Maybe All of Our Thoughts Are Misgiven

Baby, baby, I don't wanna leave you, But I ain't jokin' woman, I got to ramble. I can hear it callin' me the way it used to . . . I can hear it callin' me back home.
                                   "Babe, I'm a Gonna Leave You" -- Led Zeppelin

What the heart has once known, it will never lose. -- Harriet Beecher Stowe

For days, since my last stop at this bloglspot, I have been thinking about some short stories I want to write. Or maybe it will turn out to be just one lengthy one, with a bunch of 'what's it about' themes entangled. The moment of unsought adrenaline, a momentary headlong shove into deep fear and foreboding -- the push that actually got me racing to communicate this -- appeared chimera-like (resembling the horrid flash of a photo camera), in my car's rear-view mirror, some days ago. And then it was simply over. As I was driving and daydreaming, I had braked. Sharply. And I had almost crushed the car trunk of the guy in front of me. I had rudely come upon a stopped-dead line of cars -- on the 264-West freeway exit that runs down and over, toward my workplace. From the corner of my eye, glancing up toward my tell-tale mirror, a pick-up truck -- as icy cold and red as any blood one has ever seen -- blew past my right rear bumper. So close! Going easily 80 or more. My car and I rocked to and fro in its wake. A mere razor's edge away. Right beside me, like a robed-and-masked executioner swinging into action, so close I could almost grab his ax . . . Or did it go by? Did I unknowingly die in a crunch and tangle of auto-metal and human spirit, not fully grasping in my front-brain yet an undeniable horror?

{{Deep breath. Eye roll.}} {{Oooohh right. I forgot to take those pills again today.}} {I'm running late for everything.}} Okay, now. Glance up, look ahead. Yes. {{Grab the wheel tightly.}} Breathe like you mean it. Alright, I'm still here. Okay. Then, damn it, heaven can effing wait. (The red truck went on mindlessly, darting in and out of heavy traffic, rambling on like a crazed ex-psycho-prisoner around the town square, then he was lost to sight. Goodbye, sir.)

Heaven. Can wait. {{Slight shudder}} I may never lose this feeling.

I have wondered off and on what it will feel like when death really, inexorably, comes calling. A pale and bony man (all in morbid black, of course) who stubbornly refuses to go away from my front receiving room until I see him, having presented me with his crisp calling card via the hands of my hushed, eyes-down, and stunned doorman. Will it be a blink of an eye experience, a hit and run affair? Will it seem like an uncomplicated switching from one mindset to another -- like clicking instantly on command from one internet page to another? Will it be just a simple (but profound?) darkness, as in 'Oh shit! My life is a box? Now what'? Or perhaps, just maybe I say, we will all meet death's grin by actually get sucked up into some mindbending vertigo, a tossing and tumbling about, before that mythical white light shines dimly over there somewhere. Then those short, but darn big-brained, gray creatures (with those spooky black-almond 'Close Encounters' eyes, who abduct defenseless humans from their beds, among other atrocities) will extend their bony little hook-hands, hopefully grateful to see us.

The momentary whoosh of the red truck reminded me of M. Whom I had been studiously trying to forget. Several days ago, he (a young acquaintance) massaged his brain with a .38 caliber piece of merciless metal. Right into the right temple. Perfect shot, dead-on. How do you pick up that gun, young man? Steady the barrel? Finger the steel trigger? Pull. What happened, for God's sake, to you? Where did you go? How did you carry all that awful emotion, a burden that was both prodding you and calling to you, to that edge of that bathtub, to pass over and into that unrepeatable and speeding moment of mystery?

"Help me, am I slippin' into a twilight zone? This is a madhouse, I feel like I'm being cloned. . . . But soon you will come to know when the bullet hits . . .  "

Then it was all over. The truck -- the bloody-terrifying episode with M. -- All up in smoke, as it were. Almost before I knew what had happened. The traffic line, me sitting in it, remained motionless. Nothing had really changed. (. . . But me inside.) Racing dismay on the thin ice of new way? Turn the page quick, man, I thought. Repress. Click to a new Favorites link. Gotta get clear before this all comes real.

