
i bring mister reich up because, though he may not have gotten it spot-on right, he did get it close-enough to the mark that i find myself re-examining frayed edges of my memory regarding things dismissed years ago and now haltingly want to reconsider.
in the links provided, the first one was written this past june and lists facts about the author that are eerily impressive – i mean, aside from being a distinguished Yale Law School professor and justice sam alito’s teacher – like his future view of “feminism, gay rights, racial equality, an end to military conflict, rampant consumerism, and overweening corporate power.”
the overview of the occupy movement, such as i can make out, rings many of the bells he rang in “greening of america.

btw/ each “greening” link offers different info regarding the book and author. i just thought you should know.
also, if you DO consider reading this book, get the patchouli oil out.
just a suggestion.

which is as good a way as any to segue’ to my late-night journey to floyd bennett field to photograph the waning snowfall yesterday.
it was more about letting maxx run free, as it always is.

earlier in the day, as i worked on this note, i was listening to the original “godzilla.”
as i’ve said before, much of my time is spent listening to films and this score by akira ifukube reaches to things far back in my life, no doubt.
the underwater sequence toward the climax of the film was playing when i began to feel emotional, like an ocean’s weight of sadness poured into my room.

i found myself missing people who either exited my life or never made it in, my dearest friend in particular.
funny how this stuff comes and goes like that.

i got plenty.

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bud i digress…

writing has become a foreign matter.
the events in new york city have crystallized since going there a couple of weeks ago.
the 99% have made it clear that there isn’t a political co-opting available for either party.
someone’s gotta do a perp-walk from wall and broad streets and that’s just for starters.
i love that.
the stooges in the media did everything they could to keep a blind eye on it while the corporate teabags and the shivering-in-their-boots government bureaucrats (leased and owned) ramp-up the discredit machine as events no doubt are underway to subvert it from under and within.
regardless of your point of view, there’s a whole lot of something going on.
which reminds me – i haven’t said this in a while;


ok. i feel better.
on another note;

i went to floyd bennett field and/or fort tilden a few times over the past weeks. the photos from the previous post were shot a lost rainy-day ago (there were a few of these days), but can’t remember which and now as i write, days have come and gone (along with visits) and more things occurred on and around wall street confirming the need to go to the parking lot in search of that guy who sounds like eduardo ciannelli (and looks like omar sharif).

when i photographed the pic below, confrontation was on my mind…yeah, maybe a little paranoid…

…an army of buds leaning toward a missing sun.
between you and me, we might be those marching-in-place little guys who are “as lucky to be as you and me.”
that might be a good name for a song performed by the new christy minstrels.

i grew up with these fresh-faced young americans on my parent’s first color television.
maybe it was an RCA.
i could have been a zenith.
members of this troupe grew up to become acts like “the association,” who became famous with a song entitled “along comes mary,” and barry mcguire, who wrote eve of destruction, a 45-rpm record i played way too much at age 12…
where was i?
oh yeah, all over the place, but specifically gateway national park, though it’s probably a worn irritant to some people who visit here.
sorry, it’s my “good place.”
we all need one.
these past weeks, each time i went there, i hoped to photograph a monarch butterfly. i do it every year.
had i seen one and photographed it, i might have said it was the same one from last year, or if butterflies aren’t supposed to travel north twice in their lifetime, i would say it was from the same family of last year’s;
that there was a post-it note in the DNA of this year’s monarch butterfly informing me that i had rescued its uncle (or aunt) from the ocean and nursed back to flight.
…but i would not write this story.
i haven’t taken the photo because i never saw the monarch.

every day, i die of regret a millisecond at a time.
if it’s not for one thing, it’s another.
1 – “i said THAT?”
2 – “what was i thinking?”
3 – “SHIT”
4 – “uhhh…”
given the moment, decisions made decades ago feel like a noogie to the temple.
sense-memory with self-loathing, this low-level headache stems from the heart and fills the mind and vice versa.

