Wednesday, December 30, 2015

No, I Am Not a Priest







This morning I was standing in a parking lot talking to a friend when a guy came up to me and asked, “Are you a priest?”
The fuck?
In his defense, he’s one of the dudes who lives in the park and it was pretty early and he was highly trashed, but still: “Are you a priest?”
I told him, “No, man, I’m just an idiot like the rest of us.”
At that, the clown takes offense. He’s drunk, living in a box under a tree in the middle of winter and he takes offense at an off-the-cuff remark about how we are all equal and not too goddamned impressive. I was shocked. How could he disagree? All signs, especially in his squalid situation, pointed to the accuracy of my statement but I suppose dope and booze have reduced his cognitive aptitude.
I excused myself because I didn’t feel like getting into a fistfight. My back hurts. Plus, I had given him the impression, for just a second, that I was a priest and I didn’t want to disillusion him more than I already had.
At first, I admit, a small part of me was flattered. A new career as a soft spoken hustler of spiritual mysticism, the same blather that has proven to be a very profitable ego-boost to countless practitioners of all styles; Jim Jones, Joel Osteen, Tammy Faye Bakker, Joyce Meyer, Dalai Whatever, Pope Whomever, Rabbi Random?
The guy had no money and nothing to offer me, so I didn’t lead him on, but I can see how he made the mistake.
I was dressed in a long black coat and speaking to another man about junkies and how untrustworthy they are. The dialogue may have been misinterpreted from a distance and with a head full of distortion. I could have been offering pastoral counseling.
Also, I have a new, more conservative haircut. Parted on the left, combed back and to one side, shorter. A woman friend said it was “different”, looked good, but a little “disco”. I replied that I was preparing for the neo-Fascist takeover of America in the next election and I wanted to blend in, hence the haircut. She laughed because she knows my Anarchic-Nihilist-Absurdist-Atheist propensities.
The ruined resident of the city park was pretty aggressively boozed, so I didn’t tell him what I really think of priests, holy persons, gurus and religious leaders of all denominations. Oh, yep, sure, of course, some are well meaning and consider themselves harmless, but in my experience (significant) most spiritual specialists depend on and actually promote lack of critical thinking skills in their followers, their flock, in order to prop up the dissemination of fantasy, magical thinking and dangerous prejudice that the sacred have been dishing out to the profane for millennia. It’s a tried and true hustle aimed at the needy, the codependent and people who are arrogant enough to think that there is a god and it gives a shit about them, personally, their prayers, their good works, as if god is hovering above, ready to rescue them from all of their difficulties and troubles, if only they get the chanting or the incantation correct, in the right key, if they do enough good works, pray, read and disregard reality.
I probably look like a street drunk’s version of a priest. Well-fed dude in a long black coat with a slick haircut, pontificating to another about how fucked up people are.
I recoiled when I was asked if I’d experienced the calling, the vocation. I had a touch of acid reflux, felt my knees buckle and my teeth grind.
“Are you a priest?”
“Oh fuck you, hell no, you brain damaged waste of time, space, air, skin and clothing.”
But that would be unkind. I want to be left alone and an insulting response might encourage more interaction than I could manage so I didn’t get uppity or disparaging about his inebriated mistake.
And seriously, who can think “Priest” and not immediately follow with “Pedophile”? Word association. Trump/Fascist. Arab/Terrorist.
Who knows what kind of grudges people are carrying around and how an impaired consciousness will react to misinterpreted stimuli?
Jesus Christ, I guess I was lucky get out of it so easily. I can live to denigrate, belittle and criticize another day.
I may swap the overcoat for something more secular, though. Leather jacket. No use giving the wrong impression.
My New Year’s Resolution:
Thou shalt not lead them on. Unless there’s money in it.


Sunday, December 27, 2015

A Holiday Poem -- 2015



Taking a Bath -- December 26 2015 














 
The night after Christmas
Burned out and overspent
Relax in the peaceful bath
Seasoned with a lilac scent

It pops into my head
Like an impure thought
“What would I do
If I’d never get caught?”

