all my hEroes are going to ground

David Thomas "Davy" Jones
Dec 20, 1945  -  Feb 29, 2012

I spent much of the mid to late sixties in Spain, but I remember how delighted I was at just 9 years old to discover, upon returning to the states, that television in America did not feature endless reruns of Roger Ramjet, and the Adventures of Rocky & Bullwinkle. All of a sudden there were real Saturday morning cartoons like Johnny Quest, Scooby Doo, Here Comes the Grump, H.R. Puffinstuff and, of course, The Monkees.

I loved the show, loved their only movie Head, and even loved waxing nostalgic when MTV ran constant reruns way back when MTV was actually "Music Television." In that much simpler time, there were records on the back of cereal boxes; The Archies, Jackson 5, Josie & the Pussycats, Bobby Sherman, & The Monkees. I remember asking my mom to buy Honey Combs Cereal just to get the Monkees' Valleri. The quality was crap, but come on! Music on the back of a cereal box? What could be cooler than that to a 10-year old?

Years later, I remember an interview I saw with Davy Jones some years after the Monkees' reunion during which Davy spoke about how hard and lean the years were between the end of The Monkees and their reunion. He said, and I paraphrase, when you have money and fame, when you're on top of the world, everyone want to give you money. But when you're out of the limelight, you can't even get a bank loan; no one will give you anything, even if you really need it.

That bit of interview has stayed with me; mostly because it's a sad epitaph to our culture of celebrity.

In the end Davy Jones landed on his feet, and I love him for it. He leaves behind a wife and four daughters, and three band mates. His last performance was a solo gig on February 19th, in Oklahoma.

David Thomas "Davy" Jones

Just last August, when I was turning 51, Davy himself was quoted as saying, somewhat prophetically, "I used to be a heartthrob, now I'm a coronary." Oddly enough, he died on Leap Day. And, as Davy was himself a consummate joker, I feel free to add my own sad quip... He was kind enough to die on a day we won't have to think about more than once every four years. 

But that's not true. I'll remember him every time I listen to a Monkees CD, or watch (for the umpteenth time) the movie "Head," which I must say lives up to its billing in the film's intro... These guys were a class act, and never took themselves too seriously.



From the intro to Head:


"Ditty Diego - War Chant"
 [Listen]

Well? [Mike]
Are you kidding? [Groupie]
Hey now wait a minute! [Mike]

Hey hey we are the Monkees
You know we love to please
A manufactured image
With no philosophies

We hope you like our story
Although there isn't one
That is to say there's many
That way there is more fun

You told us you like action
And games of many kinds
You like to dance, we like to sing
So let's all lose our minds!

We know it doesn't matter,
Cause what you came to see
Is what we'd love to give you,
And give it one, two, three! 

But there may come three, two, one, two
Or jump from nine to five,
And when you see the end in sight
The beginning may arrive!

For those who look for meaning,
And form as they do facts,
We might tell you one thing
But we'd only take it back

Not back like in a box back
Not back like in a race,
Not back so we can keep it,
But back in time and space!

You say we're manufactured,
To that we all agree,
So make you choice and we'll rejoice
In never being free!

Hey hey we are the Monkees,
We've said it all before
The money's in we're made of tin
We're here to give you more!

The money's in we're made of tin
We're here to give you...

Goodbye, Davy. It was all in good fun. Thanks for all the memories, and may God grant you peace and rest, and comfort to family and friends, and fans worldwide.

Because you were such a big part of our lives growing up, we are all Monkees now.

twenty-seven, dung bEetles, & epitaphs

What do Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Brian Jones, Kurt Kobain, and now Amy Winehouse have in common?

The number twenty-seven... the age at which each of them died-- Welcome Miss Winehouse, you have been unceremoniously ushered into an auspicious, albeit rare, company.

Have you ever seen video of a dung beetle pushing a ball of poop around? That little ball of shit is this particular beetle's lifeline. It defines who and what this particular insect is.

Now look at the above names; members of the 27 Club. Each of them was pushing their own ball of crap around, and in the end that ball of crap is what defines them. Some will naturally protest that and say it was their music which defined them, but I would have to argue against that point. And here's why...

Music is what they did; they were good at it, and are famous for it. They each made a name for themselves because of it, and made-- or were in the process of making --enough money to change their individual paradigms. But none of the above mentioned 'artists' were able to stop pushing the shit that defined what they thought of themselves. The reason I put it this way is I've been there. Drugs defined who I was for a time-- an addict. I was, of course, much more than that I was an artist too... still am, but back then drugs colored every other thing I did-- just as it colored everything the 27 Club did in their own lives.

'Drugs' was the ball of shit I pushed around. It was the ball of shit they pushed around. But unlike Sisyphus, they weren't 'chained' to the futility of rolling that ball of shite up the hill. Had they only opened their eyes to their own sense of self-worth, they could have abandoned that ball of crap and moved on, and, in all likelihood lived to a ripe old age with many accolades to their name. Now, in spite of their talent, 'overdose' is the one accolade that will color every other accolade they managed in their short lives.

For myself, I managed to see that ball for what it was... when I was twenty-seven. I've been rid of it for more than two decades now.