when i went to Occupy Wall Street for the first time, i walked around the park area, then headed out to places where i worked in my youth.
i walked east on wall street to a building i worked that housed a gold and silver commodities exchange.
it gave me the shivers.
i headed south and west till i was by the old US customs house at the end of broadway.
once upon a time, i worked for an engineering company across the street.
it could have happened happened on another planet.
from there i headed west and north to where i worked for a shipping company, then headed east again toward liberty park when i noticed the american stock exchange, or what used to be the american stock exchange.
now it’s something else. whatever.
i remembered that i had gotten a job there.
i was about twenty.
i was walking into offices and filling out job applications. i got a phone call from someone in their personnel department who asked me to come down for an interview, which i did.
i was going to start as a runner, one of those people who wears a blue polyester jacket with big pockets for pads and pens (at least back then) – i have no idea if the job still exists, but i’m sure now you need to have a degree of some sort for the gig.
the jowly-faced irishman who interviewed me described the job and told me about my future if i stuck and worked my way up. it sounded promising.
it sounded fantastic.
plus, there was a mccann’s bar just a block away.
that monday came when i would start this new job.
i never budged from my park slope apartment.
maybe i drank myself into submission the night before.
i don’t remember, but i never had a regret about it.

no part of me died when i recalled this story.
not a micro-millisecond of me.

for no reason i can think of, i thought about “playing, playing to win, and just winning.”
of course, this makes me refer back to enron and my first meeting with that grifting lizard guy – you know, the one who sounds like eduardo ciannelli and looks like omar sharif – the one who handed me those extraordinary binoculars and showed me ken lay on that ship over four years ago.
what’s more fortuitous is that, as i recalled these things, rachel maddow brought up enron on her show, causing me to remark about it on the facebook.
the smartest guys in the room is a documentary about what happened. the ENTIRE FILM is at the link here or where the title is.
this film underscores and offers understanding about how we are being taken to the cleaners by arrogant, mean-spirited little men.
understanding enron might make you angry.
it might also make the sub-prime hustle the banks executed with brokerage houses and bought-ratings agencies horribly real to you…
collusion. what a great word. it’s a cozy-evil word, ain’t it?

“playing” is fun.
“playing to win,” is what drives some people to let competitiveness overwhelm fairness. fun with harsh reservations w/ options leaning toward brutality.
“just winning,” takes everything out of the game. there is no game. there is no win. there’s just winning.
that’s where america is now; the tilted table, the loaded dice. a twilight zone episode.

what’s it like if a small investor realizes he has better odds in las vegas.
there, you know the house ALWAYS WINS, but at least you know the odds are mathematically stacked against you the same way all the time.
such is not true of the world at wall and broad.
betting on a stock could be the same thing as betting on a horse or betting on a wrestling match.
i’d imagine that’s the lesson in the financial meltdown of 2008 that is continuing even now.
iceland’s collapse in 2008 never gets airplay and there’s no news from that part of the world on any of the major networks. that’s because it’s a microcosm of the world’s current financial madness.
it was an insane hustle orchestrated by a few people who were actually set up by associates of that guy who sounds like eduardo ciannelli and looks like omar sharif.
they told a handful of fisherman that they could buy the world and they almost did.

i sat on the battlements that overlooks my safe place, my anteroom to the big casino where i commune with friends here and gone, now and then or yesterday, today and tomorrow, where i zoom to the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension

…and whisper “i love you,” to the grayscale moment of our dearest dreams.

…when i took the above picture, i was standing atop battery harris east, looking north (or was it west?) – maybe it was northwest.
a storm was headed this way.

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from the harvest moon

i took maxx to fort tilden for the first time since hurricane sunday, the day of the divine lightbulb.

it would be legit for maxx to frolic on the tan, grey and black sands of its glorious beach as the winter-clock is on at gateway national park. (september 15th to march 15th) without green-clad reprisals from the likes of the last park-police guy who asked me about drugs, “almost willie nelson,” or the lizard who wears the suit of the trader lady from three years ago when i walked on the breezy point road.
these people are somewhere behind me on this digital scroll and will last as long as the innernet does, i guess. someone – a reader – suggested that i “hard-copy” this for the future.
i gather that if this stuff is the same as ourselves, we’ll be electronically whizzing and banging all over the place for the tomorrows and yesterdays there ever were and will be.
for me, the notions of “future” and “humanity” tend at times to be a stretch. it’s not goodness or the divine blessings of dieties that will bring us forward.
it’s luck and odds.
we’re lucky to be here and the odds are that if a future cataclysm were to occur, there’s enough of us little cockroaches to insure someone, somewhere will be procreating and starting things all over again.
if that were to occur, i’ll maintain that there’ll be a buzzkill douchebag to gum it up even on the rerun.
it’s what we do.
besides, there’s an entire race of grifting lizards who “depend” on us, but -i’m sure they have access to a lot more “galactic supermarkets” out there for their diet.
of course, i could be wrong. i know as much as they want me to know about them and that lizard guy who sounds like eduardo ciannelli (and looks like omar sharif) does play his cards close.


