Gaia Community: maze's Blog

martha's heaven

http://maze8.gaia.com — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 23:21:01 GMT

Silly me, I have no idea of someone's heaven or hell. But I could make believe. So, from here on in, let us pretend. I was talking to Mike the other day...a man I never met on this plane...and I asked him, what's it like being dead. There was no reply. I asked him again and of course you probably know the answer. He didn't say the burden was lifted, he actually said nothing at all. I surmised it was because he was still mad at me for posting his picture on the internet. I should have given him credit for snapping a shot of that old barn...or was it an old mountain...damn my memory is so shallow. I imagine his wife is pretty sad. He left without saying goody-bye. Or maybe he did when he uttered to her...good night honey, I love you, I'll see you in the morning. Death is so stupid.I'm not dumb, I know we all have to die, but death pisses me off because of its timing. There's this sweet line from an old song that goes: I love you in a place where's there's no space or time...but guess what, it's not so sweet now that you're really gone. You fucking piece of shit you. And now, even though I believe we will meet again, I'm really not sure. We took a vow that mentioned something like... until death do us part, actually I'm not even sure if we said that, or we both had our fingers crossed behind our backs...or maybe most of our relationship was unspoken when we committed to one another, or maybe you never really existed and this pain that I'm feeling now is not really real. Regardless, I have this void and real or not, I want some sort of sign from some sort of nebulous entity that there's more to this than just simple faith. I want you GOD, to shout me a message from the heavens of my dreams. Amen. And if this should happen, it's Tom's heaven too. & ours too.

Book of Job Seatrain Song of Job

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add to the ad

http://maze8.gaia.com — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 23:56:09 GMT

Nothing should be complete. Actually nothing can be complete. This life is a process. This land is your land this land is my land from here to the gulf coast whatevers. Property and territory are stupid. This is mine. Oh yeah, this gun is mine and I'm taking your mine over. End of point. Shift to another topic. How about my son's birthday today. He's 27 and weighed in at an even 9 pounds as the record shows. I don't like stupid. I know, I should never have used that word. I know, but when I said it, I thought it was appropriate and then, after it blurted from my mouth via the brain I had this mini thought that oops I chose the wrong word. And this has nothing to do with Sigmund. Sigmund has been replaced by medication. Trial and error chemistry. Try this for a bit and if it makes you feel like killing yourself call me before you do. What should I do if it makes me feel like killing someone else. I'm not sure, maybe you should see a psychiatrist. What insurance plan do you have. Very limited. And yet, I think I would feel much better if I had some prettier nails and a lot less cavities. And possibly a different nose. And maybe a different mother and father for the next time around. Or a different line of demarcation. Or an evolutionary ascension. Or a transfiguration. Or maybe just an end to the feeling that there's something out there that is more than this. Or the knowing that what it is that I want to add is frivolous, and it all adds up regardless. But wait...one more thing...this land is your land...be free. feel free to fuck around. Pow a firecracker expodes in celebration.

Woody Guthrie's "This Land Is Your Land" as Reimagined by Concern

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for you non believers

http://maze8.gaia.com — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 00:24:49 GMT

Of course there are miracles, why would there be a course in miracles if there weren't any miracles. You sexy thing. I don't believe in miracles as much as I believe in a lucky streak. Good luck has to eventually run out and in my mind, this has nothing to do with god or karma. Come on jesus roll me a seven. Holy fuck a five and a two just when I needed it the most. I swear to god jesus that I will throw these dice down for the last time once I make enough money at this game to pay off all my dishonest debts honestly. Another 7, but this time is was a four & a 3. 5&2, 4&3 &6&1, which is hard to believe that this was done alphabetically for you non believers. Now let's do it numerically. five and two, four and three and one and six. I'm still in the game and for this I praise you dearly jesus. Your sweet name jesus rolls off my lips as I roll the dice. Snake eyes, You fucker you. A lightning bolt. oops...lost my head. THOMAS!!! yes dear lord, I lost my head for a moment. Come here and touch my wounds again. Will the real jesus please stand up. All three contestants stand. Not one of them is pretending to sit back down. One is a swarthy looking mid eastern male, the other is an overweight black woman from the bronx and the final contestant looks like michael jackson, which I'm sure will be disputed. Anyway, I'm not sure it's necessary to quit rolling the bones for any reason. Except maybe that you've tired of it and want to move on. Two fours, two threes, two two's , two and a one, 1 & a five, 5& a three, seven and a possibility that is way beyond my comprehension. But please....have faith.