Now I realize that I just needed to tell you this tonight, whoever you are. There is something mysterious and blood-roiling just beyond my grasp here in the Friday night-dark of my man cave; yes, some entity or idea just beyond the frothy bubble-ledges of my consciousness -- perhaps a cloaked messenger, like Mr. Death paused in my waiting room, from some parallel universe -- that puts all of us, that damned madman in the red truck, and me helplessly waiting in my vehicle, and M. pulling a trigger to slice up his brain with a precisely aimed .38 (on the edge of that inanimate, mute bathtub), (yes, all of us) in the same tense. Here's the story, okay? What if the red truck really did hit me? Lethally. Smashingly. Inexorably? What if I didn't transfer into The Other way in the lapse of a moment? What would I imagine, what would I see and know? -- What or whom would I long for . . . until the full truth of that mysterious white light-shine crept up to me and into me?

Or maybe not. Maybe there is nothing that connects these dots. No such thing as present tense. Once a moment passes, it is history. Nevermore. It will never rise again. Me hit by a truck? Not likely to occur. As the ever-beautiful song"Stairway to Heaven" dreamily goes, 'Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.'

So, maybe you can figure it out. What are the next steps in the plot line for me, if there is a shor story in these ramblings here? I think there is a some bemusing little story to tell. Characters of course will be crucial. You recognize the absolute, literary truth that "plot is character." Now that my heart knows (or thinks it knows) what happened during seemingly unlinked, unhinging moments in the last week or so, there will be no turning back. If you get this -- pray tell, if you can disclose a fulsome narrative to me, congratulations. And, for goodness sake, contact me. Now, it's getting late. I am written out. I've tapped my reservoir of risk for today. You understand? I need a presence to help me go tracking down a punchline and denoument.

Will it be Muse or Monster?

Was Yossarian Right, Or Was Orr?

Washington D.C. -- October 20, 2010 -- 1:15 PM

'There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to.' Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle. "That's some catch, that catch-22," he observed. "It's the best there is," Doc Daneeka agreed. -- Joseph Heller

A stylish and pretty blonde lady, in some very classy black boots, who works on the buildng supervision staff here, just asked me a question. How is your (multi-day, very much ado about nothing) meeting going? I replied, "Stifling. Never-ending. Life-threatening." Perhaps that was too strong though. 'Soul-sucking' is the honest reply perhaps. -- She rubbed my upper left arm gently. She looked up. Her right hand lingered on my forearm. I guess she likes me. She offered great eye-contact too. Hmm.

But now: back to the misterable truth of reality. I am struggling. I feel frustrated and angry. Like a biblical troublemaker, I have been known to adopt a role in meetings like a 'voice from the wilderness.' Why are my inclinations, my preferences, my crooked opinions, you know, so different from those of others? Is it as simple as saying most are followers -- cowering settlers -- but some are truly leaders, with vision? No, not so complicated. Sometimes I think it's just that I am not as needy as the average Board meeting-goer

I am thinking about resigning this current Board position of mine. Which would seem to me a bit like a doctor resigning from a case when his/her patient has gone into hospice. Too late to say I'm sorry, and it's almost too late to say goodbye. It's strictly triage time for the organization in question, the one we are examining here. Turn off the lights. Switch off the heating unit. Pull the curtains. Oops, party's over, oops, out of time.

As Joseph Heller once wrote, 'Ekstrom would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to (attend) them -- in good conscience. If he took part willingly in more of them, he was crazy and didn't really have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to.'

Yossarian -- and Butch Ekstrom -- was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this improbable clause, this clause known as Catch-22. Yossarian whistled in amazement at the quirky theorem. I'm kinda whistling to myself now too. Sigh. Time to get back into the meeting box.

An addendum: 2 hours later.Virtually the entire group with whom I've been gathered has made a grudging recognition. In essence, it's a reality that I have been naming, in such meetings, since about 2007. Better late than never? Perhaps. I re-learn the power of patience and perseverance in politics -- and a reaffirmation of the truth that only when circumstances get dire enuff, only then, people and things willingly, even abruptly, change.