Amy Winehouse, like every other member of the 27 Club, is now rid of that ball of shit too. But what separates me and Amy Winehouse, aside from fame, fortune, and good looks, is I managed to walk away, and the name I carry today is untainted by the ball I shit I pushed around. Unfortunately, like all the other members in that sad club, her name will carry with it the unfortunate addendum *drug addict; died of an overdose.

That's a very sad legacy to leave behind, and a poor epitaph to the talent she had on loan from God.

May HE have mercy on her soul.

july's nuclear drEam

The sky was once blue
Now its a gray ashy hue
And its burned on the memories
Of everyone I knew
Gone are the abbeys
The parks and the bars
Gone all discussions
Of Venus and Mars
Everyone's gone
Or near enough, anyway
Time to start over
If I can just find a way

Did we really think heaven
Would forgive us this day
Or forgive us tomorrow
Have you nothing to say?
Silent as a tombstone
And dead as the sky
Who's now left to ponder
Every dream's dying sigh
Cause I can't find a reason
Or an answer just the same
Why I should stand here living
Amid the dead and the flame

Color me pessimistic
Color me a fool
Things could be better
Wading my feet in the pool
Where the bodies lie floating
Or to the bottom submerge
While the shrill keen of missiles
Sing their hideous dirge
I'm just hoping for something
Some substance I cannot see
Looking for the evidence
Of a greater faith in me

Only I can stop this
I could wake from this dream
Beat my swords into plowshares
Cast my fears in the stream
And let the waters carry them
To rivers and to seas
Give my life to understanding
to flowers and to bees
Show the world I love them
Not in word but in deed
There is nothing in these weapons
We should ever want or need


ELAshley
071211.112535.1

Not my best work. Not by far.

the frog in the well

I spoke with a man today at my favorite Indian restaurant. He described his "ascension" to the American way of life as a frog in a well. He said one rarely recognizes the climes one inhabits when it is all one has ever known. It is only when one climbs out of the well of his life and sees beyond the rim of sky, that he learns to appreciate what he has attained, and from what he has come. America was an eye-opener for him. He knew things here were different, but it took coming here and spending time to really grasp the differences between living in India and living in America. I understood all too well what he meant; I've spent time in foreign countries, albeit many years ago. But I've recently come to learn there is another kind of well... the kind we can fall into.

I've never been rich, but neither have I been so poor that I feared for where I might sleep at night, or if I could keep my dog with me. I know I have a home in Panama City-- my family would take me in --but I never considered how important it was to save for a rainy day. I, like too many others, have spent the money as it came in on the 'necessities' of living in America. I never thought I could ever be homeless, but now I find myself tipping on that very edge. I am that frog... on the edge of an abyss, with the forces of economics (among other things I'll not speak of) pushing me closer to the edge and into darkness. I need money. Lots of it. Or the cart throws a wheel; the horse, its shoe, and the frog leaps free-fall into obscurity.

I still have my job, though it has never really paid enough. I still have my car, though it is twenty years old and in constant need of repair. I still have a roof over my head, though new circumstances threaten to strip even that away. I've been in the well before, though I never saw it as such and, I'm sad to say, never thought to catalog its lessons, let alone remember them. But this is new. I spent the last two decades climbing out, in pursuit of riches-- those things I thought declared loud enough that I lived above the earth (though beneath the sky) --and even they seem to have eluded me.

One man climbs out, another falls in. I could blame partisan politics for the current state of the economy (and do) but that does nothing for my present predicament-- I could blame myself and be closer to the mark, but who truly thinks such things could come to harry them back into obscurity? The economy is not getting any better, unemployment is still too high, and inflation is still right around the corner. And I may also be there soon, just around the corner... me, my dog, a guitar, and every scrap of dignity I have left in a small canvas bag.

That may seem an image worth hanging like a Rockwell, but it's frightening as hell to be the one on the other side of the lens. I don't know what's going to happen in the months ahead. But this I do know... my job will still pay me less than I need. My car will still need repairs. I will still need a place to live. My dog will still need all the love and care he currently gets from me. And if that's all I'm ever able to manage, I guess it will have to be enough. Because, to my eternal shame, I have never been good at trusting Him.

bound by yet another human construct? or freed?

It's easy to become distracted and, once ensnared, hard to break away. I heard it articulated last night thusly: Sin is like a comfortable bed: easy to get into but hard to get out of. I'm not equating distraction with sin-- only comparing.

I find myself distracted. I wasn't the moment I walked in this morning; there was work to do and a firm deadline of 10:30am. So I knuckled down and got it done. Ahead of schedule.

But now I find myself distracted... I'm here, aren't I? That's right. I'm here wasting time when there are 3 other looming deadlines on the desk as I speak. But, since I'm already here, let's consider my deadlines.

Between each momentary "now" and each of my multiple deadlines is an ever shrinking value called time. For those of you who followed Farscape and enjoyed the finale, The Peacekeeper Wars, a bit of dialog...

Einstein:      Time...
Crichton:      ...Flies
Einstein:      Time...
Crichton:      ...Bandits
Einstein:      Time...
Crichton:      ...Wounds all heels
Einstein:      Time...
Crichton:      ...Rosemary and
Einstein:      Time...
Crichton:      ...Time ends.