Hypothetical of course
But I begin to think
The first thing I’d do
Have a couple of drinks

Pop a mix of pills
Some weed, a pile of coke
After all these years
I could really use a smoke

Then steal all I could
To fund my errant ways
Rip offs and robbery
Will occupy my days

Sex, why not sex?
No one would ever know;
Anyone at anytime
I’d have that sated glow

Every night I’d lie in bed
Make my vengeful lists
Who has bothered me
At whom I'm pissed

Yes, murder, absolutely
Without consideration
Slaughter of my enemies
A bloody termination

(Boundaries are important
But now I make the rules;
Lie and cheat and steal
And judge the tragic fools)

Free to carry on
And time do it right
Leave rubble in my wake
Forever out of sight

Immune to prosecution
Absolved of all my sins
Cleared of accusations
I will always win

Impure and vile thoughts
Of a secret psychopath
Drift through the steamy fog
While I’m soaking in the bath


Thursday, December 24, 2015

Our Annual End-of-Year Analysis






Christmas Eve, 2015. This is the week when I wonder what the hell happened; the year flashes by, I’m older, the world is different and it’s easy to become discouraged. If I don’t take a clear-eyed look at the recent past it is too easy to descend into despair.
This is my version of an annoying Christmas Letter; those mass-mailed updates from friends that cleverly and passively make me feel stupid, poor and uninformed.
They’ve been to Peru again, they have lost weight, they’re into yoga and crossfit and they run half marathons, act in local theater productions, they’ve adopted Syrian refugees, they breed horses, dogs, have been growing their own food, skydiving and investing well, buying boats, summer homes, learning sign language, changing agents, bragging about their kids who help the homeless and are graduating with honors from ivy-league colleges, are happily pregnant, have super jobs and visit every weekend. A Xeroxed page of family photos accompanies those goddamn letters; everyone appears fit, happy, well dressed, tanned, younger. Everything but halos. That arrogant, self-satisfied, top 10 percent bullshit increases my incipient resentment. I’m older, more pessimistic and corrupted; they are not. How do they do that?
As each year terminates I notice the word “death” more often, in overheard conversations, in the news, in my inner monologue. I need to deliberately consider the preceding twelve months if I want to be realistic and move past doubt, dread and my default cynicism. It’s been a weird year and I have visions of perdition, expectations of increased suffering, imminent doom and worldwide collapse. I fear I may not complete another week, so I’m composing my year-end evaluation right now, while I still have time.
Also, I want to get it done before the pain meds take effect and I become too…creative.
This isn’t an uncommon, end of the world narrative, either. It’s not at all uncommon. I’ve felt this way most years, comparing myself to others, measuring, adding up, dissecting, calculating. Personal honesty has been mysterious and elusive and 20 years ago I was miserable without recourse. I became sober and learned that self evaluation and a sincere appraisal, writing down the days, the months, seeing what it looks like on paper, tangible and authentic as possible, is the best thing I can do to stay factual and grounded and prepare for the next episode.
It would be so easy to say, “This year sucks and there was nothing good about it.” Very easy. But absolutes (Nothing, Always, Never) are false. Experience is variable and events and occurrences are filtered through my own consciousness, which I control and can re-train.
The best way is to consider experiences chronologically.

