An Act of Commerce

I’ve been chopping firewood; first time in my life. I’m pretty much a suburban guy and I’ve worked as a writer, systems analyst, journalist, teamster, drinker, smoker, liar, and my leisure activities have consisted of browsing bookstores, watching videos, fucking off, driving around and bar hopping. Muscles I’ve neglected are sore from chopping wood, but I’m also more relaxed and I’m sleeping well. I had a therapist years ago (Number 4) that said if I found an activity which employed the body’s long muscles, quadriceps, biceps, back, it could help to reduce stress and anxiety. As if. I told him he was an idiot and a fraud, paid him $100 dollars and left to get drunk. Don’t try to tell me about stress relief.

I have a friend here in the mountains of New Mexico who lives in a teepee. He grows and sells beans. Special beans: Zuni, Anasazi, Heirloom. They don’t look like the kind you’d find in the supermarket and I can’t imagine that he makes a living, but his overhead is low and he has few needs.

We were talking this morning about the weather and the Christmas holidays and I told him how much I enjoyed chopping wood. He’s a tough guy, physical, dresses in Carhartt canvas, his hands are rough as sandpaper, and I realized that telling him about my recent love-affair with manual labor must sound pretty fucking lame to this dude who’s spent most of his adult life outdoors.

He said, “Hey, if you have any extra firewood I’ll trade you some beans for it.”

Blown away.

“What? Why?”

“Well, it’s been pretty cold and I haven’t been able to get up into the mountains to gather wood. I have enough in my truck for another night but I’ll need some more.”

Never in my craziest fantasies have I envisioned myself as a supplier of fuel to off-the-grid mountain men. Jesus. And he was going to give me beans. Beans. This was beginning to sound like a warped version of Paul Bunyan and Jack in the Beanstalk with a little Carlos Castaneda thrown in for psychedelic good measure.

The basic model of social commerce is barter. He needs firewood and I have some. I don’t see the great appeal of beans, but they are a primitive and respected food that has sustained populations for millennia. I’d give him the wood for nothing, I can chop more, but I’m going to take the beans in trade. I’ll probably put them in a drawer and forget them for a couple of years until I accidentally come across them and throw them in the garbage, but the historic act of exchanging my services for his goods has a biblical, elemental authenticity and allows me to participate in an honest and ancient system of human collaboration.

And, goddamnit, my old therapist was right. I should send him a letter of apology. When I’m wielding my ax I am composed, strong and invincible. And afterwards I’m calm. I even vaguely understand the appeal of living in a teepee and of learning basic survival skills. I love my ax, perhaps a little too much, and I chop wood. Instead of sizable and expensive quantities of cocaine and alcohol, I can bring myself to a state of equanimity and self-control after a half hour of hard ax-work. If I’d known it was all going to be so fucking easy I could have saved $140,000 on therapy. Now I have to go chop wood to earn my beans.

Sensitive Artists

     Another big article recently about creative people and how sensitive they are. Do you think writers and artists are especially sensitive people? According to many writers and artists they are. They’re extremely intuitive and thoughtful and insightful, complicated and perceptive. Don’t they feel more deeply, aren’t they more caring and shouldn’t we understand that their profound complexity requires that we treat them with extra special respect and admiration?

     Oh, shit no. No, no, no.

     A person I know, who calls himself a writer, does not have cancer, is not living in poverty, doesn’t have disabilities, doesn’t suffer the burden of children, can afford decent food, gas, heat, appears to be tolerant of his current wife, has plenty of time to garden and travel and take cooking classes at the local junior college. He recently posted a message in which he was passionately lamenting the trials and difficulties of The Writer’s Life, the literary torments, the daily production of linked sentences composed of correctly spelled words and how proud and blessed he was to have finished his latest story.

     Fuck you, you toilet. Please. There is no “Writer’s Life”.

     There is Life, short and confusing and you choose to write. Or paint or sculpt or dance. Or not. There are no special gifts or cosmic sensitivities. Hard work and luck. Those are the often-overlooked necessary components of any real artistic enterprise. Not self proclaimed “sensitivity” or praise from friends about how well you express yourself in your retarded Facebook posts. Really, everyone expresses himself or herself fairly well and it doesn’t make them special or unique.

     Sorry, but there is only one species of humans. Homo Sapiens. That’s us and that’s it. Eating, digesting, screwing, dying and some of us do other stuff like painting and writing and juggling and competitive eating. There are not Homo sapiens I and Homo Sapiens II; the first group consisting of everyone else in the world and the other is that special advanced species of writers and artists. Ridiculous bullshit. Bitching about the hardships of an artist’s life makes one a gigantic whining baby, not an artist. No one is more than a normal human being with varying human weaknesses and abilities.

     Of course, the organism closest to Humans is the Chimpanzee. Perhaps artists and writers are more in tune with their inner chimp than the divine muse.

     Gee, you’ve written a nice poem and that’s a beautiful photograph of your grandchildren in the snow. Moving and profound. Your painting is a wonderful representation of the struggles of the artist in an uncaring society. Here’s your banana.

     Now that would make sense.

You Can Also Use an Ax to Chop Wood

     I bought a huge load of wood this year and it is nice and dry, almost perfect, but some of the pieces are a little too big for my fireplace. I needed to buy an ax to cut up the more cumbersome logs, split them down into kindling and make them fit.

     I spent an afternoon stacking the wood and it looks impressive, a looming wall of logs up against the fence, neatly arranged. I was sore after the job, but it felt good. I know I’m not the first guy to discover that physical labor can feel great and is healthy and satisfying. That was probably one of the Roman Stoics in the third or fourth century AD, just around the time the Roman Empire was collapsing and they were running out of slaves to do the heavy lifting.

     Stacking wood is weight bearing; the moving of objects from one place to another for an hour or so will help keep a person in good shape, strong and capable. Much better than standing still in a gym full of boneheads lifting barbells and tugging on threatening machines, running nowhere on treadmills.

