Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Not In Kansas Anymore




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Sometimes I have this dream, I am beating someone. I'm serious about it, methodical.
I look around. Hoping someone will come stop me doing what I am doing.


But nobody does.



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I just keep working away at it.




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To me, I'm just a nice guy. I'm pretty laid back, I take things as they come for the most part. I mean, I guess I can be a little difficult to be around sometimes, but you'd have to know me pretty good or catch me at the wrong time. But sometimes other people around me don't see me that way.


You know, how they hug the wall and look down at their shoes when I walk past them in the hallway, or how they run screaming, tripping over themselves in their rush to get somewhere I'm not.



Some people, huh?



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There's days when the glory of the world shines down on me from above. When I drink in golden light and honey through my pores and taste heaven in each breath I take in. Just the sight of the morning sun on the ocean, or how a black net of birds bursts out of the branches of some tree as I drive by can fill me up with a delicious kind of unbearable happiness.

And its times when every single thing is perfectly fine and I sit in my bed with my jaws clenched tight and my stomach churning and I got no way to apprehend what there could be that is good in this world.


Just like you, I guess.



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Last night I was kind of moving back and forth between those extremes, like sampling a little bit of each from the buffet...I poured myself a nightcap of ice-cold vodka and read some Gwendolyn Brooks and Lucille Clifton out of my very favorite book, that Poulin 5th edition of Modern American Poetry. And their voices were in my body like the booming waves on the beach north of Cayucos and for that little while I could taste it all just fine...


Maybe it was the vodka.


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Probably it was.





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Here's lookin' at you, kid.



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13 Comments:

Blogger LJCohen said...

There are dark days--more of them than I want to count. And then the puppy comes wriggling up to me, a tennis ball in her mouth, the tail moving in circles. She shoves the tennis ball between my knees and I swear she's laughing at me.

"Shake it off. It's a beautiful day. Lets romp."

And I'll grab her lead and grumble my way to a walk.

Then the light hits a yellow tulip in a way I have never seen before.

Sometimes all it takes is a tennis ball.

And Tigger.

She is wiser than I am.

6:57 AM  
Blogger jz said...

about the vodka -- what do you drink and how? I've just recently been turned on to vodka -- before I was strictly a gin man, but now I think I am converted.

as always, enjoy your art and your thoughts.

10:45 AM  
Blogger tearful dishwasher said...

Jim-

I don't know, man. I don't want to be the guy responsible for turning someone else into a lush...but I drink it neat, out of the freezer. Or with vermouth and a bleu cheese stuffed olive or two. Or with sparkling lemonade.


But ice cold and neat, with a cigar on the back deck under the stars when everyone else is alseep...


heaven.

6:32 PM  
Blogger dottie bones said...

have you ever listened to the band morphine?

6:24 PM  
Blogger Moon River said...

i would love to know what is the source for your beautiful postcards?

12:22 AM  
Blogger 21k said...

& here's looking at ya back

last night i dreamed i shot bob dylan in the head
twice

so i kinda know what you mean

i'm missing this place

but damn why does it take so long for your comments section to open up - still waiting for the word i have to verify to appear...
must be my dialup giddyup style

7:53 AM  
Blogger LKD said...

My older brother turned me on to Morphine.

The band. Not the drug.

The lead singer is dead.

What do you suppose they say in Kansas?

Toto, we're not in Minnesota anymore?

These images of yours, these portraits of these little ghost waif living dead children are...haunting.

And disturbing.

Do you think those posters work? Those missing persons posters?

Where are all of these missing people?

That's what your sepia children are.

The missing.

2:40 PM  
Blogger LKD said...

I told Jenni about this documentary that I watched on PBS last night, and it occurred to me that you would enjoy it too. This man reminds me of your monk friend, or friend monk:

The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill

It's rare to watch a televison show that leaves you feeling peaceful and rested and absolutely at one with the world and centered in it and in yourself but that's how I felt afterwards.

I felt almost....clean, cleansed somehow of all the sadness and badness that this big bad sad world sometimes seems so full of.

I don't know when it will air in your part of the world, but catch it if you can.

2:10 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

as to the headliner there --

Here's mine:

I never give them hell. I just
tell them the truth and
they think it's hell.

- Harry Truman

Vodka straight-up ehh? blue cheese olive -- sounds a dirty martini to me. I prefer lemon or orangeade-- or simply a stiff pellagrino on ice.
I was gonna give you a closing Hooty n the blow fish song, one about the lamp post, but ... nah.
yrs
In solitude,,
Nun Nun Aleph
Samech Yud Tet.

3:49 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

.. oh .. ps. Sorry I couldn't stay for the potroast/bbq

it's a nice neat stainless steel one though... and remember three things:

One should never argue with the border patrol, incessantly tinker in the garage, nor acquire a taste for fish tacos.

3:53 PM  
Blogger this time round said...

so, where are you?

8:04 PM  
Anonymous Julie said...

hi there,

May I use a quote from your blog in my art project? If you are happy for me to, get in touch on:

http://pixeljourneys.com/digitalarts/?p=242

Thanks so much!

Julie

1:59 PM  
Blogger d. chedwick bryant said...

sreams
nightmares

love the photos you post
and your tiny ornage kitchen i would be very comfy in.

9:04 AM  

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