Radio Gaga, Papa, GagaRazzi

If there be nothing new, but that which is. Hath been before,
how are our brains are beguiled, Which laboring for invention,
Bear amiss.                                 Shakespeare, Sonnet 59

You've got the looks, I've got the brains, Let's make lots of money. - Pet Shop Boys

 
Author's Note: I wrote the commentary below the montage of pictures a couple of weeks before I went to a Lady Gaga concert – The Monster Ball 2010 – in Detroit during early September. Which was a whole lot like a Halloween play and color-splashed costume party, on a BIG stage, @ 120 decibels or more. What I missed, in the column below, is an important piece about Gagadom. Here it is. L.G. appeals – as escapist, clever, dance-pop entertainment -- to many adolescents, young adults, and (yes) even some older folks, like me. On stage, she reaches out to and connects with young people who have negative body issues; who feel unpopular (and uncool and outcast); who feel branded by the big L (loser); who are gay and lesbian, and who are otherwise "different" but long to 'find their voice.' Gaga claims hotly over and over that she is a free bitch, baby (note: she is not)! And she urges her audience to believe they can be free, as in more mature and self-loving too (note: they can) --– free to say what they need to; free to follow amazing and unlikely dreams; brave enough to speak truth to power; caring enough to vote; strong enough to stand against discrimination and hate-speech; fearless and full of passion. Look @ some of the pix that I took of her lively Little Monsters. Looks like a very good time, right. Halloween with an attitude and a kick. Boy George and Culture Club cubed. Pop and rock are meant to be like that, to shake you up with its bass- and drums-driven energy. In Gaga's concerts, however, the kicks roll with a cause. Become who you are! Stand up! Vote fearlessly! Get busy. Make your world better! – Oh, and, btw, while you are here, buy my $40 tee shirts, my $30 program book, and $20 CDs out in the lobby. A dance-beats girl's gotta make a living. -- Word!
 

 
     Hello again, little monsters. I have been thinking about something since I read an article last Spring called "The Last Pop Star," in Atlantic Monthly.
     By James Parker, the short piece tells unknowing readers about the short, hot-stuff, upward arc of a clever character, dubbed Lady Gaga (real name: Stefani Joanne Germanotta of greater New York city). It says, with humor, that she will be The Last Pop Star. It also shows how re-invention, re-imaging, and 'borrowing' from the styles of others lie at the rather Empty heart of crass creativity, and desire for fame and money, in our pop culture.  
      As I read Atlantic – my hairstylist June was painting a new mix of auburn color dye on the top of my head. I began thinking. Goodbye to the ash-gray. We all fall for pop culture in many ways. There may be 'nothing new under the sun.' But there are markers and little leaps – often built on what's come before; rip-offs in a word -- that shine a light on the path forward.
      I have asked, would it be possible to say something – simplified -- about a music-and- fame trend that is all about today? No? Well, maybe.
     I'll have three songs and three performers in mind. Were there, possibly, say, three 'moments' that mark how pop music and rock have evolved over the last twenty-five years? (I'm gonna exclude rap and hip-hop for now. What a huge set of leaps. But it came from disco days long gone, not rock 'n roll. (Maybe I'll write about that at another time.)
 
1. Radio Gaga: Glam, Synth-Rock, New Wave, and Social Comment
 
Freddie Mercury and Queen blew the global crowds of millions away, at the huge Live-Aid concerts in 1985, with the tune "Radio Ga-Ga." The big crowd sang along.

All we hear is Radio ga-ga. Radio goo-goo. Radio blah, blah. . . . . Radio it's true. Someone still loves you!