…what lies above those little lines sat in this digiwarehouse till today. i forgot i wrote it. the one thing i want to say about that is this;
i can’t wait to talk to that lizard guy about, “occupy wall street,” and all that stuff that’s going on all over the world.

a month ago, i was told that this website/note-doohickey is “absolutely terrible,” the first such review in almost six years.
upon looking at it, i have to admit – yeah, pretty unkept.

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i had the best slice of pizza in decades.
of course, it probably had more to do with my frame of mind, but it was a fresh-out-of-the-oven sicilian corner square –

…from tony’s of graham avenue.
the crust was…perfect…brilliant, but i’m not here to review them. i’ll tell you that i like them and leave it at that.
just in case you’re reading this on mars and am only familiar with well-fed, fattened, greedily-arrogant brands of humanity and know nothing about “pizza,” the above photo is a sicilian pizza pie and “the corner” is the corner-part of said item.
if there are no corners on mars, i’ll have to learn a whole bunch of new stuff from that grifting-lizard guy who sounds like eduardo ciannelli and looks like omar sharif and this point is moot and this is coming from a guy who thinks all points are moot, sometimes and is secure in the fact that it gives so many more points to discover because of it.
if you’re that stalker guy, you know what a sicilian corner is because we live in the same city and you’ll have to read on to see if you can glean any further information from me about what itches so horribly deep inside your brain. peekaboo!!!

but i digress.

back to the pizza moment;
it would have been morally wrong to not eat the fresh slice immediately, right there in the car while parked.

as i chomped and chewed, for no particular reason, i found myself being extraordinarily grateful.
another way of looking at this is to say, “at this moment, i am incredibly lucky. i have luck of the highest order with properly-oiled crust on my pizza. my luck is spangled with rhinestones and multicolored streamers on it.”
i’ll also add that i bought two other slices for when i got home, but they were not fresh-hot-sicilian corners, so they’re just fodder to this note.
i awoke this morning with maxx at the foot of my bed, buddy rolled up in a ball to my left and knowledge that there are a few someones out there who love me.
others, not so much.
i imagine this enhanced the taste of the pizza.

i poured all over the innernet, looking for an image of a button, like one that lights up on an elevator panel, that says “luck” but couldn’t find one.
i did come close.
i then thought about life and how this, more than anything, rules my life.
i was wondering about the phrase “don’t push your luck,” which is a lot like “don’t press your luck,” (if only in terms of the three stooges) and decided that’s pretty-much all i do anyway…

– and was gratified to see that there are believers in the obvious as such.


regarding the date of this posting, i can only say this;
i’ve had to let it go, otherwise i’ll continue to follow the money.


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just lucky enough to be a notion

buddy’s back on the cable box seeking warmth.
it feels like, what?…sixty-five degrees?
the gray, cool damp wafts into the loft to my right at the open window that leads to the fire escape.
in all my time here, i never spent more than a moment on the fire escape and i don’t know why.
the small, wrought-iron world was always a part of “where i lived.” there were insignificantly-historic moments in that limited space that may have mattered for a moment or two.
i remember some, i don’t remember others.
the ones i don’t recall might be better left forgotten.

driving across brooklyn today, i stopped at a red light at flatlands and alabama avenues when a huge yawn wailed out of me.
at that moment, a guy was exiting his parked car ten feet from me.
“that is exactly how i feel.” he said, passing in front of my car and crossing the street.
at the exact-same moment, we busted out laughing.
the guy was about my age. it was a moment.
i knew that he knew.
it was two geezer-strangers sharing latter-middle-age heavy gravity, “why don’t my legs work like they used to?,” terminal exhaustion…oh, to yawn…to expel. when i yawned the great yawn, a small amount of death escaped from me and went on a recon mission.
it took until i was well asleep before my yawn was anywhere near anything interesting.
that might sound like words of someone who’s been to europe a few too many times, like the ho-hum of a jaded world-traveler, but i thought my path would have been different from the times i headed out toward “the eighth electro-plasma ocean of the ninth dimension,” the lesson being that i need to vary my launch patterns.
i tend to go “out there” the same way all the time, probably because of the earthbound practice of getting from point to point and forgetting how much more interesting it is when i aim pointlessly.
does that make any sense?
i probably need to get into the habit of aiming “everywhere-all-at-once” like i used to.

