The Book

I sold another book. It surprises me when that happens A perfect stranger walked into a bookstore and picked up my book of poems, and bought it. What are the chances of that? I want to know who these people are, and thank them personally. They make me happy.

I’ve been trying keep busy. I’ve been working on short stories, and practicing my guitar. I’m still building my cabin, still trying to get the siding up. The cabin is built on a slope and the slope is getting in the way of productivity. I dug a trench to lay some pipe to put in a sink. The gray water will run out under the cabin to what will be a vegetable garden. I’ll have to fence the garden in they’re a lot of varmints in the area, squirrels and possums, skunks, things that like a free meal.

I’d like to take a trip somewhere, Harbin hot springs, or Milwaukee, Denver sounds nice. I need to go somewhere, anywhere. I need to meet new people. I need to drink in a new environment. Los Angeles is getting me down. It’s stagnant right now. At least for me it is, of course it’s not. There is so much to do it’s hard to keep up. I don’t keep up most times.

Time to stain my floor. Good-bye.

Pictures

It’s occurred to me that photographs have made the transition from nostalgic to narcissistic. I suppose they’ve always been narcissistic to some degree, which makes me think that history contains a sense of narcissism. But if narcissism is present in the attempt to preserve history, why that just might be the best use of narcissism ever.

The Black Uniform

The other night I was driving in the rain. I was on my way to a lady friend’s house to share some comforts. I was almost at her house when I slowed to make a right turn. The rain was coming down at a sprinkle, but the conditions were enough to bring a fog to my windshield and for some reason the streets seemed darker than usual.

I didn’t bother to put my blinkers on. I eased into the turn nice and slow. When shockingly I noticed a man standing three feet from the curb on the street. He was an old man. Dressed in black. He was wearing a black hat. And had a long white beard. The only thing I could see was his face. I slammed on the breaks and compensated the steering wheel to avoid hitting him. He shuffled back onto the curb to avoid being hit. The man was a Hasidic Jew coming back from synagogue. I nearly killed him. The black uniform at night was a down right danger for all parties concerned. The man could’ve used some blinking lights, or reflecting armbands, anything to keep the uniform.

The Tree Trimmers

It was just after seven thirty in the morning when I heard the faint sound of a man talking in Spanish. Shortly after that I heard the high pitch humming sound of a chain saw. A few seconds after that another chain saw started up. I tried to sleep it off, but I gave up and made some coffee instead. It’s the lord’s day for gods sake. I thought about calling the police, but that seemed like a lot trouble, and chances are they wouldn’t even show up. By the time I figured out what number to call the tree trimmers would be packed up and gone. I guess that's the price you pay for living in the city.

I read the paper on line with the sound of chain saws in the back round. The paper was disappointing the same mumble jumble bombings from religious factions, and what not. When holy people go to war, it looks bad on religion. I grabbed my guitar and battled the chain saws with a song from the Kinks, Sunny Afternoon. Great song excellent craftsmanship, a real bitch to sing though.

The Harmonica

I found my harmonicas. Last night I drove the hills of Los Angeles with the moon peeking through the clouds, blowing a blues harp in C. It has to be one of the loneliest sounds god has ever created, but there’s something soothing about it as well. It requires the breath and when I’m thinking about the breath I know I’m living. There’s a simplicity to the instrument, anyone can play one. All you need to be is living to play. Just blow right into it and move it around your lips. I was playing at red lights and noticed pedestrians looking at me while they stood on the corner waiting for the light to change. At first I was kind of shy about playing in front of them, but what’s the shame in creating music. It brought a smile to one woman who was the unlikeliest of sorts. I recommend the harmonica for most applications. It travels well and it’s rare that someone will become irritated by it. It’s not like a guitar. A guitar is trickier to present. If you whip out a guitar you better know what your doing. You can’t be bashful with a guitar, but you can with a harmonica, you can sit there and blow it softly, or get crazy with it and blow it hard. It has a circus quality to it that makes sense in most situations. It’s the instant Leaprecon that you can carry in your pocket. Give it a try.

Tu Fu

I’ve been reading poems for a Chinese poet by the name of Tu Fu, from the Tang Dynasty (713-770). I’m enjoying them. The poems are lucid and easy to read, not too heady and clever. I tend to like poems that don’t require me to think too much, but after reading a good poem I’m thinking a lot.

When I was young man writing a poem was a chance to demonstrate my poetic abilities, my voice was formal and my ideas were not as clear. I was more romantic in my word choice, only to realize years later that a good poem in my view is a good story communicated as simply as possible. Intelligence is pointing out the obvious. Pointing out the things that are right before your eyes that you see every day and wonder about, but for some reason you can’t put it into words. That’s what makes for good comedy. A comedian who can point out the obvious is generally funny. And that’s what makes for good science as well. Intelligence is just a stones throw away from stupidity. The genius of E=MC squared is it’s simplicity. Great writing on the other hand can be many things to some, but to me, it is simply entertaining.

My Invisible Audience

I spent yesterday avoiding people. Lou wanted me to meet him at a bar in Pasadena, it was some kind of benefit jam. I couldn’t do it. I’ve been to that bar a thousand times and a thousand times I’ve gotten depressed. I needed to be alone. It’s not uncommon for me to feel that way. I can get impatient with people when I feel that way, no matter what the conversation, it well strike me as dumb.

Usually, when I feel like I need to be alone I’ll think of the past, and how it relates to the future. I’m pretty hard on myself at times. I’ll think of my mistakes and feel real bad about them, and when I ponder the future I feel empty inside. It speaks volumes for staying in the moment. The truth is, unless I’m working on something artistic I feel a drift, confused. The problem is I can’t create everyday. I need to rest from time to time, and it is on these days that I feel, empty purposeless. It’s a new revelation. It has never been so clear. I always thought that it was the path I had chosen for myself that had brought upon those feelings, my failure in art. But now I understand that it’s the lack of activity that makes me feel bad. When I’m not writing, I’m not praying and when I’m not playing music my soul welts just a little bit.

I’ve built this cabin. I’ll post pictures at some point. Drop me a note sometime, my invisible audience.