A lament. Since cable TV, and rock video (around 1981), had became 'the thing.' Rock and pop radio stations did not fade away. They paled. It was time for them to be 're- engineered' so they would appeal to listeners young and older.
         But, Radio Ga-Ga? The title seemed surreal. Like gag me. Too much down one's throat. Overly full. A spit up or back reflex. Actually, the song lyrics first were "ca-ca." (Queen lost that phrase quickly. Ca-ca mostly is a slang term for feces.)
       "Radio Ga-Ga" was a clever song. It was a leap. It brought together trends of the day. Glam rock, synthetic (computerized) music, New Wave sounds, and a dip into the tricky world of simplified, social criticism.
       (Time out: New Wave and Synth were romance-like music styles – by David Bowie (also a flashy glamour artist), Spandau Ballet, Ultravox, Duran Duran, Flock of Seagulls, Boy George, and Thompson Twins . Synthesizers took over. Real guitars and drums kinda disappeared. This new wave, synth-pop rose along with MTV.
       Want to impress? Claim that "Radio Ga-Ga" was a true marker (born in 1984-1985) that reflects some trends in pop music born 25 years ago. It drew from things that came before. It re-mixed them with flash and pop (and Mercury). It laid out a "new and improved" kind of idea. Welcome to pop culture.
       Want to really impress? Google or Wiki-search glam rock and '80s New Wave music. Fun reading. Learn a lot.
 
2. Smells Like Teen Spirit: Grunge, Punk, Slam, and Social Comment
 
Later, the city of Seattle, and its budding garage-rock bands got into the act. Hello, Nirvana, and Pearl Jam, Mudhoney, and Soundgarden.
       Grunge rock became a kind of new word in music during the early 1990s. Yes, the bands were grunge-y. Simply defined, grunge was harsh distortion guitars, apathy, and despairing (there's little hope) lyrics. Performers belted out stripped-down, punk-ish chords (compared to, let's say, New Wave, glam, and meoldic-synth rock music). The musicians looked skeevy, scrunchy, anti-theatrical. The anti- to the drama of Queen and Lady Gaga style? Yes. Yes, a pendulum had swung.
       The song "Smells Like Teen Spirit" (1992), by Nirvana, is the ultimate grunge example of a song. It was an alternative. It was different, dishy, yet somehow echoed the before.

I was trying to write the ultimate pop song . . . I was basically trying to rip off The Pixies. I admit it. The song being soft and quiet, then loud and hard.

                                                                   Kurt Cobain, Nirvana (D. 1994)

       Kids loved it. Adults shunned it. It was a new rock 'n roll fusion. Smelled faintly like . . . trouble, all the way (if you were a parent). It was an inventive reclaiming of old rock 'n roll. Anti-glam, anti- commercial, punk and rock. -- Pop! Welcome to our shared media culture.
To this day, Smells is usually rated one of the all-time great rock 'n roll tunes.
 
3. Lady Gaga and Her Little Monsters
 
Now there's Stephanie all dressed- and made-up. Lady GaGa. And back to the James Parker article.
        There is nothing new under the pop-driven sun, truly. Not a lot of meaning. Just a drive for Fame. And money. And success. And influence. Hey, I surprised and dee-lited you with that one, did I not, my little monsters.
        A music past is being cleverly, relentlessly, re-worked and re-imaged (outrageously), glammed up, made more surreal and hardcore to the world by the Lady Gaga. As in: Gag me, woman. No more please. That's a enuff now! . . . Well, okay, maybe just one little' dance-beat drama more . . . '
       Take a look at L.G. as her real, younger self on YouTube. Her first album was titled Red and Blue. She looks normal. Italian. Dark-haired. Kind of pretty in a simple manner. A girl raised by a New York City family, who went to Catholic schools.
       She was the leader of the Stephanie Germanotta Band in NYC bars. She could, even then, belt a wicked tune – what a voice!, ah, smells faintly like punk, dressed-down grunge, dance music, and pop romance all fused up.
       Stephanie embraced her "Radio Gaga-ness." She morphed, from 2004 to 2010, into a lace-wearing, heavily make-up'd, over-the-top, neo-pop character – singing often about unhealthy pop/romance relationships . . . . while also all about dance-stomps, performance art, outrageous fashion eye-candy, and catchy tunes. Sizzle. Pop. A pendulum has swung back. (She has noted often, 'If a pop song doesn't feature a catchy chorus, well who cares, WTF?')

At first, "Gaga" wrote songs for Britney Spears and New Kids. She worked hard. She sang her heart out everywhere she could. She learned to dance. She adopted bizarre European fashions. She must have suffered some nightmares, along the way, 'monsters in her bed' as she says in one song. Have you seen some of her video dramas . . . like "Bad Romance?"
 