     Picking up fifty armloads of wood and staggering twenty yards to stack it is gratifying and I don’t feel judged because I’m not dressed in the proper workout attire or I’m not slim enough and young and confident. I’m alone, out of breath, sweaty, covered in sawdust and dirt, my hands are scratched and filthy, but I’m doing something practical. And it’s relatively free. Of course, and this is a legitimate concern, there is no one around to administer CPR if something goes wrong, as it inevitably will. I can’t get a sixty-dollar massage and we don’t have a tanning booth, but I’m also not worried about anyone stealing my wallet or some testo-aggro dude who is looking for trouble.

     This morning I went to the hardware store and purchased an ax so I can chop the wood. I’ve never done that before, it was a unique, once in a lifetime experience. My First Ax. Felt good, let me say. I can never repeat the act of purchasing my first ax; it’s like first sex or first drink, first fight and first divorce. A right of passage.

     At the door of the hardware store I ran into my physical therapist. He’s a nice guy, handsome with good hair, serious, healthy as hell, strong, and he has helped me significantly with my chronic back problem and the tendonitis in my left arm.

     I’ve never felt comfortable with small talk and I don’t do it well. I’m usually accused of being inappropriate or obscene or dismissive. Most people tend to be sincere if they ask a question and they don’t expect a wise crack. I grew up differently and am always prepared for an automatic insult, a nasty response or sarcasm. I wish it wasn’t true. Over the past decade I’ve become much more integrated into the normal conversational deportment of others and I try to restrain myself, but when I’m feeling good and caffeinated I sometimes don’t edit as well as I should.

     The physical therapist is twenty years younger than I am but he cheerfully called out, “Hey, how are you doing, young man? How’s the back?”

     “My back is good today. Thanks for the help.”

     “What are you getting?”

     “An Ax. Some guy just pissed me off. I need an ax.”

     “So, what, are you going to work out your aggression by chopping a bunch of fireplace wood?”

I looked at him, squinted and realized he was completely serious. This is the way some people truly think. Their first word association when they hear the word “Ax” is “Wood”. Incredible.

     I answered, “No. I don’t have a fireplace.”

     He giggled nervously, realized that I was kidding him. Finally, I thought. Jesus, dude. I immediately, instinctively, decided that there was something wrong with him, but in reality, to this healthy young man the concept of working out one’s anger, anxiety, aggression by doing some exercise or hard physical work was as natural as breathing. I am in a prolonged state of recovery, but I'm occasionally reminded that there may still be flaws in my thinking and reactions.

     The ax I bought is a beautiful tool with a smoothly curved and tapered handle; it’s heavy enough to swing overhead and let the momentum do most of the work. It came pre-sharpened and slices through wood like butter, if I hit the log right. I missed a lot of the time, swung at thin air, jerking and jumping out of the way of the deadly blade, but still, it was a good half hour workout and I felt manly and outdoorsy when I was finished. Now I have a big pile of wood in varying sizes that will fit the fireplace. Success and health. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

     I thought about leaving my new ax outside, near the woodpile, but instead I’ve put it right next to the front door in the foyer, leaning against the wall. I can’t imagine using it for anything other than chopping wood, but you never know.

The Secret Answers to Life

I was having a pretty good morning until I started eavesdropping on the conversation at the table next to me at the coffee shop. There were several earnest men and women whispering about…The Secret… What the (bleep) do We Know…. Zeitgeist, those fakey science concept videos that were floating around a few years ago where men and women with good skin and white teeth who used to sell car wax and household cleaning products on infomercials were offering a method or video or book or board game that would give you enlightenment and success and money. Who the fuck are these people who offer a Higher state of being or transformation, God consciousness, energy, enlightenment, infinite healing, psychic, Soul, Spirit, Goddess, heart, light, Love, divine peace, serenity, Bigfoot, UFOs?

There are jillions of healers, ministers, priests, shamans, psychics, fortunetellers, magicians, guides, gurus and astrologers, the list goes on, so many people who are trying to convince me that they have a closer connection to the impossible and the ridiculous. Bullshit. They aren’t a more elevated species. There’s not like Humans (I) and Humans (II). These liars offer made up, inaccurate answers to insecure, sad, undereducated dimwits and there are no measurable results and no evidence that they do any good whatsoever. 

On the other hand, I’ve spent 30 years and hundreds of thousands of dollars of my own money to discover the Secret Answers to Life.

I can make you happy. Guaranteed. I will pass on ancient wisdom that I have discovered in my life’s journey to make you glad to be alive and brimming with self-esteem. Are you depressed? That’s a fucking shame. Are you sad about a divorce, or are you mourning the death of a loved one? I am so sorry. You have my deepest sympathies. Let’s cheer up together. I will show you a surefire way to move beyond sadness and depression. Do you feel as though you’re not reaching your full potential as an Artist or a Writer? Well, that’s no good, is it? No problem. I promise that I can make you a better artist, a more successful writer.  I know this is real, because I invented it. The Secret Answers to Life. All it takes is money. Act now to get your Secret Answers. One hundred dollars will get you one secret answer. A thousand bucks buys 12. And remember, Secret Answers make wonderful gifts.

I’ll give you a Secret Answer right now, for free: Trust your instincts. Unless you’re drunk. Then don’t trust your instincts. Want another? Sure, no problem. If someone tells you they have a way for you to gain insight into the future, achieve success in a relationship, become financially independent, they are full of crap and will rip you off and disappoint you.

I’ve worked out a sliding scale so that everyone, no matter how limited their resources, can achieve universal enlightenment and personal satisfaction. You need the Secret Answer. From me. Reasonably priced.

You’re welcome.

More About Freedom

   

More about Freedom

I’ve just returned from a trip Wyoming, which has the most beautiful landscapes on earth: mountains, rivers, forests, plains, wildlife, unending sky. Less wildlife these days, of course, due to human incursion, hunting, misuse of the environment. But still, some wildlife.