Hot Chocolate - Every 1's a winner 1978

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the flux has sped up

http://maze8.gaia.com — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 01:31:47 GMT

I love to nest in my comfort zone but it's getting a lot less easy to do. Mostly because the nest rearranges at a lot quicker pace than I can sometimes handle. And I'm not even sure if this is true and I'm not even sure why I'm even writing about it tonight.But I have to, because I had this thought in mind for this blog and suddenly it went poof. Of course things change...I mean could you imagine an existence where everything just fucking stands still. This is going nowhere. The bride and daughters just came in and we are all discussing the drama they just experienced elsewhere. A change within a change that I was thinking I would talk about tonight. And there is so much kitchen drama going on in here right now that I can't even think straight. Ha. I love it though, because in this crazy reality of our household there's about three different stories going on simultaneously There's the story from the gathering of the afternoon at Aunt Fanny's apartment to clean out her stuff, the story of Kellie being pissed at her 4th of July week end schedule at the pizza place she works at, the story of a brother in law being bitchy because he's constipated and a few other stories too....especially the dogs we harbor getting overly excited about all the dramatic dialog going on in between me shouting shut up goddamit over their whining. And so, this has been going on since cavemen days. It's all about fucking and the consequences of that thoughtless animal act. And for a moment it got quiet. It worried me a bit. It was a tad longer than a lull. I looked up. Two must have had to go pee. I collect my thoughts again wondering what it was I cared to say tonight. It's thundering, Nothing anymore....and yet....there's always more....or less or maybe even hope.

Dave Mason Cooper River Park" World in Changes"

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self help

http://maze8.gaia.com — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 00:48:52 GMT

Do yourself a favor wake up to your mind life is what you make it you see and still you're blind. Just another song from a long time ago. Some may remember it and some may think it's so new. It doesn't matter....keep smiling each phase of your life. I'm not a preacher or a philosopher, mostly I'm a bullshitter. But there are times I actually believe what I'm saying or writing has an element of truth to it. And really I know better than that. Usually anyway. Hopeful illusion seems like a good explanation of of how I feel mostly. I love love, but it's so intangible. It's really real the way I feel. And that was just another line from a song. I would say that every word here is a line from a song. It caught you. It caught me too. We too. Whee. What do you think the most popular song is besides om mani padme hum ? It's yidra. Say yidra ten thousand times and it's yours and you and yidra are all together possibly sitting in an english garden to wait for the sun. And then, you are content that you know the walrus' plight and you know that you have to do no more than to just sit quietly and breathe deeply until the next book that you're looking for will give you better directions. In the meantime though, you may think you have achieved what you were searching for. That's fine. You may even have to die with that in mind.

*Billy Joel - Just the way you are*

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spending

http://maze8.gaia.com — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 22:23:02 GMT

Matchbox 20 - Closing time

today in ann arbor packing son's stuff in car so we can haul it back home so he can haul it off to his next station in life. It's hot and and so what. I'm taking a break. I don't like using his laptop because he has no mouse. We will be leaving sometime tomorrow morning. But, we have to enjoy a few pints of pale ale later on after the packing is done. Right now he's arranging what should go and what should stay. I will help with the grunt work when it's all arranged. This is a chunk of his life that I'm sure he will miss. All of his friends have gone their seperate ways, connected now by cell phones and the internet. The last time I was at this apartment it was robust with chatter and party, Ok....so here's some song ...and then...after the song.....maybe some rest...and maybe some quiet.