in five days, maxx will legally bound about and run in wide arcs upon the sandy beaches of fort tilden with no fear of government reprisals upon either of our persons and another year will have come and gone without a parking sticker affixed to the bumper of the car.
i was totally ready to get one this year, too.
the change of seasons give me quiet joy.
i welcome the coming remoteness, the black and whiteness.

before moving forward, again i need to step back.
i can do this with relative ease now that directionlessness (probably not a word) has given me the wherewithoutitall (undoubtedly not a word) to mimic the broadstroke paintsplash the end-of-time on this mortal coil might be.
maybe this was a dream or it was sent to me in that big old yawn when my mouth opened causing my eyes to close…

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weasel season – the artist’s way – an opinion.

dragging myself from bed, an overwhelming need to shower overcame me. rather than “loll-around” on a day that nothing was going to be a big-part of my future hours, something connected to my half-century of cultural information culled from my step-father, neighborhood and assorted girlfriends of said persuasion, one i loved deeply with rockaway summer memories, lolling on aluminum lounge chairs…”ecch, everyone around me is dyink…,” she said, her loose wrist waving toward her face, we sit, grave-faced before busting out laughing…my jewish-american princess knew how to play it to the hilt – she’s on my mind this day – sleep and comfort should be the plan.
we were big on that.
this reverie drifted off and floated around the house lazily, lolling away like couched memories tucked in my head…
since reading something about ellipses requiring only three dots, i’ve been trying to follow the plan.

but i digress…

i doused myself with dr. bronner’s peppermint soap before going out, camera in hand, to floyd bennett field – a plan that lies in the near future – me, maxx and whoever else wants to fit into the stationwagon.
i needed only to move. i had to move and shake off the…shit.
it had something to do with the overwhelming sense of “too many weasels,” in and around my life and the need to rid myself of the scent (real or otherwise) and contact with them (also, real or otherwise).

this phenomenon hasn’t been solely my experience.
one of my closest friends asked my advice regarding what can only be described as “vermin-like,” behavior by an associate of hers, something she never expected.
“a mink is still a weasel. it just has a nicer coat,”
or something like that, i told her.
my weasel antennae has been up for a while now.
“weasel,” is on my moral compass. it’s right past 9 clockwise. it’s a little past, “sneaky-bastard” and just before, “self-obsessed-douchebag.”
this stuff is, for the most part, subjective…depending on the moment.
or objective any other moment.
it’s from here, a bunch of snarky business people perfected the notion of an approach to money-making, especially if they train themselves to think of “moral-hazard” as the rough part of a golf course and nothing more.
that’s what happened the past twenty years on wall street and it’s this behavior that’s the principal architect of ken lay’s advance to the realm of science-fiction and my initial meeting with that lizard guy who sounds like eduardo ciannelli (and looks like omar sharif).
since beginning this note (a week ago), the name enron has crept back into the news in describing the sub-prime crisis that tanked the economy – you know, the one we’re still mired in?
they said that what was done by the banks was just a bigger version of what was done eight years earlier down “thar” in texas by ken lay, jeffery skilling and the gang.
exactly, just bigger and bolder.
“ha” i said to myself while an “expert” ran down the story that, not only did i know, but i learned about an entirely new menu-planning race of beings in our midst. this was when the intergalactic con-artist professionals met me at the beach and made me understand humanity on a whole new…dining plan.
the last two years made me realize they really “ramped-up” dinner production.

my relationship with the grifting lizards, those kings of the con; the epic-epicurean hustlers and gourmands of the grift are not part of this almost-a-hurricanery saturday evening.
my relationship with them is spoken for.
we understand each other (and if you don’t know what i’m talking about, start at the beginning
here – this is no time for primer) – besides, at this point in our relationship (me and the con-artist lizards), you’ll miss the emotional character development – at least on my end.
extraterrestrial con-artist lizards think differently from us.
it’s all about a meal and a suit with them – nothing more and never less.
but we already know that.
this was about weasels and a genus of humanity that is entirely different from the greedhounds who make it onto their menu.