Plenty of people, too. Nice folks, I guess, but it’s hard to find a parking place but unless you walk a mile or so up the trail, there are crowds of other tourists enjoying the more convenient sites. This, naturally, makes me think about birth control. It’s your right to have a baby. Glory to god and all that but more people means less parking. No one is going to create a decent public transit system in the USA and we are going to continue depending on gas and oil for our energy. It’d be nice if everyone gave a shit, but they don’t. How can we have it all and keep the government off our back; keep them from limiting our freedom to breed and drive and still maintain ample parking?

Here are a few ideas:

Never quit smoking. Fuck the government and their nanny warnings. Smoking is fun and nicotine feels great.

Drink and Drive. What better way to get somewhere quickly? Driving is a drag; lighten the load with a pint of vodka.

The best drugs were invented in America for a reason. Be patriotic and take many drugs. Find new uses for narcotics.

Mix drugs and alcohol. If one is good, two are better. Just like kids.

Do not wear a motorcycle helmet. Live free. Ride free. Ride fast. Ride drunk.

Eat lots. You can get ten tacos for $9.90 at Taco Bell and a double quarter-pounder with cheese is only $4.69 at McDonald’s. Fast food, fast pleasure.

If you are in an abusive relationship, stay. If you leave you will be breaking up your family. You have a duty to the children.

Buy guns. Collect guns. Show your children where the guns are stored. You never know when the bad guys are coming.

Fight for your rights. Get in lots of fights with men who want to prove their manliness. Fight to the death if possible. Are you tough enough?

Suicide is a classically respected and honorable way to die. Consider it whenever you are confused or in trouble. Or out of money.

No one should restrict your freedom to do what you want. You deserve it all.

Remember to take crazy chances, walk down dark allies and argue with strangers.

I hope I’ve helped.

My Prayer

     Do you still believe in God? Really? Well good for you; must be nice and comforting. Am I right?

     I was raised Catholic, went to catholic schools, mass, the whole thing. The Catholic Church has taken a lot of crap in the past, and I’m not sure they deserve it. I was disciplined, disappointed and discouraged by the time I was 13 so I think my religious training was completely successful. The church helped make me into an angry, alcoholic cynic who is often crippled by self-doubt. Way to go, Religion. I can’t remember my own fucking phone number, but I remember prayers I learned as a toddler. Wow. Thanks for permanently occupying that part of my brain, the part I probably could have used to get laid more often but, Nope, it’s full of prayers.

I read the news every day. I probably shouldn’t, because after a half hour of Google, Christian Science Monitor and the San Francisco Chronicle I lean back and say, out loud, ”Man, I hate everything and everybody.” I become depressed and have scary thoughts.

     So, I’ve written a short prayer to help me get through those tough times of rage, anxiety and pessimism that occur whenever I attempt to understand the world. Here’s my prayer. You may join me if you wish.

     “Dear God, you little bastard, I pray that there actually is an afterlife and that you will be there in all your glory, because when I see you I am going to kick your cowardly, selfish, narcissistic ass. God, you sorry excuse for a deity, what made you think that racism, sexism, cruelty, bullying, tooth decay and venereal disease were things we really needed here on earth? You monster. You’d better hide behind wall of angels if you see me coming through the pearly gates because I am going to mess you up. If You are the all seeing, all knowing, loving, eternal, infinite and omnipotent dictator, then war, disease, starvation, torture, child abuse, Real Estate salesmen, wealthy entitled assholes, the Department of Homeland Security and the DMV are your creations and responsibility. You are doomed. Make your peace with your…self, I guess, because I’m coming for you and I’m not alone. That’s a promise, you evil, malicious weasel. Amen”.

     Feel better? Good. Me too.

A Message From Beyond the Grave

    

     I’m still getting my head around my mother’s death. I’m a little rocked, and that surprises me. It’s not like I wasn’t prepared. She was 96 years old, sharp and thriving up until the end and then she went to bed to die. Her choice. As usual. It was a relief for her and for the rest of us. We didn’t want to see her suffer; she didn’t, and that was good. It’s not the end of a life; it’s the end of an era.

     I heard the news from my sister on Friday, August 9. Chris called and told me that mom had died at 8:04 a.m. A rosary was planned for Monday evening and the funeral would be Tuesday morning followed by burial at Mt. Olivet Cemetery in San Rafael. I flew in from New Mexico on Saturday, befuddled by unique, once-in-a-lifetime feelings. I settled at the Embassy Suites, set up my computer, watched a few episodes of Family Guy, then went to my sister’s home where the rest of the immediate family was sorting through photographs and memorabilia of our mother. Momorabilia. There were lots of ancient photos of long gone relatives, letters, souvenirs, and holy cards she’d picked up at the many funerals she’d attended over the years. It was sad, sometimes absurd and we laughed a bit. We found a box of cheap costume jewelry and my brothers and I put on my mother’s gaudy earrings, wore them around the house for a while, deadpanned, pretending at seriousness.

     Sunday I met with some old friends, went to lunch in Tiburon, drove to the coast; I was trying to make an abnormal situation ordinary. I couldn’t do it. I was engaged in conversation, joking, listening, but there was something happening in my throat that restricted my breath.

     Monday night I parked in front of The Chapel of The Hills for the rosary and a bit of reminiscence with family and friends. My mother planned all this years ago; she was prepared. Unfortunately, the priest who mom had contracted to perform the prayers, her friend Father S, had been hospitalized that day and we had a substitute, a stand-in who didn’t know mom. The guy was dressed like a priest, but I heard him mention his “wife”. He was a deacon, I think. Apparently, they get to do all the priest stuff without the celibacy. But, wait, don’t priests already, um, have relations, arrested, molesting with the sex and the…? Never mind. Too complicated and confusing to get into right now. This man was licensed by the State of California and The Catholic Church to have legitimate, marital sex. Things are different since I quit religion.