The point being? Time ends. Deadlines come and nothing you do can halt its approach. Like that last line from 'Dust in the Wind'... "And all your money won't another minute buy..."

While I'm wasting time, my deadlines cometh. Welcome or not, they approach. The sands slip through the hourglass.

Another movie quote: from The Matrix...

"Do you hear that Mister Anderson? That is the sound of inevitability."

So there you have it. Each moment I spend here, distracted from those things that must get done, is lost. This means I will have to work doubly hard to get my tasks done, which makes me a slave to time. We all are. Our lives are ordered by time.

But time is a construct, right? A human construct? Can't we just tell time to go away? That we refuse to play its game a moment longer? Ahhh! Not a moment longer? Even our tongues speak the truth of our serfdom to the rule of time-- a construct no longer but, as Agent Smith declares, an inevitability. We are born, live our lives-- for the most part --obliviously or semi-aware of the cost of our daily and momentary choices. But there is hope, albeit emaciated...

From Fyodor Dostoevsky's, The Possessed...

"You've started believing in the future eternal life?"

"No, not future eternal, but here eternal. There are moments, you reach moments, and time suddenly stops, and will be eternal."

"You hope to reach such a moment?"

"Yes."

"It's hardly possible in our time," Nikolai Vsevolodovich responded, also without any irony, slowly and as if thoughtfully. "In the Apocalypse the angel swears that time will be no more."

"I know. It's quite correct there; clear and precise. When all mankind attains happiness, time will be no more, because there's no need. A very correct thought."

"And where are they going to hide it?"

"Nowhere. Time isn't an object, it's an idea. It will die out in the mind."

--- Kirillov to Stavrogin

It will die out in the mind.... so very true! But, in the mean time, the sands slip through the glass, moments die; perhaps consumed by voracious langoliers.

Stavrogin hopes to reach a moment where time suddenly stops. I wish to hope for the same. Perhaps even turn the hands back a decade or two. But I'd settle for keeping the hands at 11:14am on this day of April 29, 2010 for a week or two... allow myself some breathing room, and time to catch up.

But time is an enemy to everyone. Because we know what it has in it's nasty pocketses.

Ha! To think some one could actually have a door in its pocket.

Who would we call such a one but Death?

dEarest Mary Angel

I saw her today for the first time in five weeks. She smiled and hugged me; she was genuinely happy to see me. I complimented her, told her she looked beautiful. She asked if something was wrong with my eyes. I told her she was a sight for sore eyes. And I told her she WAS beautiful. And she was.

We were to have lunch last Friday, but she couldn't break away from clients. We were to meet yesterday, but she was stuck in Enterprise awaiting a transmission repair. We are to meet Thursday, and it is my hope nothing will prevent our meeting.

I like her too much. Far too much. I will only get hurt in the end, but I do not care. I have to try. You can't spend your winnings unless you buy a ticket, right? She knows I like her, but she doesn't turn me away; she continues to encourage me. She's said things to others that indicate she is interested. Or was five weeks ago.

I had a conversation with the other Eric today. Prescott. He laughs to see how bad I have it for her, but he understands. He's not mocking. He listens and offers advice. He says she knows how I feel. And to be patient. I confided to him that even should nothing come of my infatuation-- should she and I never advance beyond the occasional lunch --I would still rather have that relationship that the one I now have. At least with her I feel alive and valued and listened to. I feel alive around her. I can speak my mind. I don't have to hide who I am; I can speak freely without fear of laughter or rejection. She likes who I am... enough to share the occasional lunch with me.

I want to ask her for more... a movie or dinner. But I'm not free to date. Not until I'm on my own. We were supposed to see a movie last month but never got around to it. Just as friends. She hates to see movies alone, as do I. I could use a best friend, and I wouldn't mind if it turned out to be her. Even if that's all we ever became.

As I said. I like her too much. But I can't help myself. I waited twenty years for one woman to say 'yes.' And in the end she has made it clear she doesn't want to marry... not me, not anyone. I want to belong to someone; I want to be happy. And as I said, even should nothing develop us, at least with this beautiful and vibrant woman I'll learn once more how to socialize-- how to befriend and be befriended.

I finally feel as though this ship I'm on can actually get somewhere; that winds will actually fill its sails, and its prow carve a path across this seemingly interminable sea. I've been a long time rocked upon its merciless surface, and I'm looking forward to dry land. I'm looking forward to someone who won't balk at one day putting a ring on my finger-- whoever and wherever she may be.

God be with you and yours,

All my love,

Eric

though I do not yet know her name

I was thinking recently, with the turn of another year, on the desert loneliness that is the sound of most Jackson Browne songs; how free he is to sing as though he were speaking-- straight language and ideas without the usual short-lined verses of metaphor and innuendo that populate most lyrics these days. So I began to write, hearing Jackson Browne sing my song, his voice to my lyrics and melody. This is the result.