there are magnets pulling some people’s moral compass to strange and bizarre places.
to wit;
almost two years ago, an artist came in asking me to allow him the opportunity to put up an art installation in the backyard theater.
“sure,” i said.
over the next day or so, the entire wall of the backyard stage was filled with his “canvasses.”
“you’re sure they’ll be ok there? you concerned about the weather?”
“nah, they’ll be fine.”
“ok” i said and let it go.
a week later, a neighborhood local remarked to me in front of the store, “so you’re the one who ended up with his paintings? my friend told him that his shit had to go and i wondered who was going to end up with it next. congratulations!,” he laughed and walked off.
i let it go.
weeks went by, then some months.
someone, somewhere heard that this artist was mugged or run over by a truck or a piano fell out a window and landed on him (ok, i threw that last one in) – something real bad happened and he was in the hospital and all busted up.
so now i’m wondering what do i do with this guy’s stuff if i never saw him again.
oh, wait – that’s how i got all this stuff in the store to begin with.
i get dead guy stuff. this was a “natural.”
he spent a long time in the hospital.
months and months.
one day, i got a phone call.
“hi. i’m still in the hospital. they’re not letting me out for a while. is my stuff still back there?”
“yes. it’s still there and everything’s ok. don’t worry about your stuff. just get better.”
he thanked me or something like that.
i told him he was lucky and he should be very grateful.
he totally agreed.
weeks became more months and lo, there he was, walking into the store. i told him he was a miracle.
he told me he was grateful to be alive.
he was so happy that his stuff was still here and was never thrown out or dumped in the garbage.
grateful, grateful, grateful!
and weeks, once again, became months.
and then;
last week i walked into the store and was told that this artist was retrieving his paintings.
good for him.
i found it “disturbingly amusing” that when he came in, he insisted that i wasn’t alerted to his arrival, but unfortunately i did walk in.
shame on me.
even more unfortunately, i made the error in thinking that we deserved a thank you; nothing more, nothing less.
this is what i got in lieu of a thank you –
i might be paraphrasing here because as my mind registered the words, denial of what i was hearing was causing static in my hard-drive. i couldn’t believe what i was hearing;

“well, the paintings gave off good vibes and feelings, so i figure that’s good enough.”

i wanted to take the remaining paintings down, stack them together and whack him to death with them.

“so, you never heard of the words please and thank you?” – i was looking at a fully-formed adult and using a phrase last used with my three-your-old niece about seven years ago.

he answered me with a blank stare.

furious, i said, “there’s no excuse for bad manners, you fucking douchebag. what a fucking…(three, remember) weasel.”
and he didn’t get it. not for a second.
i hurried him along and he got all his crap out.
i noticed a broken piece of plexiglass that he chose to leave near my trash can.
“what about that?” i pointed to it.
“oh, you can keep that,” he said.
“take that piece of garbage and put it with the your other garbage and get the fuck out of here, you weasel motherfucker,” i strongly advised.
he exited out the dodworth street side-door, further attesting to his ferret-like behavior.

the defining moment occurred when he came in for a last-second run-through and to bolt the backyard side-door.
as he swept through the room, he quoted jesus to me.
this is what he said;
“peace be unto you.”
i howled, following him out the front of the store telling him,”it makes perfect sense that you’d quote a man whose principal lesson is respect.
weasels quote the bible or they get highly patriotic.
they always do.
“you ARE a weasel in the most compelling sense of the word. you’re a christianity-quoting liar.”
once i get going…
except on ellipses. lesson learned and maybe i’ll do with weasels as i do with rules of punctuation.
there’s still an editorial proofreader inside here, somewhere.
three dots.

this is just an opinion;
an “artist” who loses the ability to perform the simplest act of civility (pretty quickly, might i add), e.g. – saying please and thank you – particularly understanding these were the phrases used to save this same art, is nothing more than a con-artist with a paintbrush in his hand.
if it’s part of your “schtick,” fine – use it with your public who don’t know who you really are.
don’t try it with people who do.
it makes you a soulless mechanic.
a “hack” would be too kind a word.
cheers to the talented-soulless.
two years and no thank you?
no thank you.

in the photo above, the artists are the people in front of those pictures.

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