     I was struck by a wave of grief during the procedures so I leaned against the pew and tried to check out and to keep a blank, unemotional demeanor. I snapped out of my trance when I heard the almost-priest mention that Jesus Christ had created the world, which was news to me, and my mom was with Him, looking down on us, very much strolling the clouds with God and enjoying her ample rewards. Shit. Here it comes. The waves of magic and mystery and myth that nearly drove me nuts as a kid. The only part that made sense was that mom was probably looking down on us. She was exasperating in her conviction that she was “right” about God, the church, her beliefs, her afterlife.

     After the prayers and the free form, inaccurate and slightly embarrassing religious oration by Deacon Strange, I visited with the attendees, slipped away and bought a burrito on the way back to the hotel. I watched some horror videos, became depressed and switched to Michael Connelly’s latest until I hit the hay.

     Tuesday morning we held the funeral at Nazareth House, where my mother had spent the last ten years of her life, and, of course, my mother requested a catholic mass, with an incredible amount of hymns. A woman with a serviceable voice and wide-eyed, intimidating facial expressions warbled the sacred songs. I felt guilty just looking at her. It had been a long time since I’d been in a church for any kind of ceremony.

     I was asked to write and read a eulogy. Half way through the service I stood, walked to the pulpit and delivered it in a faltering voice, which caught me unawares. I tried to make the eulogy appropriate and positive and respectfully left out any personal thoughts or statements. It was about mom’s life, not my feelings. I have to say, it worked. I stood in front of the mourners and lobbed little grenades of sadness into the crowd, explosions of emotion that went off like clockwork; bursts of tears, hands clutching, backs patted, the sound of sobbing.

      The mass has changed, too, since I’ve stopped caring. Everyone plays a part. It’s “inclusive”, which means that everyone is almost equal and, I guess, no altar boys are assaulted during the preparations. There were three priests on the altar, which was a lot, in my opinion. The time for Communion, the sacrament of the Eucharist, rolled around and everyone, and I mean everyone, queued up to receive the little round slip of unleavened bread. I sat in the front pew and most of the faithful averted their eyes as they passed me. My brothers, my sister, my nieces and nephews, strangers and at least two homeless guys lined up to partake. In the old days, as a youngster, I had been severely threatened and corporeally indoctrinated into Roman Catholicism, the host, the bread, Jesus’ body and blood in one package was considered highly sacred, a living, breathing, radioactive representation of Him. The priest was the only human designated to touch the Host and, in the old days, it couldn’t touch your teeth, it had to dissolve in you mouth and you had to pray like a bastard while it existed, melting and dissolving in the middle of the tongue. Lots to think about, many distractions, hard work.

     Nowadays, the celebrants hold out their cupped hands like they’re begging for real food, and the priest drops it in. They then pick it up and put it in their mouths and CHEW it and swallow it. Like it tastes good, yummy, like medicine, like dessert. They munch it; you can see everyone’s jaw muscles contracting and their teeth grinding.

One older woman, her hands shaking, dropped hers on the ground. ON THE GROUND. What the fuck? I thought they’d send in the goons to sweep her away, drag her off to be tortured, flayed and burned. Nope. She bent and picked it up (spry for her age), plopped it in her mouth and gulped it down. Wow. Much different than when I was a frightened, intimidated youngster.

     My mother made sure that we were brought up in the Old Catholic Church, the one where women were slaves, priests were kings and anyone who wasn’t of our faith was condemned. The Church’s product was fear and we were not even allowed to enter another denomination’s building. So it was sort of disorienting to see all of this modern behavior. Touching, talking, chewing. I hope it’s my last time, ever, in a church.

     Mom’s grave is nicely situated under a spreading oak tree on a grassy hill. She’s at rest next to my father with a couple of aunts and uncles nearby.

     At graveside, we listened, watched, some mumbled familiar prayers and then we got into our cars and headed out to enjoy a postmortem fest in my sister’s nice back yard. Good Italian meats, cheeses, wines, and sodas, fresh fruit, cheesecake and cookies. Great food. As I was biting into my first Mortadella sandwich my sister handed me an envelope.

     “Here you go, Joe. This is a letter from mom. She wanted me to give it to you after the funeral.”

     WHAT! WHAT! Fuck. Goddamn it. Not cool. Unfair. Totally unfair. A voice from the grave? A message from beyond? Wow. I was wiped out. Not only had I suffered with the rest of the family through mom’s last days, her death, the frigging rosary and mass and religious oddities, not only did I weep and write a great eulogy, leaving out all the bad stuff, all the negatives, not only was I alone and confused and considering, of course, my own impending certain death. Now there was this little bonus, a surprise, an Easter egg at the end of the day. A letter from mom from the aftergoddamnlife.

     Fuck.

     I put the envelope in my pocket, finished my sandwich, had another, finished off with two pieces of cheesecake. On the way back to the hotel room I stopped off first to buy some potato chips, what the hell, gonna die, have to read a message from beyond, might as well distract myself with food, make myself sick, eating my way past the grave. Better than a quart of tequila or a couple grams of coke. Like the church, I’ve changed, too.  I’m better, healthier, looking forward to a long life. Just as long as there are no mystical, horrifying afterlife memos from mom in heaven.

     What will it say?

     Will there be revelations?

     How will I feel after I’ve read her letter?

     Should I throw it away and continue my mourning?

     Why did I stop drinking tequila?

     Shit.

     So, I read the letter.

     The first thing I noticed is that it was a Xerox copy. I didn’t even have the original; it was a copy. Apparently, she made sure that others had received this important document. My brothers and sister must have copies, strangers and friends, too. Is this going to turn into some episode from “LOST”? It damn well better, because there aren’t a lot of legitimate explanations for delivering a letter to loved ones and family, requesting that it be opened and read after the writer’s death. I can only think of three reasons:

1.     A treasure map. That would make me happy. My mother knew of a buried treasure, a secret closet, a hidden account that is designated for me alone and now I am wealthy beyond my dreams and all will be easy and luxurious from here on. Gee, how I love my mom.

