is there anything of value that can be taken from my actions friday evening; the ones i can remember that is . . .

well, i do have these stories . . . bits and pieces of strangely cushioned reflections that i’ve cross-referenced with the friend who witnessed my behavior that evening

i remember taking a guy-wire to the face as i ran, right across the jaw,
puffed my lip up all to hell, my upper gum was black and blue the next morning

i love language, this strange collection of sounds and scribbles that join forces to allow for humanity to express itself to . . . well ultimately to itself (and imperfectly at that) . . . at any rate, this language thing never ceases to amaze me.

language is one of those things that you can give far too much thought to, and walk away more befuddled than you were when you started your exploration. language is fundamental to our human experience and, apart from humanity itself, about the most fascinating thing our world has to offer.

sometimes you look out at the world
and you see a trade-off that can be made
a bargain that can be struck . . .

my apologies if this
- pregnant pause -
seems diabolical

that’s your own fault
(somewhat mine now)

but what else is it really . . .
to be living?

and understand that i’m not prepared to -
(uncertain if i’ll ever bother to - )
attempt a refutation of the influence
of fate
but your life is a series of choices

my grandfather was resurrected today,
in all manner of momentarily, a whole string of instants
he stood behind me as i stared at the tangible remnant
of my firmest memory of that old man

the night before i had been out late, making an ass out of myself in a circle of people composed primarily of those whom i know in too many ways to quickly explain, there was a bottle of mescal making slow rotations and i had a drum in my lap; i’m certain that i sang, perhaps even well enough to frighten away the less foolish people whom i did not know

As grand as it is to be a member of the cognoscenti, and to revel in the fact that I can get kicks out of all manner of esoteric referents; nothing compares with the simple pleasures. I just got to spend the better part of an hour playing in the dirt of a construction site, and I’ve got the mud stains on my pants to prove it. After all, what good is a jester if he doesn’t engage in the occasional, perhaps unintentional, pratfall?

Last night I sat in the park for perhaps twenty minutes. Cross-legged on the grass, just looking out over the drop of land that precedes the street; watching the occasional car go by. One-thirty in the morning and there isn’t much traffic moving through a light rain that is easier to see in the street-lights than it is to feel falling on your skin. The thoughts I had were drunk ones, full of all sorts of possibility.

Is there anything more fantastic than following obscure notions about? Recently talking plant and myself were having a discussion; at least I think it was a discussion, I certainly can’t recall what it was that we were talking about, maybe he’ll leave a comment that will shed some light on this- at any rate, we wound up querying dictionary.com as to the precise definition of wild. The resulting page was so entertaining that I wound up treating it like a survey.

Having one of those thought-streams the other day in which I was wondering about the process of linguistic development and how it affects the way that the world is viewed. But don’t worry, this post isn’t about that, I’m not even close to the level of motivation required to tack down all my little notions about semantics and try to make sense of them. Nope, that’ll be another four years down the road at least.

When you’ve decided to quit smoking and are working on writing a novel that encourages you to peer into all the strange corners of your psyche; it’s nice to think the process is getting you somewhere.

“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.” T.S. Eliot

I love art. My favorite definition would have to be the idea that it’s very uselessness defines it. Even more than that I love stumbling across examples of how others have used this concept of art (however you should choose to define it) to live their lives.

Tired of this persistently bothersome life? Tired of getting your nerves frazzled every time you viddy the news? Well then take a deep refreshing breath and prepare to celebrate, because it’s been found.

The grand connection. If there is one.

Follow a yellow brick road of wandering on the ole’ Internet and you can end up in all manner of places. For that is what we are talking about here, that seemingly short search for some tidbit of information that will lead you to the strangest of places.

Well, I’ve done it again. I (in my omnipresent, and sometimes damning, capacity as jester) have managed to take what should be a fairly simple task, a short (2-3 page) paper about a short story, and pushed it into the realm of the private metaphysics I am apparently compelled to write.

I want-

I want to know where to begin categorizing the things that I desire. I’d really like to be able to clearly enunciate the various objects and states of reality which constitute the hunger in my heart.

I want to find those who hunger as I do. I want to find the folks who get my jokes and find irresponsible pleasure in the fact they are funny despite, or perhaps because of, the thematic framework in which they work.

The other night there was a party in the apartment upstairs. Nice loud festivity beaming down through the floor-boards to help me feel more merry in the frivolity I’d given the evening up to. At some point there comes a knock on the door, and I open it to find three attractive young women standing on the stoop.

ok… whiz bang post right here…
an honest,
very few holds-barred attempt
to wring out an understanding of
my basic essence…
and ultimately i’m just trying to stop the post teaser from giving away too much… so finally
i’ll also say
that there’s a wild nugget from
rock’n'roll history to listen to as well… so give a click… take a second out of your busy day and see if there is something here worth reading… finite jester

Well first off, here’s hoping y’all know what a pipe-dream is.

(the jester laughs in all the shadings of intentional/unintentional irony)

Should you not… check out the Wikipedia entry, and consider adding to it.

At any rate, In Praise of the Pipe-Dream. The impossible, totally irrational vista of whatever it is that you and your pipe are dreaming about in that fleeting moment it takes to construct a whole elaborate fantasy. I recently had a pipe dream which led me to believe that this post might be worth reading.

Are you proud of your pain? Is it a secret you love to share? Has the tale of your torments become the central underpinning of your identity?

Sitting here, as the person responsible for typing out the questions above, I feel required to state that I can’t recall a single person I’ve ever known worth a damn who hadn’t suffered.

Pagans!!! Witchcraft!!! The Devil!!!

Cheesy slasher movies that have a soft-spot in our hearts simply because!!!

Supersticious hog-wash that has no place being discussed in such a serious fashion!!!

I want to prove that I know what friggatriskaidekaphobia means (or at least that I’m clever enough to know where to look it up!!!)!!!

Another night where I cannot sleep. I’ve just finished reading a biography of Charles Bukowski and as I’ve been accompanying the text with martinis, it’s gotten my brain back onto the subject of artistic integrity. Not so much the drinking side of it that I previously explored, click here to read that, but the whole concept of living being a pre-requisite for good writing. Living, actually living life, taking in as much of it as humanly possible, opening your lungs wide and breathing deep of all that floats around us in its myriad ephemeral forms.

Ok so do me a favor here, wait to play the song until it appears in the text, just humor me.
Thanks…

This, I don’t know, maybe it’s-

some kind of beatnik thing.

Oh no, here it comes, one of those moments. You’ve spent an evening without the buffer of alcohol to protect you from your thoughts, the library was closed so you’re out of fresh things to distract your mind, you’ve been watching movies you’ve downloaded and drinking iced apple juice all night; peering into odd corners of the world that are revealed on sober, introspective evenings.