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moosh

http://maze8.gaia.com — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 13:45:21 GMT

Our first daughter Malina was born on this day twenty-five years ago. I remember the day well. We were scheduled for a 10am appointment at the hospital to determine if my wife was going to have to be induced into labor because she was already 10 days past her due date. I had just come back from a 4 mile jog and was in the yard puttering around in the garden when my wife suddenly opened the kitchen window and asked: how long are you going to be farting around over there...I think I'm going into labor. Holy shit, don't panic...let me panic from here on in. For us, birth was always a mystery. We never knew if we were having a boy or a girl so, we always had two names going on just in case. If Malina would have been a boy...I'm pretty sure we had the name Jacob picked out. We already had our Luke so we figured Luke and Jake would be a nice combo. So why not name the child Jake to begin with you might be thinking....nah, that would be too easy. I love how names take on different variations. Malina is an unusual name and from what I've read...it's a Spanish derivative of Magdalena...but it's also a Polish word for berry...and my wife also accuses me of always wanting to make things sound Polish. Like when I used to call Malina... Malina Mooshniego when she was a toddler. Mooshniego is not Polish, but to an Irish bride, it probably sounds that way. The same goes for our Kellie Noel who I tagged with Kelka Noelka. And Julie Rose became Rousa and she now is lovingly called Rose by me and Luke sometimes was called Lukasz and sometimes Boogie Luke...but now Luke suffices. Sometimes nicknames stick...why I don't know. But today Moosh is 25 and as much as I love Malina....I'm glad moosh had some staying power. And with all my kids....I danced with them all in the front room with Dr John singing....such a night. What a crazy song...what a blessed life I have.

Dr. John - Such a Night

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bless me

http://maze8.gaia.com — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 00:19:04 GMT

Headstones - When Something Stands For Nothing

I must confess that I miss you. Forgive me for departing so abruptly. I had to shit. I know there's been movies similar to this experience, most notably the one with Ben Stiller, who for some reason I don't much care for. Which is odd, because I have not met him personally to converse. Would I like Ben Stiller face to face over a cup of tea. Or Phyllis Diller too for that matter. Or that fucking lanky goofy guy with the big teeth or Martha Stewart or any other other character that comes within the boundaries of my scope. I like you...I dislike you. You're a good guy...and you're not so good. You're a good woman and I like you more 'cause you're so damn bad. And you out there, whoever the hell you are...you're a pimp. Here's a question for you tonight...is a pimp lower than a whore, or are they equals. wtfwjd. My bet is, that we're all in this shit together. Jesus fucking freaks, far sighted jews, stinky muslims, wishy washy agnostics, & how can I post this when there is no god to bless me atheists. btw, since the muslim world owns the internet...I really don't believe they are stinky....I actually think they're pretty cool....they sell me beer even when their license has been suspended for 20 days because they got caught selling to minors. And you know what, stink is just about as vulgar as retard. I don't think bastard is a big thing anymore, but what the hell do I know. So actually, I'm pretty much saying something about nothing. But saying that....I'm glad I popped back in here tonight...and I want you to know....I love you.

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9:22 pm

http://maze8.gaia.com — Thu, 28 May 2009 02:22:10 GMT

OK....that simply means to me that I should not be blogging. I had a meeting to attend & I made 324 excuses in my head to not attend that meeting. I attended and thus it's now 9:23 some where. It's probably later, because I like to pause a lot. Don't you love it when people define you. They may say things like...you never rest...you do too much, you don't eat enough...you eat too much ...you don't do enough...you give too much...you don't give enough & et fucking cetera. Abbreviated thusly from 9:33 pm forward efct. The phone rang in between so forgive me for my lapse. The bride just called. It's pouring cats and dogs on the way home from the cottage where she and her sister and our daughter Julie were doing some cleaning at the cottage 31.7 miles away from home. I'm not good at math or numerology, but the way I figure, so far tonight these are pretty good numbers. Add to this: 3847 and plunk the sum of it all, divided by two for the next race at Pimlico. Or if you live in Maryland...you may want to play those numbers for the mid day quick four. It's still not raining here. I have experienced rain on one side of the street and not the other. It didn't last long, it was fleeting. The rain suddenly stopped all together. It's raining...it's pouring...the old man is snoring in Paraquay. Some of you know what I'm talking about. This is a metaphor. So four plus metaphor equals what? I'm not quite sure...all I know is that the dogs are barking and the bride must becoming home. It's 10:14 pm. The bride's aunt Barb just called from Pa. asking about Aunt Fanny. Look at the time.