Afire For You

I I've been alone long, and a dreamer
For most of my life
Though I desire soft clean linens I'll still
Sleep in the desert tonight
Another night of tossing and turning
Another night of sleeping alone
And when the morning light comes to find me
Though every hour spent trying to atone
I'm still very much alone

II Chasing sleep down long corridors
Seems that's all I ever do
All I'm ever left with come daybreak
Are my fitful dreams of you
Another night beneath the cold desert sky
Another night of sleeping alone
Every morning that comes only serving to remind me
Despite every hour spent trying to atone
I'm still very much alone

O, And how I've wandered
How I've carried this torch for you
Never looked in your eyes, never made to ponder
How my love for you strengthened and grew
Though I be cut to the bone
And suffer to atone
I'll always very much alone

III When I close my eyes and dream of you
While sleeping deeply through this night
The stars wheeling 'cross the glittering sky
And making love til the morning light
How do you leave the bed you've made with love
Shoulder your pack and continue to roam?
'Cause I've spent my life, all my sins to atone
Yet I'm still very much alone

O, And how I've wandered
How I've carried this torch for you
Never looked in your eyes, never kissed your soft smile
Yet my love for you strengthened and grew
Though I be cut to the bone
Giving my life to atone
I'll still be very much alone

If there's an angel set to observe me
Dogging my e-ver-y step
Could he have not seen fit
To lead me out of the desert
And into your loving arms?
O, Into your loving arms

With my heart on fire for you
My heart afire for you



ELAshley
Part I - 010210.11>.6
Part II - 010410.11>.6
Part III - 010810.11>.6
Revisions:
011210.111002.6

This was written for someone specific, though I do not yet know her name.

my own personal midlife crisis: doomed to solitude

To reiterate. Every thought, image, and response has a musical connection. Some songs resonate more than others, and that is where the "soundtrack of one's life" meme is rooted. But some songs resonate more than others. For me, I can recite that litany of songs which truly, madly, deeply reverberate through my soul, on a single hand.

Pain, or so it seems to me, is the foundation of genuine worldly beauty. Beauty is an expression of defiance against that which would crush us, would we but allow it. There is nothing remarkable about a straight line-- a straight line is unremarkable in a forest of conformity. But curve that line... well then, that's something new altogether. Where pure pleasure is the straight line, pain then is the curve.

Take Celtic music for instance, or the vocal stylizings of groups like Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Cultures which have experienced oppression and suffering sing with a heart that seeks to rise above the pain... whether they realize it or not-- the pain creeps into their musical expression, and however straight-lined their words, their vocals and instruments speak in curves.

And so here I am, long story short, to the point of my own life's soundtrack, and one song from that one hand that has reverberated through my soul for thirty-four years. I've made mention of it here (or elsewhere... I know I've written about this song somewhere), but at the risk of appearing unduly obsessive I return to Yer Blues by the Beatles.

Why bother mentioning it all? Well, I came across a review of the song online and felt compelled to comment upon it.

First the lyrics:

Yes I'm lonely. Wanna die
Yes I'm lonely. Wanna die
If I ain't dead already
Woo, girl you know the reason why.

In the morning. Wanna die
In the evening. Wanna die
If I ain't dead already
Woo, girl you know the reason why.

My mother was of the sky
My father was of the earth
But I am of the universe
And you know what it's worth
I'm lonely. Wanna die
If I ain't dead already
Woo, girl you know the reason why.

The eagle picks my eye
The worm he licks my bones
I feel so suicidal
Just like Dylan's Mr. Jones
Lonely. Wanna die
If I ain't dead already
Woo, girl you know the reason why.

Black cloud crossed my mind
Blue mist round my soul
Feel so suicidal
Even hate my rock and roll
Wanna die. Yeah, wanna die
If I ain't dead already
Woo, girl you know the reason why.

Depressing, right? Suicidal, even? But why? And why does it resonate in my soul? Well, here's one reviewer's thoughts on the song:

For all that chatter about The Beatles predicting the band members' solo work, only two of its Lennon tracks would be of a piece with his Plastic Ono Band, arguably the defining post-Beatles disc. One is the muted, tender "Julia"; the other, the searing, spooky "Yer Blues"...

Following in the grand blues tradition of women doing wrong and leaving a man in pain often simply by leaving him, Lennon seethes in heartbreak. But his introspection (call it his utter self-absorption) turns the misdeed inward, and the song focuses on his reactions rather than whatever wrong she supposedly committed. This is not a revenge story, or an attack on an unfaithful woman. This is instead an attack on the man who, through some or many unspecified flaws, doomed himself to solitude.

—Charles Hohman

And this is the key phrase, for me:

This is instead an attack on the man who, through some or many unspecified flaws, doomed himself to solitude.

This is about what one feels about himself, not what someone else has done to him. And I reckon this speaks as much about my life as it did, perhaps, about his... Lennon's.

I remember a task I set for Mary Angel as her sponsor into Iota Gamma's "Little Sister" program; circa 1983. It was common for the brothers to set an impossible task for their charges, and I, thinking myself clever, asked Mary Angel to bring to me the lyrics to my favorite song, giving her only one clue... "My father was of the earth."

I thought I was clever, but I was outdone by an intellect far cleverer than my own. She called my little sister and asked what my favorite band was. Easy! she was told-- The Beatles. It then became a search for which song held that particular line. Now this was 1983; no PC's worth a flip, no Google, no world wide web to really speak of, so my sister begins to play all my Beatles albums, song by song, until they hit upon a winner.

