The Body Good

            I ate something that my body reacted violently to. Food poisoning. The body is an amazing entity. My body fixed itself by expelling the foreign matter that it did not recognize to my well being. My operating system detected the abnormality and countered attacked with reverse peristalsis and diarrhea. It was a two-pronged attack that was highly successful. I suffered some discomfort during the campaign, but war is not for the timid.

            After the third battle where there were causalities on both fronts, my body was overcome by an inferno from within. Perspiration welled up from my interior and exuded itself on the exterior. I was drenched in sweat. In an instant the war was over. I felt much better. I was cured. It was a miracle. I cured myself, or my body cured me for me.  

A Day Late

            I’m trying to stay focused with the art. It’s not easy. I tend to need periods of rest to gather myself. I’ve been writing tunes at such a clip I can’t remember the words to them. I’ll write a song and then move on to the next one, and forget about the previous song until I have a whole bunch of songs I don’t know the words to.

            My plan is to record a song a week until I have them all on tape, or hard drive. I need to pick up the pace, at the rate I’m going I’ll be old and gray before I have it all recorded.

            When I ask myself if I should die tomorrow would I be content? My answer is no. I’d like to leave behind a finished body of work. All I have right now are a few recorded tunes and some demos that I recorded at home on GarageBand. My writing is in better shape. It’s the music that has fallen behind. Of course I have old tunes from long ago, but those don’t count. It’s the here and now I’m after. 

The Birthday Poem

            I have a goddaughter named Natalie. She’s going to be twelve. My gift to her has been to write a poem on her birthday. Her birthday is coming up so I’ve been working on the new poem. I haven’t written her a poem that I’m proud of yet, but I think they’re getting better. My first poems to her were poetic. I was trying too hard to be clever or smart. I’m not interested in that anymore. I’m more interested in the story than the poetics. It’s never easy writing a poem for somebody. It’s intimate, kind of gooey. It can leave a poet feeling vulnerable. I wonder if she appreciates it, or feels equally gooey. I should probably ask her. 

Soup

            I went to the Japanese market today. I sat down and had some udon soup and tempura shrimp before I did some shopping. I think I may have been Japanese in a past life. I have a real kinship for the culture. However, I also have an affinity for the Korean culture. I like things that are pickled. Kimchi. I like dogs that have the name Pickles. I like sauerkraut. 

             I did some research on Dashi. I read the boxes to check the ingredients. There was a lot of variation. Some had chemicals and some didn’t. I have it in mind to make udon soup at home someday, but I can’t ever just buy something. I have to research it over and over before I make a decision. I do that with everything. I’ll go back and check the udon noodles next. It’s a lot of work for a bowl of soup.  

Occupy

I caught a cold. It’s been a while since I’ve had an affliction. It’s slowing me down some. When I was a kid I’d stuff my pockets with vitamin C and tissue paper and call myself good. Nothing could slow me down then. I was a lot tougher in those days. Back then the smog alone could burn a hole in you, but that’s another story for another day.

I’m thinking of taking my guitar down to city hall to occupy. I’d like to voleenter my services to keep things moving. The state of the world is such that in some instances the political right and the political left are converging. I’m not talking about politicians. Politicians are in their own coin-operated world. All you have to do is slip them some money and they’ll spit out what ever you tell them to. I’m talking about the proletariat, and the bourgeoisies. It’s getting to the point that on some issues such as banks and corruption there’s commonality. I’ve never seen it like this before. That’s when you know the aristocrats are digging their own grave. The only thing the aristocrats understand and respond to is money. When the workingman gets hip to that fact, I mean really hip, that’s when the sea will turn into an ocean. 

 

I Don't Speak the Language

I stayed in for most of the day. When I finally left the house I looked down at my shoes and I realized I was still wearing my slippers. I remedied the problem and went on my way.

            It has occurred to me that Los Angeles is full of want to be’s. They come here from all over the world and take on a strange insecure approach to life. A simple email can turn into a calamity. It’s asking too much for a response. Maybe it’s the way of the world now a days and I’m out of touch, but when I was growing up your word was golden. Folks don’t even try to be polite anymore. That would be too easy, you have to stretch it out, make a game of it, use your power. A simple email can turn into a sexual escapade in an instant. Being communicative is almost like making a pass. It’s nuts! The thing about it is, the real people, the nice people, the cool people, the people who should be movie stars, the people who are polite in Los Angeles often times don’t speak the language. 

Capitalism is a Bitch

            I got a handle on the song I’ve been working on. It came to me magically the other night. It’s working out pretty well. I’ll fiddle with it some more, and work out the details before I sign my name to it.

            I helped a friend move yesterday. It wasn’t easy. His wife is a bit of a hoarder, and they weren’t all that organized. To top it off his wife had bad ideas. My friend and I were doing all the work, but every once in while he would defer to her for ideas. She would inevitably say something that didn’t make sense. I ignored it, but it didn’t do much for my hypertension.

            Capitalism is a bitch that’s the way I see it. I‘m a capitalist, but I don't need much. Sometimes I wonder if folks have their heads screwed on right. The furniture my buddy had was heavy. The bed frame alone used half a tree to make. There was a marble table that looked like it took a huge chunk out of Italy. There’s half a mountain side missing somewhere in the world as a result of this table. Yes indeed, capitalism is a bitch, a back-breaking bitch.