The Rolling Stones - Time Is On My Side

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you may have had one of these

http://maze8.gaia.com — Wed, 27 May 2009 00:49:16 GMT

A day where by its end you wonder...where the fuck was I today. I don't know who said this: life is in session...are you present?...but a few hours of my day was like that up until now. Suddenly I raised my hand and said: here. And this time the professor didn't say: go back to sleep Mr. Mazur. I won't recount my day for you even though I did accomplish a lot. This is less about accomplishment and more about mindfulness. And really, even though I'm thinking about it, it has more to do with feeling than thinking. I was busy most of the day, but it wasn't a good busy, it was a busy that was preoccupied by something else. Maybe dread...I was thinking about dread yesterday. Dread resurfaced. I love stupid dread. I love the way it just pops in uninvited. No fucking knock, just dread in your face. The place is a mess, no beer in the refrigerator...and there's fucking dread hanging around. Excuse me while I shift a bit in my seat...this really isn't about dread today, it's something else. In my reflection, as I write this blog to you, I can honestly say that I'm not aware of any dread that I felt today. My dread is dead. And that's okay. But what if it's not dread that I'm really talking about...what if it's hope and joy. What if hope and joy are dead along with dread. A day where you dwell in the comfort of numb. And guess what...there is no such thing as a day. For me, I find that quite refreshing, dreadful and humorous. I think I'm trying to define malaise. Or torpor. Or maybe nothing at all. Yes, now I feel better. It is nothing.

Beatles - Nowhere man

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fondly,Thomas

http://maze8.gaia.com — Tue, 26 May 2009 01:13:06 GMT

I'm fond of this snapshot I took this morning. It wasn't what I thought I wanted to capture, but it ended up capturing me after all, after a little cropping and quick fixing. It's not great, but fond isn't all that great either. I'm fond of you. Do you remember anyone ever telling you that they were fond of you. I'm telling you again...I'm fond of you. I never used to think that fond was a good word to use, but now I'm thinking differently. I'm not asking you to enjoy the snapshot just because I'm fond of you either. I'm fond of my smirking right now. I'm fond of not making a whole lot of sense. I'm fond of the fact that Rosemarie Saunders used to sign her Christmas cards to me....Fondly, Rosemarie. When she did that, I never understood what she meant. I'm fond of you. I'm so fond of you, I want to fondle you. Very few people have a fond recollection of fondling...especially the fondlers for fondling inappropriately being classified as molesters and perverts. But, who's to say. I'm fond when I'm not judged too harshly. And I'm fond of when I catch a gaggle of geese floating by in a pond. And did I say, I'm fond of you. I will not fondle. I'm not fond of how the geese fucking shit all over the place in total disregard of where I step and I step unconsciously in their poo...and you, did I say that I have this fondness. No, that's not true....I'm really not that cautious...I love you. & will you be fond of me even tough I was fond of this song a long time ago...

The Trashmen : Surfin' Bird ( 1963 )

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ruah

http://maze8.gaia.com — Sun, 24 May 2009 23:49:11 GMT

Today I won't intrude on the dying, just the dead (although there is a connection I'm sure). This afternoon I spent a few hours decorating graves. Mostly family, but a few non family too. If I had a truckload of petunias, marigolds and geraniums I'd probably decorate them all. Even the nasty bastards that lie there too. I really don't understand much about the spirit world and I don't think I'm overly religious or superstitious, but I do have some sort of kinship with cemeteries. It's the one area of most cities that people revere. Scared grounds. A place to get some fresh air amidst the rot of bodies. Although nowadays a lot of folks are opting for cremation, so possibly in the near future more and more cemeteries will become abandoned. Our kids kids will be scattered instead of buried. Anyway, before I get way off track, let me say, that this blog is for Michael, Martha's husband, who recently left this plane for another realm. May he rest in peace. Martha asked me earlier why I haven been blogging as much lately. I have a few reasons and a couple of excuses, but knowing me, I would say pure laziness is the main reason...which makes it more difficult to make it new. And so now I'm looking up at the title of this blog and I notice the word ruah. It's Hebrew for breath. But before I get into that, let me tell you about Joseph whose tombstone is shown today. I never met the kid, but his stone is directly behind my parents at St. Adalbert's cemetery. Joe was born a week after me in 1947. He was killed in 1967 in Vietnam. I got to nam in '68. My father was buried in '77. Probably since 1977, I've been putting a flower or two on this kid's grave. So now you know. But here's another oddball thing I did today. I visited my bride's aunt Fanny in the hospice room at the hospital. She's 88 and shutting down because her cancer has spread all over. I nudged her...she opened her eyes...I said something...she said something...her eyes closed...we played this game for a while and then I figured it may be best to let her rest. I sat there and watched her breathe. And then I thought, holy shit, I'm getting breath from the dying. And then I began to blow breath her way. I wondered if she could feel my breath from a few feet away. And, I just blew some breath towards you. And I'm taking in yours. And right now, I'm blowing out a puff of every dead person's breath up into the heavens. Ruah.

