Genetic Transduction

Careful Kyle and I went out for Sunday drinks. There’s a little bar that has a free pool table and two-dollar Pabst Blue Ribbon that we go to. We were having a good time when a guy named Lorcan started to mouth off to careful Kyle. It was unprovoked. Lorcan just didn’t like him for some reason. Maybe it had something to do with the turquoise sweat shirt Kyle was wearing. It made him out to be a dork. Lorcan wouldn’t shut up and he looked much like a dork himself.

I vouch for Kyle I told Lorcan. He’s a good guy. A crowd gathered around. There were four men now trying to defuse the situation. Lorcan keep at it. He was a new arrival from Ireland. I guess they have a different way of doing things in Ireland, more direct. Kyle wanted to leave, but I persuaded him to stay. This Lorcan guy was nuts. He wasn’t making any sense. He didn’t like Kyle and he didn’t even know him. He didn’t know that Kyle had hidden talents for making beer and that he was a good guy who was lost like the rest of us. I finally convinced Lorcan that Kyle was worthy of his respect and everything calmed down.

Come to find out that Lorcan means troublemaker in Irish. And Lorcan was Lorcan the sixth. He came from a proud family of Lorcan’s. It all made sense then. He was the joker from a long line of troublemakers.

We have royalty here! I said. We got back to drinking.

Press On

I’m woefully inconsistent for this blog thing. There are events happening in my life but I don’t feel like writing about them.

I woke up in the middle of the night and heard an owl hooting. I liked it. I thought of him sitting there patrolling for rats and mice. It was comforting to hear.

I’m reading O Pioneers, by Willa Cather, finally a book written by a woman I can appreciate. There was that other book about bee’s written by Kid something. She’s a good writer. I didn’t finish the book. I’ve been meaning to get back to it.

I’ve been working on the short story, re-working some stuff. That’s the process re-work until it feels right. They almost never feel right. I could spend my whole life re-working my stuff. Good ideas turn sour the longer you let them sit. But it’s the process. It’s almost as if you get more intelligent by letting it sit for a while. It’s interesting how one day you think your writing is good and the next you see it’s limitations. Time brings insight. I wonder why that happens, or how it happens. One day you’re smart, the next you’re a dull average being. I’m glad I can see the difference, sometimes intelligence is no-more then knowing your limitations, but even then you have to press on.

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.