I spent January and most of February living in Florence, Italy. Yeah. The start of the year was sweet. The land of my antecedents, my identity. I remembered a great deal of the Italian words and pronunciations I’d heard as a kid and reconnected with the beautiful language. I saw mind-blowing, life affirming art. I climbed to the top of the tower, the Torre di Arnolfo, of the Palazzo Vecchio, over 400 steep, narrow, uneven and irregular stairs.
I didn’t die.
I ate mussels and Tagliatelle and baked gnocchi, at Osteria Santo Spirito. Many memorable meals. I drank “miracle tea” with an Indian man and a depressed Italian.
Spring. There was rain and the drought we’ve experienced here in the Southwest was alleviated. I’ve learned to stand in the rain without cursing.
In May I was asked to participate in a public performance by a group of local writers. I stood on a stage in front of hundreds of people and read a short essay I’d written. I did well, and the reception was beyond my expectations. I received compliments on my work and, perhaps for the first time, I accepted graciously. I was confident, which is a rare and elusive feeling.
Summer. Hot dry days that are too long. Not my favorite time of year, but I wrote a book of poetry. I worry about poets; they may all be frauds. I can never tell if a poet is getting any better at the craft. So, to test myself, to put up or shut up, I wrote a book of 35 poems. Know what? It was a blast, some of the work is pretty good, and I decided that poetry is cool because it’s so much fun.
We went to Moab and saw Arches and Canyonlands and had a great short road trip. Later, in September, I flew to California, rented a Buick Lacrosse, a big assed comfortable gashog, and drove throughout the northern part of the state where I visited friends and family and well-known landscapes. There were bittersweet moments, some loneliness and sad memories, but I also spent time with Kate, Barbara, Armando, Terry, Roland, my brother Rich and his wife, my sister Chris and her family and my cool, beautiful grand-niece, Paige.
Ernie is my best friend from high school. He lives on the coast in Arcata, California, and we spent a day or two at the beach, bullshitting about our lives, aging, the old days. When we were fifteen we started a band, played gigs. Our history is insane, wild, and we remain brotherly. While I was there we played and sang songs that he and I wrote 30 years ago, and goddamn, they are really good songs.
The end of the year has been a mixed bag of health and horror. I’ve had neck and back pain all my life. Three surgeries, decades past. My spine lit up this year and discomfort has been moderate to severe, constant and restrictive. An unrelated annual doctor’s appointment turned into a blood sugar problem (that fucking pancreas), which led to a heart scan which indicated high (very high) levels of plaque and four compromised coronary arteries. A cardio stress test with radioactive dye followed. I burned through it and there is no blockage or narrowing. A good news clause attached to the death certificate. The doctor said, “We should repeat this test in 18 months.” Sure. Great. A chance to finish out the year. It's possible. Plan a trip to Paris.
An MRI of my spine shows the expected: crushed, degenerative, herniated, calcified disks, narrowed nerve passages, impingement, scoliosis, inflammation, bone spurs, deterioration. No wonder it hurts. Next? Another referral, cortisone shots, pain medications, perhaps surgery. During the MRI the doctor saw a “nodule” on my thyroid. A bump, a blip, a crappy little knob. Coming soon: more tests, scans, sonograms. Could be anything. Very common. Don’t worry.
Right. Fuck off, I’m worried.
Now, quick, I must balance health terror with good news.
Random positivism:
I purchased a twenty-dollar fountain pen that is amazing.
My old traveling jacket is finished, but I saw one in a magazine that looked good, tracked it down, bought it online and it fit perfectly. Sleeves were too long and my lovely friend Ariel altered them in a couple of hours. Miraculous.
Some good haircuts.
Before my back tweaked I hiked and ran in the forests high above my house. Paradise.
I have a recipe for Brussels sprouts that is brilliant. Is it possible to eat too many Brussels sprouts? Fuck em, I don’t care. They’re that good.
I’ve been writing my blog, “The Vagrant Cantos”, for three and a half years and I have almost 100 posts, nearly 100,000 words. I am consistent. That has not always been the case.
Water. I cannot stress the importance and benefits of drinking lots of water. Yeah, I get it, everyone already knows that, forever, but actually doing it? Man that is crazy. Water, it’s the new black.
Marcel Proust, Thomas Mann, Lydia Davis, Georges Perec.
Don Cherry, Ornette Coleman, Maria Schneider.
I spent several months watching French New Wave films and am addicted and inspired.
Last week I hooked in with some outstanding musicians and we played the blues all afternoon. My drumming was good. I dig deep the blues and it was a delight to play with Conrad, Jackson and Tad.
My wife, Sally, is a great woman, smart, talented, and I’m always happy at home. This is a very big deal.
It’s truly, finally, full-on winter and I love winter.
I might get a cat. Someday.
This year, like the others, was both complicated and common with moments of horror and joy. I’ve survived and hope I can write something similar in 2016.
A reminder:
Once a week, or as needed, I must recall:
In January, I climbed 416 steps to the top of the Torre di Arnolfo at the Palazzo Vecchio on a beautiful day in Florence, Italy.
I didn’t die.