2.     She wanted to tell me that I was her favorite child. I had given her great joy and she is sorry for anything she had ever done to upset, hurt, confuse or anger me. She regrets not giving me more attention and guidance. Well, that’s very nice, very mature.

3.     She had written this letter to inform me that she always hated me, thought I was a tool, needy and weak. She acted as though she cared about my little triumphs and she tried to empathize with my misery, but she just didn’t like me very much. In her eyes, I am a failure. Shit. Well, it’s not a treasure map, but at least it’s honest.

     The actual letter is much different than any of that. It is sensitive and stilted, with an undertone of fear and at the same time an attempt to convince the reader of mom’s spiritual evolution and deep devotion to the church, God, all of it. All of it. I wish she hadn’t written the letter, and I wish I hadn’t gotten a copy. But I could never influence or control my mother. She was stubborn and opinionated and amazing and infuriating. Death comes, life ends, people should do what they want and not hurt each other. 

     I do know this: If you have something to say, say it while you’re alive. Do not try to communicate from the hereafter. Life isn’t a movie. Avoid mysticism and spiritual confusion. Just tell them. Make it easy and don’t sweat it. Just say it and move on. There may be consequences but speak up and say what you have to say. Tell everyone.

     Unless you have a treasure map.

Life Coaching - Part 1

    

     Are you disappointed in the direction your life has taken? Most people are. Most people should be. Perhaps you need…. A Life Coach. The term “Life Coach” was added to Webster’s dictionary in 2012 and is defined as an adviser who helps people make decisions, set and reach goals or deal with problems. Umm, OK.

     I know people who say they’re “certified” Life Coaches. Who the fuck certified them? The Life Coach Institute, I guess. The University of Bullshit. I mean what school offers courses in advice-giving and decision-making. Dealing with problems? Really?

     Here’s some advice. A bit of coaching from me. Be Careful. Life Coaches are a dime a dozen, coming outta the woodwork these days and many of the ones I know can’t maintain healthy relationships, are marginally employed, complain a lot but at the same time claim to be spiritual, godly, tuned into the universe, part of the cosmic ooze. Pretty much better and more enlightened than you. Because, I guess, they’ve had training and are certified. They use the word “heart” a lot. Heart’s desire, getting in touch with your heart, heart consciousness, whatever the hell that is. I used to have cardiac arrhythmia when I smoked. Is that heart consciousness?

     A friend who is a Life Coach recently posted an update on her website that I found curious. “You can make your dreams come true.” And, of course, She can help. For a fee. Make your dreams come true. How?

     Like, if you want it enough, it will happen. I hear that a lot, too. If you want something badly enough, you can get it. You can have success and prosperity.

     Wow. Do you really even want your dreams to come true? Do you remember your dreams?

     No, thank you.

     In the last dream I had, I was drunk as hell, it was Christmas and I was beating the shit out of my uncle Louie. It was a pretty goddamned wonderful dream. I woke up clear-headed and felt terrific. Fulfilled. Successful. Then I remembered that my uncle Louie, who was a total asshole, violent, psychotic and ignorant, had been dead for twenty years so there was no way that my dream could become a reality. Within a few minutes of awakening I went from feeling terrific, pounding the hell out of my uncle Louie, to being disappointed and depressed because it would never become true.

     I guess I’m a Life Coach. Really. I’m full of advice and I can help you make a decision. Apparently, that’s all the requirement to become certified. Here’s some advice for free, right now. If you are with a bunch of people in a car and you can’t figure out whether to go Right or Left and the passengers are arguing and bitching…. Go right. If you’re wrong, for Chrissakes turn around and go the other way. See, helpful advice. Life Coaching. You’re welcome.

Just Sayin

Hey, you look like crap this morning. Just Sayin.

Facebook is fascinating. I have over three hundred friends on Facebook. I know, I know, you have 1115, and you have 3000 and you have 750 and you feel fucking great about yourselves. I’m happy for you. I have over three hundred friends, I don’t even know most of them, wouldn’t recognize a lot of them if I sat next to them in a bar and don’t even like them. How do I know I don’t like them? By their posts. Sure, it’s an easy way to assess whether you’ve made a mistake in choosing these social network parasites as your friends. And the tipoff? What really convinces me that I’ve “friended” the wrong people.

 They use the phrase, “Just Sayin” when they write something.

The fuck does it mean? Why use it? Don’t you have the courage of your convictions? Afraid you might lose “friends”?

Hey, you sure look fat in your picture, just sayin.

Sorry you have aids, but you should have worn a rubber, just sayin

Man, your mother is really ugly, and so is your daughter, just sayin.

Just Sayin is Facebookspeak for:

I’m not really sure what I’m talking about, I don’t want to be pinned down, I have no real opinions, you’ve heard this before, I’m tricking you into thinking I give a shit, you’ll never know my true feelings, I can be a total asshole and still distance myself from whatever I write, I’m so evolved that I toss out unclear, judgmental or abstract statements and move on to the next incoherent, illiterate post, I’ve never had an original idea, I have trouble thinking, I’m insecure, cowardly, over weight, laid back, blasé, please don’t take me seriously, I’m a fraud, a fake, a fuckup, too scared or ignorant to back up my viewpoint, I’m codependent, needy, self-loathing with good reason, probably drunk, no one pays attention to me, I have never been laid, was a crappy student, I irritate everyone and I’m despised by most of my friends and I wear sunglasses in my profile picture. LOL. Just Sayin.

Bedridden and Bored

     Aging is, for the most part, unavoidable. If you’re six you’ll be twelve. Twenty becomes forty faster than you can imagine; forty to sixty takes about five years. Seventy-five, eighty, old, old, old, old.

