I got home late from work and opened the last of Harry Potter in the back yard. I had three cigarettes and a pack of wine coolers. As the book, the final tome of a series totaling thousands of pages, was winding to an end, the floodlight kept turning off, being motion sensitive and on a timer, and so I stood up periodically to wave it back on. All the while, I made steady progress through my vices. The light turned off for perhaps the tenth time at the precise moment I read the closing words: "All was well." My third cigarette had also concluded. I crushed it more gently than usual and sat in the dark for some time.
I'm too tired to record all the build-up. Make yourself really sad and then listen to the last 1/3 of Mississippi. Imagine that you have the whole Mississippi River dammed up inside of you. Then imagine that you don't.
Before Hemmingway perforated his skull, he was fond of a game in which the object is to swing a ring on a string and catch it on a hook a dozen or so feet away. Hooking the ring requires technique, and whisky helps. If your cares are free, the sun or moon will carve a great arc while you play.
The other day, my friend hung a ring from a tree in the back yard and installed a hook in the side of the guest house. He had some knowledge of the technique and was stoned enough to compensate for an appalling lack of whisky. He hooked the ring with some consistency. I decided to practice by myself.
Later on, some dudes showed up with enough paint on their dungarees to suggest walking canvasses. The ring swung repeatedly, thunked dully off of the guest house, and occasionally clanged when metal contacted metal--a near miss. I emerged to show my social graces but almost immediately taught that the ring and the hook can get together. However, my luck was not to last. Someone said that my karma had expired.
For some reason there was a painting of Gandhi on thin plywood in the back yard. Attaway, one of the painters, had the idea to remove the hook from the wall, push it through the plywood, and then hang Gandhi on the side of the guest house. The third eye would reveal truths to patient practitioners of the ring game. Such joy would be transmitted directly into our hearts with each clang that held. Such wisdom would be absorbed just by looking into the face of the man.
I can tell you that I am one of the luckiest students of karma for I have ringed Gandhi firmly in the forehead. It is with some excitement that I humbly submit to you Gandhi on a string.
I rolled a couple of threes and I cut my hair To prepare for the rest of my days Already well underway And I've already made the mistakes I guess I'm finally awake Each ray is intoxicating as I step out of the shade You light up my day, see, just by being what you were born to be So I will loan my heart to you, and I don't want it back soon
With mood lighting. Open G tuned down a step. The low C growly notes are only possible in the morning after a deep summer dark. I wrote the lyrics as a text message (a first).
Picked up the house. Sunday blues. Sunday blues. Sunday. Packed you up and off you zoomed. Sunday blues. Sunday. Didn't say what my mind was thinkin'. Sunday blues will drive me to drinkin'. Didn't say what my heart was feelin'. These Sunday blues have got me reelin'.
That which is sweet and deep as a canyon Turns my skies a deep summer dark in the evenin'. That which is sweet and deep as a canyon Turns my skies a deep summer dark in the evenin'.
Today my mood was... threnodic. I don't know why MySpace doesn't list "threnodic" among the many mood options such as "giddy" and "dirty". I wondered which of the usual causes had stirred a plaintive bird in my soul. The morning song began: "You're not young now and you can't deny it this time, chirp chirp. So shut up, chirp chirp". The afternoon song went: "That girl could break you. Caw caw. Why do you open yourself up to such things? Caw, caw." Since birds get quiet after dark, the evening song started with buzzing flies and stopped with the delayed and sudden realization that four years ago today she died. Threnodic. You don't get too many mothers. How nice of the world to sing to me mournfully all day until I woke up.
I sat at the bar at the Chateau Wednesday night and borrowed a pen from the bartender. The ink spilled out, making the following shapes on my napkin.
Ce n'est pas toi qui choisis l'heure. C'est l'heure. Et quand tu penseras être prête, Car tous les nuages seront obsolètes, Que ce ne soit pas ton visage De vieillarde en retraite. Un poème de plus, peut-être, qui naît D'un coeur qui, seul, (se) bat. Or, deux à te compter Si tu me prendras.
The Babelfish machine translation looks like this:
It is not you which choose the hour. It is the hour. And when you think of being ready, Because all the clouds will be obsolete, That it is not your face Of vieillarde in retirement. A poem moreover, perhaps, which is born From a heart which, only, () beats. However, two to count to you If you will take to me.
At a certain moment I found out that it was Friday the 13th. I half accepted that I would probably die and I thought self-indulgently about the things I would say through my cell phone in the sky before we slammed into New York, New York in Las Vegas. We had a bumpy landing but we were not atomized.
One of the ladies in my row spent the entire flight explaining about how she talks to God and how God tells her what to do. She was trying to get the lady next to me to join a "discipleship" program. I think you're ready for it. God is laying this on my spirit. Yes, I think you're ready. Do you think you're ready? You're ready. The emergency slide partially deployed so we were forced to wait in the plane for an extra few minutes. You're ready... Damn right, I'm ready. To get off. Freaks on a plane.
A large lady tripped over a small man's rolling luggage and fell in slow motion. She seemed to have a hard time getting up. As the doors closed and the tram pulled away from the moaning lady, I hoped those nice people around her were stronger than they looked.
The cab driver was fairly certain that God had cooled Las Vegas by ten degrees so that the people wouldn't lose hope. He also speculated that there is a hidden city underground that secretly powers the fake Las Vegas that we see on post cards and in televised poker. Did you know, by the way, that this city will sink into the earth when the underground lake is sucked dry? I thought, what about the underground city? Is the underground lake also beneath the underground city?
I watched a cop run to catch, and then get physical with, a suspect on an overpass. Judging by the perp, I could believe that hope beyond simple desperation had long ago departed this city. Like a an old dish rag that still works but which you throw away if only to keep the kitchen presentable. Maybe that's what was going on.
Anyway, last time I was here, there was a shooting at New York, New York. I can't wait to see what happens on the Strip this Friday night the 13th.
When you went to France And all the bells rang You walked down streets at 3 AM Talking to me I stumbled sometimes as I said a few things
Your call rang through as a plus 33 I answered the phone as international me You were talking through Paris at 3 AM And I hung on every breath
When the chime spoke up to announce the hour You looked at the dark clock face on the tower And how many days could those hands spin round Before it got said, before it got out What I love about Paris, what I love about Paris, what I love about Paris Is that you're in town
Now that the Deke has short hair and doesn't look as much like Mr. Cobain... now is the perfect time to record a few lines of Nirvana shit. Also, I did this to test just how easy it is to record video using my Mac. It is insane easy. PCs just need to die and get out of my way.