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

A Christmas Confession





Mid-December and Christmas will be here in couple of weeks. I can manage.
It’s been a complicated few months this fall, blurry and tinged with anxiety. I spent much of September traveling, visiting, driving, far away from home. October was memorable for the medical distress and angst of potential diabetes, heart disease, weight, blood tests, medical appointments, chronic neck pain. In November it was Pneumonia or Bronchitis or Whooping Cough or Sinus Infection (no one diagnosed it the same way twice) and I wasted most of the month feeling like shit, drinking codeine cough syrup, waiting for death.
Now, December and I’m feeling cool and looking good (haircut, new glasses), doing my best to evade the holidays. I work out, watch the diet (lots of natural, home cooked, fresh foods); I’m relaxed and have reduced my justified anxiety. I take minimal pain med for the fucked up neck and back, have been watching great videos (Fargo, Ray Donovan), I’m reading Thomas Mann and Alice Munro; you know, digging my life, my wife, my home, my stuff, my world, writing, friends, coffee.
2015 has been an alright year; a couple trips to Italy, Utah, California but the days are passing faster than I can keep up. December frigging ninth? Slow it down, let me enjoy the final hours of the year, of my goddamned life, without the reminder that the end is much nearer this week than last and I’ll never get those days back.
I know that, all right? I’m clear on the concept of mortality, I just hate looking at the calendar and noticing that three days have passed. How the hell did that happen?
I’m a little touchy today. I’ve been drinking water. Too much water? Is that possible? I’m training myself to drink more H2O. They say it’s healthy. They. Yeah, I know, but lots of water is supposed to be good for hydration, energy, digestion, diet, full cognitive functions. They recommend at least five glasses a day. I’ve been chugging it for a week or so and, holy Christ, I admit it, I feel terrific. Body is working like a super-lubed machine and all systems are go, at maximum levels, in the green and bubbling with good will and verve. I may be a little over the top, though, high wired and liquid, ready for anything. Crime, big lies, active participation in the dark side.

I stole a rubber glove at the doctor’s office. I was in for a referral for the on-going neck pain and I stole a rubber glove. I always steal something at the doctor’s; a tongue depressor, an alcohol swab. Once I took some liquid cocaine but that was a long time ago and well planned with an accomplice. Last week, while waiting for the overworked doc, I glanced around the room for something close at hand and unlocked. Saline? Bandages? A blood pressure cuff? I’m trying to cut back on possessions and even though it would feel good to cop a big piece of medical equipment, I have no use for it. It’s not like I’m practicing medicine any more. Now I’m just an aging guy who is waiting in the doctor’s office for the scolding-scary health dialogue to begin. Lose weight, no sugar, join a gym, wear a seat belt.
A box of rubber gloves on the counter so I reached in and plucked one out. Why didn’t I take two? Don’t know, but I snagged one and felt satisfied. A noticeable improvement. As I put it in my pocket, the doctor swung open the door and began reading his list of demands and an alarming litany of threats.
Actually, the rubber glove was not rubber. It was vinyl. A pearly vinyl, off white, ivory, that becomes pinkish when I insert my hand.
The previous day I had been at the dentist’s. I plan all my appointments that have the potential for life changing news or require special seating as close as possible to each other. It’s an old habit. Doctor, Dentist, Ophthalmologist, Haircut. The new dental technician was distant and quiet, perfect, and she cleaned, polished and examined my teeth. During the procedure she wore baby-blue vinyl gloves and when she reached into my mouth, touched my gums, tongue, and chin, her hands slipped over the fleshy surfaces, clean, smooth and soothing.
Am I the first person to admit that I’ve developed a vinyl fetish in my later years?
Well, tough shit, that’s what happened. I didn’t get aroused in the Dentist’s chair, of course, but the vinyl was delightful, a treat. I opened wide. We were polite, well mannered, and bid each other goodbye while maintaining a professional client/practitioner relationship.
I kept thinking about the glove, so when the opportunity presented itself the next day at the doctor's I jumped at it.