     My mother is ninety-six and getting better. She had a bad scare, undefined symptoms, worried, and lost her appetite. My capable sister worked hard, loved, cared, monitored and reported. A difficult job that she pulled off brilliantly. She called in Hospice and we were preparing for The End. Now, a couple months later, mom looks good and sounds sharp. I’m glad. Her friends and the nurses at her residence say she looks better than ever.

     “They say I look better than I’ve ever looked and I feel worse than I’ve ever felt.”

     She has not lost any cognitive abilities. She’s a retired head nurse, a controlling, smart, resourceful woman and she is alive and well and kind of pissed.

     Of course, I don't want her to suffer. The Big Fear. The last years will be spent suffering. She’s not really sick; no diabetes, no cancer. She’s gotten old. Her eyes are bad so she can’t read. I’d kill myself, but she’s found that classical music is a good way to pass the time and she’s considering books on tape. She’s said that she can’t listen to stories because she can’t concentrate. I guess once the senses begin to fade, the ones that remain become vital and can sustain an individual. When I was visiting her a couple months ago, she was complaining about her eyes and I asked if she could hear.

     “Oh, God, yes. I hear everything. Too much, I think.”

     That was cool. She’s using a walker, her appetite still hasn’t returned, senses of touch and smell are probably all right but not terribly important at her age. Born in 1917, she saw damn near the whole 20^th century, the wars, Depression, the joy and misery and changes, inventions and political upheaval. She was a good watercolor artist, but has given away her paints. She is computer literate, used her computer all day, played games, and wrote emails and studied the News. Now it’s the early 21^st century, she’s still going, but not as strong, not as mobile, no painting, no computer for diversion.

     But she can hear. She said that I should record books on tape because I have a good voice. 

     What would I record? Should I record something for her? What? "War and Peace"? I don’t think either of us have the time for that. I personally love the writing of Henry James but I’d probably speed her termination if I inflicted his convoluted, multi-clause, labyrinthine sentences on her. Not “light” or “popular” books, either. She’s always been mature and never dug children’s books. She never read to us when we were kids. I learned to read and was on my own. I read comics, science fiction, mysteries, and even a few confusing soft-porn stories from so-called men's mags. I don’t remember mom censoring anything; she didn’t care. I think she considered herself lucky that I was a voracious reader and never bothered her to “read me a story”.

     It’s ironic that now, late in her life and pretty late in my own, she’s telling me that I have a good telephone voice and should record books on tape. So she could listen? To me? Reading to her?

     It’s all too weird.

     What would I record for my mother to listen to, now that she spends so much time in bed, bored, frustrated with long life, losing her sensory apparatus? What stories? My favorites?

     Kerouac. Such a big heart; a tragic daring writer with great soul.

     Faulkner. Complex southern family dysfunction perfectly rendered.

     Virginia Woolf. Magnificent stylist, feminist, depressive genius.

     Hemingway. The great, manly, damaged alcoholic understated adventurer.

     Do young people ever think, “When I’m old as hell, really old, unable to do much, to do anything, paralyzed, alone, blind, can’t speak, I wonder if I'll be lucky enough to hear? What would I want to hear? The shitty music I listen to now? Nah. New music? Classical? Jazz? Latin? Opera? It would probably confuse my old brain. I guess I could listen to Tupac and Phish and The Beatles and JLo and the Justins and other popular crap for the duration of my bedridden Golden Years. Might get boring, though. All day, every day.”

     Literature.  Perfect. That’s the ticket. Nodding off, fading in and out of consciousness, dying to books and stories full of complicated tales of characters in crisis, people solving problems, dealing with disasters, unraveling mysteries and resolving conflict. Chekhov. Cheever. Mansfield. Munro.

     Bedridden, tuned into an iPod or CD player, I'm waiting for the nurse to come in and switch the program, change my I.V., feed me, powder me, turn me.

     “Jeez, all you ever listen to is that highbrow stuff, sweetie. I’ve brought you something new. Here you go, let me plug you in. It’s called ‘Eat, Pray, Love’. It changed my life.”

     Damn, I’ve just scared the shit out of myself again.

Why I Hate The Oldies

There’s another “Oldies” station in town with a pretty good playlist of nostalgia from the fifties, sixties and seventies. In the morning they play The Beach Boys, Ronnie and the Daytonas, Jan and Dean. American West Coast Beach Tunes to start your day. They’re also rotating plenty of British Invasion, Psychedelic and Rock Anthems. All of it is familiar and moderately enjoyable. Of course, there are a few duds, but generally the music is a way to endure the six-mile drive into town. Oldies.

I fucking hate Oldies Music. Nostalgia and Sentiment are stalkers, killers and thieves that lie dormant in my cerebral database, waiting for me to let down my guard, watching as I tap out the beat on the steering wheel and (god help me) sing along while trying to remember what I was doing, who I was with; suddenly it’s 1962, 1967, 1975 and I’m craving beer and I’m driving too fast. There are girl groups wailing about a sick, enmeshed, dangerous love for some greasy dirtbag. DooWop music and young men singing perfect harmonies, vocalizing illiterate sounds (dit dit dit, mumm, mumm, mumm) to fill space between the stupidity, women-fear and codependence.  Plenty of talent, but limited subject matter. Love, loss, sadness, anger; repeat.

I try not to get hooked but from the first Chord of “She Loves You” I’m back in Fairfax, California, watching the Ed Sullivan Show, sitting next to my girlfriend, my hand creeping into her unbuttoned blouse.

The insistent bass line from “My Little Red Book” by Arthur Lee and Love; I’m digging in the glove compartment for a half finished bottle of Canadian Club, driving my wasted ragtop Corvair deep into Oakland to take LSD for the first time.

