The widow Berman and Paul Slazinger were obviously born to tell stories better than most people can. Other people are obviously born to sing and dance or explain the stars in the sky or do magic tricks or be great leaders or athletes, and so on.
I think that could go back to the time when people had to live in small groups of relatives-maybe fifty or a hundred people at the most. And evolution or God or whatever arranged things genetically, to keep the little families going, to cheer them up, so that they could all have somebody to tell stories around the campfire at night, and somebody else to paint pictures on the walls of the caves, and somebody else who wasn’t afraid of anything and so on.
That’s what I think. And of course a scheme like that doesn’t make sense anymore, because simply moderate giftedness has been made worthless by the printing press and radio and television and satellites and all that. A moderately gifted person who would have been a community treasure a thousand years ago has to give up, has to go into some other line of work, since modern communications put him or her into daily competition with nothing but world champions.
The entire planet can get along nicely now with maybe a dozen champion performers in each area of human giftedness. A moderately gifted person has to keep his or her gifts all bottled up until, in a manner of speaking, he or she gets drunk at a wedding and tap dances on the coffee table like Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers. We have a name for him or her. We call him or her an “exhibitionist.”
How do we reward such an exhibitionist? We say to him or her the next morning, “Wow! Were you ever drunk last night!”
“His form is ungainly – his intellect small -”
(So the bellman would often remark)
“But his courage is perfect! And that, after all,
Is the thing that one needs with a Snark.”
He would joke with hyenas, returning their stare
With an impendent wag of the head:
And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear,
“Just to keep up its spirits,” he said.
+
“As to temper the Jubjub’s a desperate bird,
Since it lives in perpetual passion:
Its taste in costume is entirely absurd -
It is ages ahead of the fashion:”
“It’s like today when I see kids who go to film schools, and writers who say that by page 13 you have to have this happen, and by page 32 you have to have this happen, and by page 106 it has to be over, blah blah blah. Well, we didn’t have all those rules, and it’s not that we even broke them, because they didn’t exist. Now I think these kids are hampered by rules – not that they can’t think beyond them, just that they don’t go beyond them, because they are axiomatic of what you do. I think there have been too many screenwriting schools and too many books, and people think that’s what they must do. They treat it the same way they treat mathematics, and it’s wrong.
I was given a new bed a small while ago. The thing is a palace. And beneath this forthcoming rant is my old mattress. I wasn’t sure what to do with it, but sensed it would be good to keep. For guests I suppose. Soon I realized it served another purpose. I spray painted this face on it, propped it up in my kitchen. It is to the left of my fridge in front of this strange abandoned pantry. A couple of days ago, I had absolutely no food, I felt like I was starving, but that would have taken a few more days. When I opened this door I found three cans of string beans. They were from before I even moved into my apartment four years ago. This was a success. I was nervous. But it worked out fine. I use the mattress as a punching bag. I punch the party animal out while I play a best of Patsy Cline tape at full volume.
I’m never angry when I do it. I hardly ever act out of emotion. Any violence in me is most likely directed at myself. Although directing violence towards other people is often a veiled way of attacking yourself. But I have no time for that. Anyhow, the sense of your physical being and the feeling of your strength growing is a feeling that cannot be denied when you punch a spray painted mattress to Patsy Cline. And when you run head first at the rest of the world I suppose it’s a good idea to have someone to back you up. Even if that person is an appendage that spreads out from your neck and swivels with your spine.
The mattress is canvas though, and it tends to rip at the knuckles. Which is strange. Not the feeling, but the reactions. Sometimes people see a bruised knuckle and a weird certain respect emanates from them. And in other situations, say the library, talking to a very nice lady while your asking about where to find a Federico Garcia Lorca book of poetry it sends the wrong signal. But in the end everyone’s reactions are wrong, though sensible. The nervousness or fear lies in the fact that if someone is willing to say this or do this, what else are they capable of. But everyone sees the world through their own eyes, and everyone is full of manipulative and selfish secrets and dark passions and dark fears that they spend half their lives trying to hide. So they assume your secrets and lies must be of a darkness the depths outer space could never fathom. But finally I am truly truthful, even if exxxagerating or lying.
This is a major flaw in the understanding of things, though you cant understand anything fully, me or you. If you are a vessel through which you see things, how you relate to things, and you don’t fully understand yourself, then your judgments are lost and misguided. But the most misguided always seem to have an urge to lead. Anyways, I’ve made gloves out of old sweat shirt sleeves. I hate that your the toughest if you pretend to be, or the smartest if you pretend to be, or the most sensitive, or the most together, or the most apart. I hate how people care about other peoples perceptions, and how they perceive other people and themselves. You should know whats right, and strive to first satisfy that initial instinct, then worry about the others after, not the other way around.
Anyways, I am deep into the beers, and I’m rambling. This is the Punching bag. His name is Steve Sr., and he feels no pain.