Every Breath You Take-The Police w/lyrics

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flow

http://maze8.gaia.com — Tue, 19 May 2009 23:25:20 GMT

I'm eating pretzels. The stick kind. Crunchy and salty too. I'm pouring a glass of beer from a forty. None of this has anything to do with the river styx. The pretzels are dry, I need a sip. Here's to all the dry mouths out there. This is my simple life. A corner in a home, an old laptop computer, a bottle of beer (large by some standards) and a handful of salty stick pretzels that don't taste stale. Thank you. What an easy practice. Practicing gratitude. The beer was made in Milwaukee maybe, the pretzels and the rest of this extravaganza I'm appreciating was made not by me and who know's where or why, but goddammit it's all a part of my joy that I'm attempting to tell you about. I would tell you about the sadness I'm feeling too, but it's rather shallow. It has something to do with the pretzels in my almost empty bowl. Which reminds me. I don't much care for this half full half empty bullshit. It's a worn out metaphor, don't use it anymore. No matter which way you say your glass is, you're a fucking liar. I don't believe in half anything. Even though I do things half-assedly for the most part. Not according to me, but to whomever said that silly shit about me to begin with. I don't like most standards. A good percentage of them I do seem to follow, especially when they pertain to health and safety. But I don't pay attention simply because I want to live a long life sitting nightly before this lighted screen with a jug of beer and a bowl of pretzels...nope, not at all, it's all about hypocrisy. Mine mostly...and sometimes yours. But ultimately, I have no say in any of this. Call it god's will if you wish. Call it anything you wish. For me, I feel it good to pause now and then just to say thank you. Whereabouts unknown.

The Tea Party - The River (acoustic)

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brb

http://maze8.gaia.com — Tue, 19 May 2009 01:12:16 GMT

Excuse me, one of our cats was begging. And this damn cat knows me, so that's why she begs. We have three domesticated strays around here and each has their own unique story. This particular beggar cat that I'm talking about tonight has been around here for so long that I have forgotten her story. But that's ok...she wasn't really supposed to be the topic of tonight's blog. I was going to talk about something else, but that energy has left me. All but for her subtle beg. We have a routine around here...I pretty much take care of all animal feedings except for the evening feeding for the cats. That for some unspoken reason has become the evening chore for my bride. And that chore doesn't get completed until somewhere near 11pm. Unless of course I succumb to the subtle beg of an ancient cat. None of our cats come by me and purr or nudge me by my ankles with their head when they would like some of my attention, but this one comes as close as ten feet away from me and just sits. No meow, no noise...no nothing. And once I catch a glance of her sitting there, with nothing more than a glance my way, I know I'm not going to be able to ignore her until my wife wants to give the cats their evening feeding. Tonight my wife came home at 8:30pm after a visiting her aunt in the hospital. After asking her how her aunt was doing I then said to her that I just fed the cats. And my bride's immediate response was...oh good. Which made me immediately think of some sort of conspiracy in the cat world. Anyway, I just loved the way the setting sun was doing all these cool things in our house and I felt like writing about that earlier...but the damn begging cat somehow got me to pay attention to her.