I listened to the radio all night at Long’s Drugstore where I worked as a janitor during an unusually hot Northern California Summer while I waited for college to start, again, after I’d flunked out. Again

The bar, Jean’s Bit o’ Bohemia, closed at 2 a.m. and I pulled up in front of the store a few minutes later. I fumbled an alien key into the complicated security lock and tried to get inside the store within the allotted time. If the door was opened for more than 2 minutes a siren went off and lights would flash until the cops showed up. This was to prevent theft, but it also made it difficult for a doped up, half drunk janitor to get to work.

Work. On the Lob. Earning my Living. When I finally got the goddamn door closed and heard the lock snap into place, the first thing I did was patrol the store to make sure I was alone and that there weren’t any ambitious stragglers.

Long’s Drugs was a full service outlet, but there were some areas that were definitely off limits. The Pharmacy, for one. Locked, coded, seriously alarmed. No way. Expensive fountain pens and jewelry, rubbers, power tools were also under heavy lock and key.

 Once satisfied that I had the kingdom to myself, I hit the cooler. Coke, Wine, and Beer inventories were strictly controlled. The only thing they couldn’t keep track of, due to daily theft by alcoholic senior citizens and high school kids, were the crappy canned cocktails. Mai Tais, Pina Coladas, Martinis and Manhattans. They were like novelty items and not designed for people who drink. The stubby little cans of sweetened mixers had only about 30 percent alcohol, but I knew from eavesdropping on administrative conversations that they were nearly impossible to keep track of. I grabbed a half dozen, took them to the back of the store, arranged them on a shelf.

Next I found a comfy poolside lounge chair. I set it up in the Women’s Break Room. The women had their own break room and I thought this was unfair so I used it as my private space, my nightly vacation accommodations. In the interest of fairness and gender equality.

I’d grab a Science Fiction novel off of the book display, Theodore Sturgeon or Alfred Bester. The Sunlamps were boxed and neatly arranged on the Health and Hygiene aisle. I carefully arranged one over my recliner in the woman’s lounge, turned the artificial sunlight to “Low” for a nice bronze, then I’d strip and pop open a canned Martini. Wretched, but cool and alcoholic. Finally, naked, I’d power up one of the stereo systems in the Home Entertainment section and lie down for the first half of my shift.

The station in San Francisco that played the best music was KMPX. Hendrix, The Who, The Doors, Airplane, 10 Years After. Not Oldies, either. Then it was all New music, music no one had ever heard before, not nostalgia but groundbreaking, world changing stuff, shattering reality and illusions, great guitars, intelligent lyrics, really long drum solos; poetry, politics and pain.

A few hours later, toasted, coming down off of too many chemical cocktails, I’d spring out of my reverie, dress, put away the lounge chair and sunlamp, toss my empties in the trash compactor, return the books to the rack. Arnie, asskisser and over achieving Assistant Manager, showed up around 7 a.m. so I made sure to be fully clothed and busily emptying ashtrays and mopping floors, toting garbage and washing windows. He’d grunt, “Hello”, check the store for cleanliness, eye me with suspicion and lock himself in his office until the store’s ten o’clock opening, at which time I would punch out and go home, exhausted, to try and sleep in 100 degree heat, miserable, sporadically unconscious throughout the day, missing sun, fun, movies, drive-ins, my buddies and my girlfriend. All the stuff that I keep hearing on the goddamned Oldies station. Things others were doing while I goldbricked at Longs and later tossed and turned in a hot room, awake, sweaty, sick.

Today I listen to Avant Garde Jazz, 20^th Century Contemporary, and Nouveau Soul. Modern music. Newies, with no history. I don’t want to be reminded of the good old days of bad jobs, confusion, heartbreak and hangovers and all of the horrible good times that I never experienced. I hate the “Oldies”; memories of an unpleasant summer and another shitty job. I maintained a pretty good tan, though, for a guy who worked nights and slept all day.

Let's Get High

     Twenty-five years ago I worked in an overpopulated, violent, Level 4 maximum-security penitentiary. Two inmates were painting the office next to mine and I clearly overheard their conversation. One guy was African-American, the other white, both had lots of gang tattoos and were pumped from lifting weights, but they were working well together and discussing the nature of politics in the U.S.

     Inmate 1: Oh Man, I miss Oakland.

     Inmate 2: Yeah, Oakland a fine place, ‘cept for all the violence and shit.

     Inmate 1: All them families, kids and old people and stuff. Shit.

     Inmate 2: It’s still a good city, but it’s goin’ to hell fast.

     Inmate 1: That’s Nixon’s fault. He’s fucking everything up.

     Inmate 2: True. Nixon gonna push that button someday and fuck up the whole world.

     Inmate 1: Yep. Pretty soon, the whole world gonna look like Oakland, California.

     Nixon? This was in 1987 and Nixon had been out of office for over twelve years, but for those two convicts Nixon served as a metaphor for all government; uninformed, sneaky, vindictive, stubborn, dangerous and disinterested in their welfare.  In 1972, during the Watergate Scandal, the President and his cabinet were exposed for the venal pricks and liars that they really were and we’ve never recovered. Even the most virulently committed party members will say, around election time, that they don’t trust their candidates. I decided that I liked the idea of using the ugly word, Nixon, to describe the most arrogant and threatening elements of government.

      It seems that, lately, everyone has a Medical Marijuana Card. It’s cool. They’re in pain, disabled, undergoing chemotherapy or simply finding it harder to manage day-to-day existence. Me too; I get it. Life is complicated and sometimes I’d like a little bump, some external assistance, a few hours of benign intoxication. I’ve been have The Card for knee pain, anxiety, nausea, recreation. The dope came in the form of regular smoke or tincture of THC and I didn’t notice any change in their demeanor during the visits; no somnolence, rage, disappearing food or broken furniture. These are the things that I used to experience when I smoked dope. I may not be wired for marijuana.