Upon my nipple there is a hair much longer then the rest. Colored all of white as though of the head of Death. I pull, though it will not move, it stings with angry pain. As though it were not mine, but from some elder lions mane. I sense the pain within the flesh, and in its ugliness it is much stronger then the rest. And now it seems so pretty, like of Nicos head of young, you will last much longer, after even I am done. Rising from the earth, like a leafless withered tree. A thousand crows will come, and finally set you free.
My friend told me about this awhile ago in London. I’ve just watched it now.
It’s a pretty neat documentary on a music movement in Germany after the second world war that went on to influence a lot of things in music and art.
Whenever there’s a movement there’s always a group of over the top activists. Some truly great intelligent people. Fools using it to their own gain, and a million jumbo hot dogs hanging on with a head full of something, drugs, or something even worse, nothing…and drugs, their minds like stress balls, waiting to have a fools intensity squeezed into them. But I suppose that’s anything on some sort of grand scale. Hell, even within some high school clique. Or a group of hot shot ball room dancers, or big headed ballerinas, trying to balance all that bravado on those toothpick legs atop those pointy aristocrat toes.
For the most part, whenever there is a large group it is comprised mainly of Nimrods. But even Nimrods can move to the right rhythm and in the right direction……..to the edge of a cliff and right the fuck off. This doesn’t really have anything to do with the documentary, so I will move with the swiftness of an eagle and the wisdom of a snail, back into my shell.
Its six parts, but youtube pulled the fawkin audio on the sixth and final part. But its still good. As far as documentaries on certain time periods or movements go, the last part is always the least interesting as the movement becomes a parody of itself and the core of it either moves on or burns out. And do you really need some twit to summarize everything you’ve just seen for yourself anyway. So fuck part six. Even though I wish part six was there. I have a real love/hate relationship with part six, its a volatile one. I’m hungry for it, even though I know I don’t need it. I love you part six. I need you part six. I despise you part six.
(I wrote all the above before watching the documentary, and it really couldn’t be further off. Fuck yah.)
Sometimes I’m overcome with coincidences, sometimes in large groups. Tonight has been one of those nights. In the middle of watching this documentary I had a rhythm in my head, as i sometimes do. Different things usually bring it on, documentaries on music is a real cause. The rhythm went And i kept repeating, Piss, piss, gonna a have piss, piss piss, yellow yellow, ahhhh piss, piss. Over and over with some variations but equal intensity. I don’t know why that kept going in my head, I was heading to the bathroom, I had to rattle the cage, take a number two, that probably had something to do with it. Certain words take on a hypnotic rhythm sometimes. Its like a beautiful insanity and you can never quite capture it again. So I sat down and opened a book of poetry sitting on top of the the toilet. I turned the page and the title of the poem was simply PISS.
After I finished this documentary I checked my email. I get a thing called word a day where a word is sent to your email, it comes at about four am each day with a definition and origin. The word was kapellmeister, of German origin and meaning the director of a choir or orchestra.
I lay down, but I could not sleep, my large window to the outside with the blue blinds in front of it sits right above the head of my bed. I have a basement apartment, so half way through the center of the window is the ground where the grass grows and the people walk and the buildings rise. A perfect place for a diabolical criminal to come waltzing in, steal my computer with all its work, burn my life alive. I couldn’t help but think something was out there. Something staring at me. Some sort of supernatural force. It was four thirty and freezing. My head was already weighed with dumb thoughts about the future, the present leading into the future. The hopelessness, my inevitable doom. How everything I did was pointless. How all the things I wanted to do would probably take the next six years. And by then I would hate them. And how would i ever grow if i was stuck on this old shit that i cant even do. I cant take working for people, I hate that even more then this. Why am I whining like a fucking newborn, why work hard towards things I don’t want. Whats the fucking point and where do you get a gun. And at that, how could I even afford one. Its only going to get harder and worse, I’ll only have more obligations that I cant possibly fulfill. How could I ever support myself and how everything was going to collapse around me. I owe so much. Thinking about it all in a sort of lazy helpless depression with no real goal of acting upon the only sensible solution. And when there is a problem you must entertain all thoughts to find the right solution, and only a fool wouldn’t entertain the idea of death. All these thoughts that could be put into something more constructive, physics, devices to read the minds of cats, they have the answers stored in little pockets at the core of their brain stems, all this energy wasted on nothing. All these thoughts And on top of it, this supernatural thing out there mocking me. I couldn’t bring myself to look out that window. The panes rocked in the wind. Finally I could take no more, so i slowly pulled the blinds back. I kept expecting some person in a mask with a crow bar to be smiling at me. Or some creature with the head of a vampire bat, nine feet tall, crouched down just waiting. The blinds came back, and there sitting calmly in the wind a little tabby cat. He just looked at me, then let out a little meow. I said hey baddie, you scared me half to death. I tried to open the window to let him in out of the cold, i had some tuna in the fridge, I figured we could hang out, talk things over you know. But he took off. Probably one of the neighbors cats locked out. I kept checking for him in the night, but he had better things to do. And so did I, my thoughts gone for a little bit at least. I wrote this, more wasted time upon myself as that tabby runs around the streets with all the answers at that stem of its brilliant mind.