During interviews, she now says her multi-platinum Fame is due to hard, focused work. Rehearsals behind the curtains. I believe her. She is an outrageous, super-hot, and a fun talent to watch. Parker writes about this "The Last Pop Star":

Her assault on the culture has been meticulous. . . . It's pop music, but Gaga-dom is the thing: a persona, something like the incarnation of Pop Stardom itself, foisted upon the world. In wigs and avant-garde getups, she appears, strange-eyed - her large, high-bridged nose giving (an alien) otherness to her face. Gaga "refracts the white hot radiance of Pop."

      Oh, the drama of modern pop-art. "I pray the Fame won't take my liiiiiife," she intones with a hidden smile, dabbed all over with fake blood.
      If there is one Gaga song/video above all to watch on YouTube, it is "Paparazzi." The 7:11 minute, daring version. It's SJG  and her co-artists storytelling (painfully) about a glam, but rock-bottom, death culture -- one riveted on fame and money and despair and empty prestige.

Leather and jeans, Not sure what it means, Garage glamorous, But this photo of us, It don't have a price, Ready for those flashing lights. (You know) I'm your biggest fan, I'll follow you until you love me. Pa-pa, pa- pa, paparazzi!

         Like her persona (a starstruck stalker) in that song, her little monsters are all about today's pop culture. Many are tsk-tsk'ed harshly by adults. That's no new view of young people in rock. Just a re-found idea in rock 'n roll -- such as, those who like it are bad seed.
         Lady Gaga echoes all 25 years of pop entertainment since 1985, to a certain degree. And she outrageously serves some things kinda new onto the table. Get the picture, paparazzi? Perhaps her white-hot career will go on for a long time. If so, like the once 'shocking' Liberace did, she will be smiling all the way to the bank. 
 
What's Next?
 
         Now you know the pop/rock story, in severe shorthand, since 1985. One, two, three. What's next?
         Today, we don't know a lot. Pop culture trends on. Popular music blazes on. What goes around comes all the way back around too, right, Justin? Pendulums swing.

A Docu-Fiction Biography

Reynolds R. (Butch) Ekstrom   -- is the sole owner and cluelessly accountable writer of A Big MonstEr Blog and is a sometimes freelance writer who, as the New York Times Magazine recently said, ‘has most definitely outlived his brighter days as a writer.’ Ekstrom is currently working on a new novel, probably his last, about two politically-connected cable TV pundits -- one black, one white; one left; one right --floating aimlessly, yet somehow heroically, down the Mississippi (on a raft), having adventures and blowing stuff up. The working title of the book is Huckleberry Spin. Ekstrom resides on Shutter Island, which is somewhere out @ sea because, frankly, no one can to be around him, and his bitter and quixotic dark side, for long. Ekstrom's favorite author's motto remains: “If I’d have known people would still be reading me after all these years, I’d have written stuff that was just a whole lot better.”

Recent reviews of Ekstrom's publications:

Homepage critic, Lynn Ekstrom, exclaims, "O, Butch. You can't say all that! Have you gone dopee?" Dispassionate and objective critics have said, "A tour de catharsis. You won't want to put him down." -- Others trumpet: 'Exhilirating. Boffo. Should make a great movie.' -- Edgy and Packs a Wallopalooza. A reader from out West, Norah C., has messaged, 'I laughed. I cried. I growled. I sighed. A lot for a 1000 word piece!'

Sourpuss reviews (critics -- can't live with them, can't live without them) have intoned -- 'OMG. Another bomb from Ekstrom!' 'Tepid, Weak and Uninspiring.' The worst? 'Ekstrom has proved again that he can't write a coherent sentence in English." -- and 'Whew. Be on guard. Hard to handle. You might throw up a little in your mouth.'

--  30  --



Look to the Western Sky

Something has changed within me, Something is not the same  --  Stephen Schwartz, "Defy Gravity"

'Well , that's pretty good. (He smiles approvingly) But I hear the 31st year is the hardest.' -- Saint J.J. of Arizona


The assault by mediocre '80s music is ripping relentless today. No one ever in public circumstances -- when I'm in the room at least -- plays a palatable 1980s tune anymore (of which there are very very few, btw) -- like "Rock Me, Amadeus" or "Another One Bites the Dust" or the spectacular "Tainted Love," by Soft Cell, or an early Madonna dance-stomp or something, which @ least had a little humor, imagination, and oxygenated blood in their systems. 