Mary Angel was NOT pleased by the song I called "my favorite." Not pleased at all. But without going into too much detail-- long story short --I gave her no context so she had no way of knowing why that song, as tragic in tone as it is, was my favorite. And truth be told, I never considered the reason myself till much later.

As a young child I was constantly uprooted and thrust into new situations, new schools, new friends... new bullies who saw in my stuttering reason enough to make my life more and more miserable. I learned very early to simply keep quiet and not draw too much attention to myself.

So here I am years later, 21, maybe 22 years old. I've asked out the moderately attractive Kathleen Tremblay. I've picked her up, and taken her to a party. While there she pretty much dumps me and begins making out with someone else. I leave. Without her. And I go to a place I routinely frequent when I wish to be alone. It's a small but long pier on St. Andrews Bay.

It's dark. Only a sliver of moon in the sparsely clouded night sky. I take out a knife. Put it's tip to the right side of my chest and slash downward. And a second time, but without much enthusiasm. I throw the knife out to sea, stagger back to my car and drive home. I'm covered in blood so I take a shower. Excruciating pain! I bandage myself, and go to bed.

How do you tell your family you did something like that to yourself? I couldn't. I told my father I was attacked on the beach.

There was no trip to the hospital. Just a jar of sulfur to pack the wound to keep it from getting infected. What I got was one big ass scar, and more isolation from people I considered friends. The scar was quite noticeable for many years, but has since faded. The memory however has not, nor do I expect it to.

This was not an attack on the girl who broke my heart but was instead, "an attack on the man [myself] who, through some or many unspecified flaws, doomed himself to solitude." I attacked myself for some unknown, unseen, unfathomed flaws that kept me single, and without friendship or intimacy from girls.

Here's one major distinction between my own experience and that of the song in question. I was not suicidal-- I had absolutely no intention of killing myself. Had that been the case I could have easily pushed the knife straight in. Instead I slightly dimpled the flesh of my chest inward and swiftly sliced down... not in. I did not want to kill myself. What I wanted was to externalize the pain I felt in my heart.

And so this is my fear... my own personal midlife crisis... that I am doomed to solitude; that I will never find love... never share my life with a woman who loves me.

* * *

This song resonates with me. It didn't before that evening. Nor did it resonate for many years after. But today, after years of swimming in the soup of "some or many" of my own "unspecified flaws" it has come to carry a great deal of weight in the soundtrack of my life.

I am 49 years old, and still Solitude Standing. I've waited twenty years for a woman to say "yes" to marriage only to realize at last that she doesn't wish to marry anyone, let alone me.

So I'm moving on. Suicide was never an option... has never crossed my mind-- it's simply not who I am. But I'd be a liar if I said I didn't suffer a modicum of despair over having reached the heliopause of 50 and still single; having wasted the last twenty years on someone who chooses not to love or be loved.

What is left for me to do now? Accept what is and move on. And never give up looking for someone who will love who and what I am in spite of who and what I am not.

There. It's out. Welcome to my midlife crisis.

outliving the culture

"You spend your life fighting depression; it's the default human condition. The shit we buy, the people we hang around with, fuck and even love are just means to an end, a way to stave off the crushing loneliness that is to be alone and unloved.

"We buy into the idea of happiness as portrayed by the mass media, that happiness is found through social engagement, through the expenditure of the money we earn working for multi-millionaires that don't know us, don't care. If we live or die, we haven't made a mark on the world.

"We check Facebook compulsively, Twitter about our breakfasts and talk to our friends and coworkers about wild parties, prospective mates and expensive purchases: Attempts to show our sociability, our ability to fit in, our willingness to buy into this great corporate dream.

"If you want my advice, write something. Draw something. Tell someone something. Do something, ANYTHING, that will outlive this culture, that will transcend its boundaries and touch someone."

There is but one way I know of to outlive this culture, and that is to free yourself from this culture; do not let it shape you, do not let it affect you spiritually; do not let it define your soul's focus or path. You must rise above-- or transcend, as the anonymous writer exhorts --the ugliness that is this life. How do you do that? Choose for yourself who you are and what relevance you hold not only for yourself but for the world. Choose your legacy-- define it, quantify it, then build it. You can't escape the culture, but you can certainly outlive it.

In case you had forgotten, You are free. That's right, FREE. Now go out there and act like it. Go out and tell the world who you are. Don't let the world tell YOU who you are.

e's wEekly brain dump

Here then is a Haiku. One I wrote years and years ago-- and not particularly good but apropos given my direction with today's post...

music lifts my heart
from a deep pit of ashes
the remnants of death

I can't speak for anyone but myself but music does a great number of things for me, which is why I find so much meaning and context in my life through music. I began this post in the afternoon, and returning late in the evening, Huckabee on Fox covered the same material. It would seem that research has been done into what kind of music soldiers have been listening to to get into the kind of mindset that allows them to enter combat... to set the mental-stage for 'kill or be killed'.

Music then, it would seem, is a multi-faceted muse. To some she brings fire, to others she brings resolve, to some inspiration... and to others?

Meredith Brooks wrote a song called What Would Happen that, though it got little airplay, is the best tune on her hit album containing the more popular tune, Bitch. What makes this song so provocative (and no one's saying Bitch isn't provocative) are the questions it raises. And with them that fear co-mingled with lust everyone experiences at some point in their lives.