(I speak with the seriousness of a revolutinary voodoo priest with a blossoming side job as a stand up comedian with stage fright.)
Tonight my fortune cookie lied
It said I could do anything I want
But I haven’t been able to sleep
More then two hours lately
And even those two hours have gone out the
Window
Of course the cocaine last night
didn’t help
I get into these modes
But I don’t want to talk about it
I already have
Rambling on these never
Ending hours
Then I just try
And push people away with outrageousness
I get bitter
I whine a well deep
But only end up feeling like a rambling fool
Sometimes the world seems
As a grapefruit
And I
Its center
Baby
All I need is a little sugar
So come and give me some sugar
Come and give me some sugar
I’m home
I got this funny feeling
Its something
or maybe someone
I like thinking about them
And that
makes me feel like more of a fool
I’m home now
The seven am bus ride
Was fine
I got a new bed awhile back
So the old mattress sits against
The wall
Beside the fridge
In the kitchen
I drew this massive screaming
Face on it
Big bright
And green
Underneath it says
I like 2 party
I’ve turned patsy cline up to full blast
And now I punch away
At the mattress
There’s no anger involved
I punch like
A bobby Womack
sings
I feel bad for the partier
On the mattress
He is an extension of me
So
In a way he has it coming to him
But I understand his troubles
I move with grace
As Patsy reaches in my chest
And squeezes
Like she knows
What is this thing
On my mind
I wish someone would have played ODB last night
But wait
What’s stopping me now
Now ODB is screaming at the top of his lungs
Me along with him
BIG BABY JESUS
I CANT WAIT
NIGGA FUCK THAT
I CANT WAIT
Picture this
I’m wearing a red towel as a cape
I’m REALLY screaming now
The music Is loud
I should have turned the Patsy off
But fuck that
She’s singing with ODB
Were all in together now
I just threw my pants out the window
Into the snow
Ha
Fuck you
If the neighbours
Give me those funny fucking
Eyes
I’m going to yell
Nigga so loud
They’ll shit themselves
Now I’ve printed out
A picture
Of patsy cline
Cut her out
And were dancing
I’m screaming
BIG BABY JESUS
I CANT WAIT
NIGGA FUCK THAT
I CANT WAIT
And now its gotten to the point
Sitting on this chair
Like a chimpanzee
My legs up
Typing like a vulture
Its gotten to the point
I’m not typing things I’ve done
But doing the things I type
Each sentence
A strange idea
I know if I don’t watch blue velvet
In the next hour
I’m going to make like a monkey
And go bananas
All my cigarettes are gone
that’s what I need
Right now
A smoke
My arms were up in the air last night
As I ranted
And raved
Hart
Someone said casually
The cat is eating your cigarettes
I waved them off
Don’t worry about It I said
I never even looked
As I ranted some more
Who dare interrupt me
ME!
Finally I turned my head
I’d made my point
The pack of menthol cigarettes was empty
The cat had taken every
Last one
and hidden them
Some under the couch
I still have no idea where some are
They were all wet
She licked the mint flavour
Clean off
She was just sitting on the floor
Giving me wild eyes
But I’m not mad
I’d much rather
Share cigarettes with a cat
Then the usual
heathens
That drift
Into my circle
With their dildo
Eyes
I whip the blinds back from my window
And yell
At the top of my lungs
WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT
Its all about the element of surprise
But no ones there
To fast for me
I’ll get them next time
I swear this
im going to stop
This writing
Before it gets dangerous
The mattress was a strange canvas
Material
And there is blood on my knuckles
This isn’t every night
And I suppose I could write about other
Things
About other people
About you
Hamsters doggedly seek to instruct
By example how humans are fucked:
Upon wheels they can’t climb
They run only through time
On fast-forward to auto-destruct
What a pointless night. Sitting in a room, in a bar, and not wanting to say a word to anything. An early night before is a pointless night to follow. Sitting in a room searching for anything to guide the night away from the waste it has become, from the waste it always was.
Sitting like a shackled stupid dog, chained to a selfish and foolish fucking post.
Left feeling near death and so far from everything. But today, in my bag, there is half a block of modeling clay, a note book full of ideas and no urge to see anyone ever again.
And at least outside the world is covered in snow and the wind is wicked on the faces of the slaves. I have five beers and bad intentions. Thank the devilish one for that.
It’s only five for now, but with a good foundation the future will build itself.
And if that fuck of a landlord comes knocking on my door looking for his rent I’m going to break his slut of a throat, a champion sag, sucking on my air waves like the selfish tramp it is.
I’m travelling back to where I’m at my best. Alone.
This songs for you, my only friend. That sweet understanding nectar with the autumn eyes. PABST. BLUE. RIBBON.