     The battle continues among local, state and federal government about whom, exactly, has jurisdiction over the Marijuana Clinics. The legal businesses can still be busted by the feds, and often are. The DEA is active, well funded, intractable, and the War on Drugs continues in the same way that the Vietnam War was prolonged under Nixon until, as a nation, we realized that it was a no-win demoralizing money pit; the President resigned, his aids were arrested, the USA was embarrassed and degraded. Black eyes and missing teeth.

     Americans have learned that weed probably has medical benefits and isn’t dangerous, doesn’t cause outbreaks of aggression, but for some reason a lot of the voters still think that the feds should control the drug and keep us in line with arrests and fines and imprisonment. It’s all a little schizy and I figure I should get The Card now before Nixon closes down all the clinics.

      A lot of my friends, people in their fifties, sixties and older, have gained access to “legal” marijuana. They have The Card and smoke, drink, eat a bit of cannabis in the evening, around nine o’clock. Get a little high, listen to music, read, watch some Netflix. They’re not getting toasted and driving around at 10 in the morning diddling with their CD players and giggling, blocking the drive-thru windows. They stay home and are trying to have a good night’s sleep. Sounds pretty damned civilized. I could get into that. Again.

     Except that was never the way marijuana worked in my life. For me dope leads to brandy which leads to narcotics which leads to cocaine which leads to infidelity, theft and shouting, spitting, angry traffic incidents. Every goddamn time, unless I’m bedridden, and I can still create remote disturbances as long as I have access to a telephone. It’s been proven time and again. Jesus, could it be that I’m not a good candidate for The Card?

     I don’t use intoxicants any longer because the above-mentioned behavior became too hard to manage. So I stopped. I watch other people, though, relations and acquaintances, and I am envious of their ability to get high and not offend anyone. Perhaps I’ve changed. Sure; I should get The Card. I’m aging and there are plenty of legitimate symptoms: back pain, vertigo, diverticulitis, financial anxiety, nausea, hair loss, external referral, creative self doubt, clumsy social interactions. Maybe now I can handle a little smoke in the evening without raging at the neighbors. No more yielding to the urge to instruct and educate others. Screw them. I’ll be loaded and if someone abuses my high I’ll bet I’ve changed enough so that I can deal and stay cool. Serene and modern drug use. Evolved. I will use marijuana and become transcendent, deeply moved by the music I’m hearing, the books I’m reading. I’ll be relieved of pain and I’ll sleep well. Perhaps I can avoid the frozen dairy products aisle at the grocery store. Smoke weed, calm down, and take off a few pounds. That’s it. The new approach to dope as a helpful, life affirming substance instead of my old “stoner” model where paranoia, indolence, weight gain and morbid thoughts followed the first joint. Possible. I always thought that if they gave every criminal in the country two ounces of decent pot and all the Haagen Dazs they could eat there would be no more violence, gang wars, assaults. Bad guys would all weigh three hundred pounds and sleep 20 hours a day.

       I should get The Card whether I use it or not, so that I’m prepared for the future. Because it’s possible for Nixon to push the button and then the whole world will look like Oakland, California.

The Poet of Indolence

      

   

     When Carlo Castorelli died in 1983, few people remembered that he had been universally acknowledged as the world acclaimed “Poet of Indolence”. Born in 1916 in Tamalpa, California to an Italian father and an American mother, he lived a relatively obscure life until he reached puberty sometime in the second week of November 1928. He was in the bath, which is not an unusual place to experience such a significant occurrence. Unlike most boys his age, however, Carlo did not linger after his discovery, ruminating and questioning the event. Instead, he writes in his journal, “I stood up from the tepid water, wrapped a towel around my then slim waist, and dashed to my desk. I scribbled the first thoughts that came to mind and they needed no editing. The result was my first ode, 'Oh, My Foot'.” The poem was included in the Spring 1929 edition of Arden Wood Magazine and clearly indicates the direction in which the young wordsmith was headed.

Oh, My Foot

My foot, my right foot

It is beautiful beyond belief, and

More lovely than all other feet

I soak it until the skin is pink

And soft and

Then trim the perfect nails that punctuate each

Similar yet varied digit, a quintet of flexible flawless fantasy,

The final extensions of my sacred self, forward facing and

Perpetually prepared, balanced, they

Splash and flicker in warm water

I massage the heel

Gently

Making small circles

With a rough cloth.

When I am finished my fine foot

Is opaline, pearly

It catches light with a creamy

Iridescence as I turn it this way

And that.

My other foot

Is a bastard and not worth the sock

I regretfully pull over it each morning.

But I must. For the sake of symmetry.

      A Whitman-esque celebration of self is apparent in this youthful paean but within the short, brilliant poem, Castorelli also sets the tone for a life of personal praise, individual appreciation and a complete disregard of all others; he created a new form of poetic expression and selfish imagery. When he was refused the Nobel Prize because, as one member of the committee stated, “Castorelli is a despicable little runt. His poetry is wonderful, even deserving of the Prize, but all members of the commission have gone on record and stated that they cannot be in the same room with him. He poisons the air and pollutes the intellectual discourse with his constant referrals to his proportions and his wheedling requests.”

      Devotees will be delighted to learn that there is a movement afoot to award a posthumous Nobel Prize for Poetry to Castorelli, a man whom Ernest Hemingway once called, “The only one of us with the Goddamn guts to truly love himself. If I were him I would die from sheer delight.” Great praise, indeed.

      It is that final line of the above poem, though, the resigned and mawkish, “But I must,” that has captivated critics and scholars for decades. What did Castorelli mean? What, or who, was pressuring him to give equal attention to his other foot, a foot that he so clearly despised? Why was symmetry important? How did a young inexperienced boy, only slightly past his twelfth birthday, achieve such unmistakable poetic sophistication? And why did young Carlo disappear between the years 1938 and 1941? Where did he go? Who was the “Blue Woman”? I hope to address these questions and more in my critical biography, “My Wonderful Extremities: The Secret Life of Carlo Castorelli, The Poet of Indolence.” Look for it on Amazon this Fall.