What would happen if we kissed?
Would your tongue slip past my lips?
Would you run away?
Would you stay?
Or would I melt into you?
Lust to lust?
Spontaneous - ly combust?

First time I heard this song I thought, 'Whoa! What's this chick doing in MY head!?' The verses were uniquely her experience, but the chorus... it's universal. It's primal, and it speaks to every heart whether it beats in the chest of a man or woman. I keep a list of songs I deem perfect for sex, and this one ranks pretty high.

Now, knowing my penchant for assigning people to songs, and songs to people, do you think I've assigned this particular song to a particular person?

* * *

I spent the bulk of late afternoon and evening watching TLC, watching the super-morbidly obese struggle to survive the milieu they've staged for themselves. At the last was a return visit to David Smith, the 650lb virgin-- sans 400 lbs --and his struggle to navigate the world he spent his entire life watching from the outside... looking in, as it were. I'm nowhere near as over-weight as David was-- a loss of eighty pounds would see me at my target weight. David had to lose 400. I only have to lose 80.

I have the same problems he does, socially speaking (though for different reasons), and I only need to lose 20% of what he lost-- I too am learning to socialize. No, I haven't spent the last ten or fifteen years in a flesh cocoon or morbidly obese proportions, but I have spent the last thirty-three years in a different kind of cocoon.

* * *

To quote another great tune... by The Moody Blues:

I'm looking for someone to change my life
I'm looking for a miracle in my life
And if you could see what it's done to me
To lose the the love I knew
Could safely lead me to
The land that I once knew
To learn as we grow old
The secrets of our souls

And at 49, I wonder if I'm running out of time.

our lives as drama

As explained by Kurt Vonnegut

“People have been hearing fantastic stories since time began. The problem is, they think life is supposed to be like the stories... But because we grew up surrounded by big dramatic story arcs in books and movies, we think our lives are supposed to be filled with huge ups and downs! So people pretend there is drama where there is none.”

So. According to Kurt, there is no drama in your life... it simply is what it is. Nothing to get mussed about. Just deal. After all, it all comes out in the wash anyway, right... accept for blood and grass-stains.

One day Alice came to a fork in the road and saw a Cheshire cat in a tree. "Which road do I take?" she asked. "Where do you want to go?" was his response. "I don't know," Alice answered. "Then," said the cat, "it doesn't matter."

- Lewis Carroll

Isn't that life to a tee? "I don't know." What with all the foreign bodies (perceptions of reality) pumped into our minds as to what life is all about, and the best practices for life; as devised by writers who are probably more neurotic than the average lab rat sitting in the theater or in front of the TV... where to you want to go?

2011 is coming up. Let's all endeavor to "go" get an intentional life based on reality. Fantasy is always a letdown.

they live in middletown...

I'm tired, I tell you. Tired.

Even the simple task of buying everything on the list-- and nothing more save pineapple and bananas --gives rise to her bitching.

That's all I need to hear-- Hello. Goodbye. Disconnect. Retreat to here...

I'm tired, I tell you. Tired.


Here's a bit of verse... apropos to the moment.

It's understood
By every single person who'd be elsewhere if they could
So far, so good
And life's not unpleasant in their little neighborhood

And now I find I've been put into a Rush mood. Not for the uplifting lyrics of much of their music, but for Grace Under Pressure, to my mind the darkest of their albums.

Were I a brave man. I'd of pulled the trigger years ago. But I have more faith than I have anguish.

What happens to the dreams we're too afraid to seize hold of?

Dreams flow across the heartland
Feeding on the fire
Dreams transport desires
Drive you when you're down
Dreams transport the ones that need
To get out of town...

...They dream in Middletown

And from Richard Marx...

We used to walk down by the river
She loved to watch the sun go down
We used to walk along the river
And dream our way out of this town

I feel a leaving comin' on.

e's wEekly brain dump

I never would have bothered otherwise, because I am loathe to like or appreciate anything Oprah Winfrey promotes-- this has nothing to do with skin color --but it was on the Disney Channel this morning and I had nothing else to do, so I watched Akeelah and the Bee. Laurence Fishburne and Angela Bassett? amazing actors both, so I was sure I could get something out of it. And that I did.

In my previous post I spoke of fear... of moving on... of fleeing in spite of the guns that awaited. Fear will keep a man in a situation he would otherwise flee the moment his situation is truly grasped. I know fear. So did Akeelah. And her instructor, Mr. Fishburne, told her to read a quote that was framed upon the wall of his office...

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our Light, not our Darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you NOT to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won't feel unsure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. As we let our own Light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

--Marianne Williamson

I can find nothing wrong with this statement, but I can find something to add.

Like the three servants, each given differing amounts of talents by their master, we are charged to use what we are given to not only enrich the Lord who bestowed to us our talents, and to demonstrate our faithfulness to his command, but to also show his glory through the gifts he has given that others might be drawn to him. We can choose to bury our talents, but then our Lord is not enriched, we are become unfaithful, and our light does not shine.