I have no idea what I’m going to do with my new glove. It’s in my pocket right now as I sit yattering across the keyboard. I finger it and am reassured.
I’ll probably throw it away. Give it to a homeless person or put it under the Christmas tree at the Chinese restaurant. A Christmas gift, a present.
I might keep it, though.
As gun owners say, when asked, “Why do you need a frigging gun? Why do you think you always need to be armed?”
Their answer is, “Well, you never know.”

Meanwhile, I’m hydrated and energetic, happy and fulfilled and ready for anything. Even Christmas. I like the darkening days, long nights, cold weather, a functional vehicle, plenty of underwear and socks, roasted Brussels sprouts; it’s a decent existence. Nice views, clean water, clear air.
The world situation sucks but it always sucks. I can’t change that. I detach, fantasize, write down my ideas, stories, poems, essays, make lists of names of impossible, unwritten books and characters and wait for opportunities to arise.
I drink lots of water.
And I have a rubber glove in my pocket. 
You never know.

Friday, December 4, 2015

Respectfully, Talk is Cheap






Yep, they were Muslims who had become radicalized. I don’t like or respect Muslims any more than I do Christians, but these were Muslims. Of course, they were not representative of all Muslims; we have to say that because it’s probably true and we have to say it. Certainly, any religion can be a precursor to intense violence, but the real crazies (not just those needy sad people who want to be saved, rescued, win the lotto, but the real nutcases) are a problem in every religion. Right? I mean, if you read the news, there are some dangerous disciples out there.
And, yes, it’s real, absolutely, I’ve seen it, the “good” Christians and Muslims are denouncing the assholes. Denouncing the hell outta them. As they should. Thank you for that. Seriously. Grateful that you are taking a stand against madness and murder.
Lots of news footage of moderate Muslims filmed in front of mosques condemning the outrage in San Bernardino. Good for them. But I don’t totally trust their sincerity, any more than I trust the sincerity of the devout Christians who criticize the recent killings in and around Planned Parenthood. I can’t truly trust anyone who endorses magic and fantasy, God, prayer, worship, heaven, hell, life everlasting, the whole damn creed in all of its twisted mutations.
Talk is cheap. It’s air. Gas. Spiritual talk is the cheapest. What can we do? What can the moderate Muslim and the progressive Christian do to slow the carnage?
Personally, I’d like to see the faithful start weeding from within. Instead of simply proclaiming outrage, speak up when one of your comrades starts talking shit. If one of the brothers/sisters in Christ or Allah is preaching violence or spewing angry tirades against another person, place or thing, turn them the hell in. Fuck ‘em, they don't deserve your allegiance.
There are some really fruitcake Christians. Anyone who thinks the Planned Parenthood shooting is a good thing because God? Report their asses. I’d dig seeing Christians pull the rug out from under their heavily armed, pissed off, brain-damaged co-worshipers. If the Knights of Columbus begin buying up a shitload of guns and ammo and show up at mass in camos and flak vests, for Christ’s sake drop a dime. It would go a long way towards rapprochement if Muslims who are still sentient would roll over on the radical, violent dogbrains who may be living among them. Is that honorable? Is it fair? Some would say it isn’t, but why should I care?
If you talk you should act. If you are against the radicalization and screwball shit that goes on in your god’s name, don’t wait until the neighbors nut up and start blowing up a nightclub, a restaurant, a medical clinic, or a roomful of kindergartners.
Yes, I know, sorry, of course, this whole idea could cause a lot of innocent people to be inconvenienced. It could spin out of control. Report your parents for not being nice to you. Turn in your ex-wife to be questioned, interviewed. But the news media is late to the party, and the FBI, ATF, Homeland are confused and baffled. This is a grass roots thing. If we wait for the government, journalists, cops or God to fix this insanity, we are going to read a lot more horrible headlines. Ask questions, inquire, push someone’s buttons, write a letter, do something besides moan about how you disapprove of violence.
Prove it.
One more thing. Arming yourself to the teeth isn't going to help. Really. It's not the movies, it's not Die Hard or 24. You're not that tough. That's another fantasy. You'll just hurt yourself.