Arctic Monkeys - When The Sun Goes Down

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kita

http://maze8.gaia.com — Sun, 17 May 2009 23:29:10 GMT

Have you had any kita lately? Kita is a Polish word for tail. Dogs give good kita, but when a cat is wagging her tail you better be careful. Last week while we were away, we worried that our dogs wouldn't be too sad with us away and that they'd be enjoying their walks. Since our daughter Malina and her fiance Eric were leaving a day after us, they were in charge of the dogs, before Christine (Malina's friend took over the doggy detail). When we leave for out of town, we generally have friends and family take care of our pets. Only one time since we've been married (May 1981) we left a pet at a kennel. (Rush...our Springer/Lab) It was a sad thing. When we returned and got to the kennel we thought old Rush would be happy to see us...but instead, she got out of the cage and just looked at us...we got no kita...she was pissed, I assume because we abandoned her. It wasn't until much later that we began to get some genuine kita form our beloved Rush. We vowed shortly thereafter never to leave any of our pets in a kennel. However, in this year of 2009 I believe that most kennels realize the pet separation anxiety thing and they go out of their way to reassure us that Spotty's environment will be as comfy and homey as possible. In fact, one place wants you to bring a few articles of your unclean personal clothing along with your pet so that they can tuck it away in the cage with your beloved Spotty while you're out of town having a good time without him. (her) And hopefully you'll get some good kita upon your return. It was actually nice to get this snapshot from Eric while we were away. We felt joy that our Bindu was getting her evening walk, and she was flashing her kita and that we were about to get a young man officially next June via the institution of marriage that understood our need to witness kita 360 miles away. Kita abounds....may you experience some tonight. Even if it has to be in the form of a purr or an eye glow you get when you do something nice for someone.

Friends - Old Yeller

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peacocking in perspective

http://maze8.gaia.com — Tue, 12 May 2009 00:59:36 GMT

My girls tell me I peacock a lot. I'm not about to define the word or go on to tell you how I don't think I peacock a lot, but coming home last night from our trip to Ann Arbor and our son/brother's graduation from law school I was shocked immediately by our neighbor as we were unpacking our car when she asked me if I had I heard about the shooting of a U.B. grad. And I said no, because I hadn't been listening to any local news on the way home. Let's just keep it simple....Javon R. Jackson, 23, of the Bronx is dead. He received his B.A. in electrical engineering hours earlier. The details and puzzle parts are being put together. At approximately 3:15 a.m. he was shot and was taken to Erie County Medical Center and pronounced dead.Senseless life sucks that way. There is no rhyme or reason to this existence. Stupid fucking shit happens every second of our lives. Even if outcomes are precipitated by bad choices, the Monday morning quarterback is more useless than the quarterback passing the ball into the opponents hands .And then, that's when the pundits and psychologists enter the game. Time out! There is no such thing as time. I'm glad for this one and that one and I'm sad for this one here and that one there. And in this mix all I can do is pray for all of us.Which I know means nothing. But goddamnit, at times I get so pissed off at the senselessness of it all, that I ramble on until I reach the point of Amen. ...

Lynyrd Skynyrd - That Smell (live '77)

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no direction prone

http://maze8.gaia.com — Thu, 07 May 2009 01:40:13 GMT

To me, prone is predictable, so I like it when I take alternate routes on my way home. Push when I should pull, go left when I should go right, walk when it says don't & maybe even piss in the wind. Honey, where are you? I'm at the corner of walk and don't walk. Well, are you anywhere close to a place that sells cream of tartar? Did you check the cupboard, I'm pretty sure we must have some in there. I did check, and we have a little McCormick container of cream of tartar...but I think it's old, and I want to bake this special (whatever the fuck it is...cake, pie or cookie) recipe for the annual ladies of good charity bake sale and I want it to be not only good, but fresh tasting too. Yeah honey I have to agree with you on this one...remember the time we went to a bake sale at Corpus Christi school and we bought the chruscki...and we detected the taste of cigarette smoke. Yes, that was gross. It kinda makes me wonder what bad cream of tartar would taste like. And come to think of it honey, I have no idea of what cream of tartar is, or, what it does, in the realm of baking. Does it have a taste, or is it just a substance that makes people run around and go chasing for. Something like a left handed wrench or a sky hook. I really should find out more about this substance, for it seems to me, that it may have more value than diamonds, or zircon for that matter too. I suppose it depends on what you're prone to believe in. Some I have heard actually believe in gnomes. And me, if I could get this little make believe gnome like person to assist me in finding the least expensive best version of the best local cream of tartar powder....I'll call it a night.