Were we all given candles and we chose not to light them, what light then would shine to draw others to shelter? God gives us our gifts for a reason. To not light that candle, is to tell God he is wrong about you... that you couldn't possibly do what he already knows you can. It is fear that keeps the candle unlit, that buries our talents that none can be thereby edified. We fear the kind of success HE asks of us.

* * *

I have come to realize that as much as you might want something, that something may not want you. Sometimes you have to let it go, and set your sights on something else. Only pain can result from chasing what does not wish to be caught.

riding thE elephant

I spent five hours at the National Peanut Festival last night manning the station's tent, in the company of three folks who were veritable strangers. They are no longer strangers but that hardly means we are now friends. I learned some things about them, shared some things about me-- all that remains is for the fallout to occur. There is always fallout in opening up oneself to people you don't know well enough to trust.

It was another lesson in becoming someone new. But then, that's not exactly right. People never change... Ever... unless God does it; and even then, that old person isn't really gone. They're just covered with someone else's clothes... someone else's righteousness, but your old self can still wreak havoc in the lives of others and in your own. Someone has given you a new shirt, yes, but the skin beneath it is still the same... get it?

I met a soldier last night whose unit was the one that took out Uday and Qusay... Saddam's sons. He was wanting advice on getting into journalism-- he was getting ready to retrain for journalism within the US Army. I told him when he left the military to make sure he knew how to shoot and edit, maintain a decent demo, and apply at a smaller station to get some experience. It struck me how meek he appeared. Not that he looked weak or beaten, but rather he looked... unfulfilled, or perhaps in desperate need of a change. Life can do that. And I should know.

It's been a long time coming but I've reached a tipping point. And it is undeniably, unequivocally, a tipping point... a crux, if you will. I've felt a change coming for the last few years, and even more these last few months and weeks. But in just a matter of days I've come to realize the futility of hanging on to the relationship I've been "hanging on" to for the last 21 years.

Do I love her? Undeniably. Does she love me? I believe she does. But she will never marry me. And each and every day that passes only serves to reinforce the understanding that the misery I feel now being NOT married to her, would only multiply several-fold should we marry. I love her but I am miserable. She loves me but she is miserable.

I used to think that I could accept her unconditionally; love her in spite of the character flaws, and idiosyncrasies that totally turn me off. I used to think it was the lack of sex that kept me from being happily in love with her. But sex, I've come to realize, has nothing to do with whether or not I am happy in my relationship, such as it is. I don't feel valued. She speaks about me in my presence as though I were not in the room; as though she were speaking about me to someone else. She repeatedly speaks about the kind of man she needs, in front of me, as though I don't already provide those things she thinks she needs. But this last week she has, deliberately or unintentionally, sabotaged my efforts to leave this relationship. And I don't know whether to be furious or depressed.

Actually, I'm both.


Next to our tent at the festival, was an animal tent... dog shows, camels, and elephants to ride-- in a ring no more than 30 feet in diameter. I saw kids and their parents climbing a mounting ladder to settle themselves into a special saddle upon the elephant's back, and I suddenly felt sorry for the elephant. Is the elephant happy with its lot? What does a happy elephant look like? Is it content to ferry kicking screaming children around in a tight circle hour after hour?

People... humans... think themselves so superior, but what makes them think such? Because they can leash a wild animal and force it to the indignities of servitude? How often do we hear of elephants "going rogue" at a circus? escaping the tents and rampaging through the city streets before some police officers have to finally kill it? Often enough that the image is easily conjured in our minds. Were those elephants happy? What was the final indignity that broke the proverbial camel's back?

I ask myself these kind of questions often enough that they are easily brought forward, and today, typed out here. And I wonder if there's a parallel to be found between that poor beast at the Fair and my own situation.

I have gotten so used to the chain around my foot that I haven't even bothered to try to escape. Fear of being alone has kept me from even trying to break that chain. Instead, I have allowed myself to suffer the indignity of a relationship that doesn't even pretend to nurture the man God created in me. Sure, I'm allowed out in the sunshine and fresh air... physical needs. But what of the need to be happy? to roam free? even as a monogamous husband a man still needs freedom to be what God has created him to be... without chains, without denial. No! It's not about sex, or the lack thereof, it's about the value another person places in me.


So. I've been saving money to move out. Out of fear or an act of sabotage the would-be missus deliberately short-changing the household's needs, tucks a sum of money away somewhere in her room (yes, we sleep in separate rooms), and forgets where she's hid it.

Fast-forward three days: She needs an emergency dentist visit to the tune of $150, demolishing all the cash we had to get to next payday. I knew I was going to have to dip into mine just to get us there, but I didn't expect what would happen next.

Rewind a month back. She was to pay both of our insurances on X, but come Y she still hadn't paid it... she was too tired to deal with driving "all the way across town". Now comes Z, and with both of us in the car, me driving without my seat belt on, I get pulled over. Long story short, a ten dollar ticket for not wearing my seat belt, and a three-hundred fifty dollar mandatory court appearance for not having proof of insurance. And she STILL can't find the money she lost. And she needs this, and that, and we both need this. And now this morning my car won't start. The engine turns over, but it won't catch. Yeah, I know what the problem is, and I know what the problem REALLY is... that I can't possibly get the car fixed AND pay the court fines, AND put money aside to escape my 30 ft diameter circle. Things will continue on as they have... the only sunshine I'll get is when I'm trotted out, saddle on my back, to be ridden and kicked by screaming selfish brats, and their clueless parents.