Lord help us,, it's '80s muzak now, like, everywhere, all 24/7. Simulating a low-grade bunsen burner, in a lab, flickering away inocuously. Flowing, like tepid water over cold stone, into every sinew of Western culture, every crack in the four walls, every stuffy elevator in every building that needs a lift, every suburban-ready auto that whizzes by, sluicing down and thru every city-street gutter, feeding all the street-side storm drains, and (of course) across almost every YouTube viral post that undulates on a PC, like a malicious  hulk of a stranger creeping out of a dark copse of trees. -- So . . . . , that was a rapid-pulse rant: but, you get it. Clearly, this insufferable, infected stuff, from an other awful decade, is humming away freakin' everywhere nowadays. 


Speaking of '80s tunes . . With real struggle, a while back, I was trying to swallow some very smokin' pepper chicken, with curry rice, which constituted my in-restaurant lunch of that day. The soundtrack of our lives cranked up. Oh no. Not again. Mercy. I was haunted by these things the last time I ate here. Life is . . . a total eclipse of the heart  . . . and Life is . . . . 'a highway, I'm gonna ride it all night long' . . . and, forever, Life is an . . . . 'I can't fight the feeling any-more' . . . horror-show. But, But, But I like the night life, baby! -- Enough!, I whispered, sighing. Hey, now. Can't you invisible, '80s music CD-makeing fuckers see that I'm trying to stomach some midday nourishment here? Switch it. Off! I was in a local Double Dragon -- Wok 'n Roll Chinese Fare!, encircled by young and old alike of pure Asian descent, sweating over their styrofoamed food boxes and plastic forks, unable to speak any English. I wanted to lean over to ask, 'Pardon me, Lee Fong Yum, but how do you folks say 'total eclipse of the heart' in your mysterious, Asian dialect?' Oh, hmmm -- you say: c'est tu? -- Really? 'That's all folks? Toast time?' Well, that's cool and certainly not what I expected, Wok-Master Fong.

A stupid grin creased my face. Nobody looked up from their formica and styrofoam. A gentle two-word phrase began to float softly down on me. From above. Right onto me; a downward cascade of hallucino-whatever bytes. Feeling like an embrace of sorts, a kind of soothing and body-warming blanket, as in an O.R. prep, right before the real cutting-fun starts.

The first letter of that prophetic pair of words -- a big D -- swept over my left shoulder and rolled down my side. The last letter -- a big and basic Y -- slid over my right side, and cartwheeled down past the edge of my hard restaurant chair, down toward the slate floor. The fullsome words swooped around and over me, as if a hovering archangel had hushed down and around my indigestive limbs and torso. Crap! What is that? I felt some other reality with(in) me. F____. Is this it? Now?, I barely whispered, gasping, becoming afraid. -- Am I gone? (Of course, I had whispered these hot words to no one in particular. No one within earshot could grasp what I was huffing. Unless of course I had absurdly gasped instead, 'F____me. I think it's the Sesame Chicken.' Which might have at least elicited a furtive Asian grin or two. )

Over me. Floating down and around. Into me. Oof. A silent, bodiless message from someone or somewhere unseen. << Hug, hug >>  DEFY GRAVITY.

What?   (In my feeble mind: Elphaba, all green and glorified and uplifted, with perfect theatrical lighting and glittery effects, takes silent flight. Up. Up! A straight, vertical whoosh, like an arrow shot up into airy Emptiness. The raibow-hued cast of characters all around below her crane their necks. . . . up, up --

        Too late to go back to sleep, It's time to trust my instincts
        Close my eyes, And leap -- It's time to try defying gravity

Whoa. Wicked cool effect, y'all. Here come the tears. Images of transcendence always get tome, and melt the audience folk. Hey, how did that tall, green girl -- with the pointy black hat -- manage that? Hey now. Bravo!)