English Sunset - The Moody Blues

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placement

http://maze8.gaia.com — Wed, 06 May 2009 00:19:45 GMT

Last week I was in my wife's Aunt Fanny's 2nd floor apartment to pick up a few things to bring to her in the hospital. An apartment where Fanny lived alone. A place where she mostly lived in one room (the living room) and then probably the kitchen and then, the bathroom. The least utilized room is probably the bedroom. Fanny slept on the couch in the front room with this newly purchased flat screen tv that she surprisingly became enamored with. (which makes me sometimes wonder about me because I haven't found a flat screen tv that I enjoy) Regardless. The other day I was asked politely by the bride and her sisters to go to Fanny's apartment and pick up this and that. (for those of you who haven't kept up with this saga...Fanny's in the hospital) So I went. I don't much care for going into someone's space uninvited.And yet, going into Fanny's bedroom that hasn't been functional in years, I felt like I was entering the most sacred of sacred places. And of course, the mother fucking shit asshole dick son of a bitch that I am, I snapped a picture of the display on one of her little dressers. I knew this was an invasion , but I also knew, that this was an opportunity to allow someone else to witness what it means to be alone with no direction prone. It made me realize that I know nothing. It brought me, for a moment, to the sacredness of everything,

West Side Story-Somewhere

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visibly representing existence

http://maze8.gaia.com — Tue, 05 May 2009 01:39:53 GMT

We're only dancing on this earth for such a short while. I'm not sure where this is going. I'm still in a pissy mood. I left North Carolina the other day with a huge unresolve and today I find out that Martha's husband Mike has passed on too. Yes, everything passes. But at times, there seems to be a freeze frame of sadness. So I'm thinking nothing stops, not even death...and yet, certain events seem to stall greater than slow motion. Stupor comes to mind, like the one I can experience in a dream. Like when I'm running away from something and my fleet feet seem suddenly to fail. I become suspended animation until I awake in a startle. The unsettled heart pounding relief to the dumb brain. Phew, it was just a dream. Actually, I had a dream last night and I was having a conversation with a man who just died. And I asked him....can you tell me what death is like? And he said, it's no different than this...except that I don't wake up anymore and have to do all the stuff that I had to do. Unfortunately, I woke up after not getting more questions answered probably because I had so many things to do today. I did mow the lawn, I went to the bank and the supermarket, & I did visit my wife's aunt fanny. It almost seems like it was a full day. And even if I said I did absolutely nothing today and it seemed empty, it was still full of what it was regardless of how I defined it. I'm somewhat chuckling because something is telling me that I may never know. And really, I'm ok with that too.

Them Changes (RIP Buddy Miles 1947-2008)

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the aerodynamics of confession

http://maze8.gaia.com — Mon, 04 May 2009 00:36:45 GMT

Boy, there's so much shit out there that I don't even come close to understanding. Flying ranks right up there for me. You could explain it to me all day long, but at the end of the day I still consider it a miracle. It defies my limited logic. But I'm not going to get into the details, but primarily I would say, it has to do with the fact that I don't much believe that there is such a thing as the end of the day. And actually I hate when some people use the phrase...at the end of the day (blah blah blah). There is no such thing as the end of the day, let alone blah, blah & blah. So what's the point? The point is, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I had to divulge this truth to you. And what truth is that? Nothing dies. Except however through confession. A true confession absolves you from your past. A lot of shit is fad and it's difficult to ignore fad when it comes back around. (nothing dies) But, (and this is a strong but) if you were truly strong enough to openly deny the fad (even though you succumbed to it before) & later came to the realization that you were just being a follower and that bell bottom pants with 3 inch cuffs were not really cut out for you and you publicly confessed this...I dare say the next time the fad resurrects itself you will not fall for its power. And trust me, you may still be tempted because some folks will be looking pretty groovy in those duds. And of course, there is no one out there that has the power to tell you to turn the other cheek, to not pretend to yourself that there's a possibility that you may still look as groovy as someone else in bell bottoms with three inch cuffs....no, no, this is not what I'm talking about at all. What I'm saying, is that we confess because we forget. And that's pretty fucking sad. Why am I so forgetful and why do I do this thing to poor old me all the time all over again. Truth is, I'm not all that poor or all that old.

Feeling Groovy - Simon & Garfunkel

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