Knowing this then, I have a decision to make. Do I allow myself to continue docilely accepting my lot in life? Or do I break free and run, even though the guns await me in the end?

Am I afraid? I most certainly am. But what other choice do I have? Because continuing to wear that saddle is no choice at all. I was meant for broad savannas and cool wide rivers. I was meant to spend my life with someone who gets me and accepts me as I am rather than with someone who only desires to saddle me and heap indignities upon me. I am ready to be loved. I am ready to belong to someone. But I am tired of being the object to which a child points and shouts, "I want to ride the elephant!"

I don't feel right about posting this. But I'm going to do it anyway. I don't view it as a pathetic bemoaning for attention or sympathy. I'm choosing to view this as bravery because how many other people out there feel the same way but are likewise afraid to break their chains and flee, guns be damned? To those who feel the same as I, don't wait as long as I have to run.

What good is a dog if its never allowed to run? Why is it we always feel the need to leash those things we desire to call our own? I have no desire to leash ANY woman who chooses to love me-- that's right, chooses. I desire only to love and be loved, and to trust implicitly... knowing and accepting that trust is often broken. But with freedom to love and be loved, comes the understanding that trust IS broken. You must be able to acknowledge and accept that truth to truly be free... KNOW your trust will on occasion be broken, and ACCEPT that you will forgive them. For no one is perfect. For if God can forgive them, can I do no less?

I'm in a right tight financial pickle at the moment. I know it will not last long. I know I will be on my own by next summer's end-- hopefully sooner. I know a good many things, but what I don't know is if someone will ever love me the way I desire to be loved. For that, I place my trust and faith in God, who alone is perfect, and will in His own time lead me to green pastures... beside still waters... who will bless me with more than my cup could ever contain, more than my table could ever support, more than my heart could ever fathom. I will not be that elephant. I will no longer allow myself to be so ridden again.

something rEally bad

Moving through the eastern sun
I saw you first upwind of tomorrow
Hands caressing the long tall grasses
Heart swung knells of bells you rung
For all tomorrow's sorrow
And here I am wanting, wishing too
For early morning and morning dew
Wanting and wishing only for you

I caught you in the noonward tides
Sun above, beginning to fall
Embraced you in these arms of summer
Raim'd in love and light besides
And dreams we swore, nor did forestall
Now here I am wanting, and wishing too
I'd caught you in the morning
   ~Made love upon the dewy dew
No more wishing, but wanting of you

The pipers in the trees
Orchestrating accompaniments
To the rhythm of our cries
Perfect echo to our sighs
Safe in long tall grasses
Away from all their prying eyes
Something really bad could happen
Were it not for our many allies

Sun falls swiftly in the sky
Shadows threshing our lover's bed
Our dewy bower in sepias warm
Where long tall grasses yet lie
Where love, life and promise wed
Yet here we still are wanting, wishing too
We could see again the morning
   ~Make love upon the early dew
Ever wanting and wishing for you
   ~You for me
Ever wanting and wishing for you and
You for me
Ever wanting and wishing forever for you
And you for me
Wishing again to be

Pipers in the trees
Orchestrating accompaniments
To the rhythm of our sries
Perfect echo to our cries
Safe in the tall grasses
Away from all of their prying eyes
Something untoward might very well happen
Were it not for all our many allies
Here in the tall tall grass
Ever wanting or wishing for you, and
You for me
Ever wanting and wishing for you, and
You for me
Ever wanting and wishing forever for you
And you for me
Wishing again that we might be
Again


ELAshley
110309.111456.6
I'd like to think there was a melody in my head while I wrote, but rarely is this the case. Not a particularly inspiring title. Perhaps I'll change it. But not today.

I listened to David Gray's Babylon (Live) throughout this effort which was written for a specific someone, but I'm not willing right now to say for whom...

If you want it
Come and get it...
Let go your heart
Let go your head
And feel it now

Revisions:
110309.104203.6
110409.031117.6

thE circle of life

Pepe is a friend of mine. He's scruffy, and short and absolutely loves tomatoes. Something else, he absolutely hates getting his feet wet. When outside, if the grass is wet or even lightly dewy, he will stay on the sidewalk or driveway, never venturing into the grass... he's just picky that way.

Even when its bathroom time, if the grass is wet, too bad mister concrete, you're getting shat upon. That's right, Pepe is a dog, and when the grass is wet he will do his business on the sidewalks. So, imagine my surprise the other day when I noticed three tomato plants growing in the crack between the sidewalk and the grass. What's up with that, I thought. Then it occurred to me... I sweep his leavings to the verge. In the fullness of time, three seeds, having survived Pepe's GI tract, have sprung to life. Pre-fertilized.

The bad news? Autumn is beginning to settle in; colder temperatures and colder winds. Those three hapless seeds picked a bad time to demonstrate the wonderful circle of life.

Come spring I intend to let Pepe gorge on Roma tomatoes, then take him out to the garden where he'll be allowed to poo to his heart's content, saving me the trouble of planting. Let nature take its course.