Defy gravity, I thought aimlessly again.  And you can't, you won't, pull me down!

(Where did that come from?) Then, quickly, the illusion, a visceral magic trick that my mind had played on me, vanished.

(I should note this to you. Every afternoon, very tired, I drive home after work on a freeway. My car passes by the local city airport. About 5:00 on the dot -- a piercing, arrow-like Canadair commuter jet, crammed with living souls who feel aches and pains, and hopes and dreams, and fears, slices above my line of sight and across my freeway. It shoots in from the Western sky. I watch it powerlessly, in awe. It's heavier than air. Still it flies smoothly, violating every law of physics  ever known by me. The sleek little thing darts in from the open, angles down a bit, and like a bullet on its ordained track races eastward fast, toward its landing spot. X marks the end, a journey completed. Then the plane is off my screen, and it's gone, and so am I down the highway.)

In my mind, red dark curtains closed up quickly, as as some hidden voice (all Wizard of Oz-ly) cried, And you won't pull me down . . . , then those stunning curtains swished slightly. Intermission now? In truth, I hadn't thought about the play Wicked in a hundred years. My gray-matter defy gravity fireworks began to fizzle, as I drove on, dropping down like sparks from an opaque sky.

80s music  About the only song I get a decent, perceptible twinge of feeling from is a 1985 tune from Theater of Pain -- that's Motley Crue's "Home Sweet Home."

For 30 years, and now a few days more, I have longed to grasp sobriety. It's an illusive state. Always a bit out of reach and out of hand. Always hovering a bit above one's bony grasp. Defy. Refuse to lose. No, chemical illusion. How many times I have said in my defenseless cranium -- defiantly but always in fear -- And you won't pull me down!


My Hearts Like an Open Book, For the World To Read, Sometimes Nothing
Keeps Me Together, At The Seams -- I’m On My Way, I’m On My Way,
Home Sweet Home, Tonight, Tonight -- I’m On My Way,
Just Set Me Free -- Home Sweet Home                                             
                                                                                                     -- Nur Hidayah
Are you the Monster, or am I? Maybe the Monster is both of us. -- Anonymous

Right Now

Today, a bittersweet irony came knocking again. It messaged me that 'a this' or 'a that' reality can look, sound, take shape -- chameleon-like -- in its time. And then, years later, the colors, and the meanings, morph. A hermeneutic struts, struggling, on. The words on the page alter. Watercolor pictures spring to life, as if not seen before. Symbols paint truths and disclose meanings wildly, unsuspected. The drama rolls. The fabric of life becomes your new right now. 

Old fashioned feelings
The new way of dealing
With love I see
These times were meant for me
No no no no no...
The past isn't anymore
The future only has in store
And round and round
and round it goes
And where it stops nobody knows
As far as I can tell
The only game in town is going down
And only happens
In the right now

-- "Right Now," Stephen Stills


Are you the Monster or am I? -- Maybe it's both of us.

Ugly Packaging

Man was (merely) matter. That was Snowden's secret. Drop him out a window, he'll fall. Set fire to him, he'll burn. Bury him, he'll rot, just like other kinds of garbage. The spirit was gone . . .

                                                                                                                             Joseph Heller, Catch-22

The dying and not-so-pure and innocent boy-man, Snowden, presents Yossarian, figuratively, with an awful truth. Or was it actually an awful question? It is and was this. Maybe there's not much meaning that can be discerned in the midst of absurd realities? Maybe there is very little -- such as a shredded flak jacket, and a sputtering and mortally-damaged flying machine --that is holding a lurching, wind-tossed, and bloody oozing real-world intact. Snowden? Some pure and lillywhite 'snow' ball -- rolling inexorably down hill -- that Snowden guy was.


There is a saying among religious fundamentalists -- Crucial truths from Him often come at ya in ugly packaging. (Like a massive snow urchin tumbling over and over down your hillside, into your chilly lap.) Not the most pleasant and inviting among messages. But the most human of temptations must not be embraced. Do not give in, you; do not gaze away.


Are you the Monster, or am I? -- I think it's both of us.

Rainy Afternoon in the Heartland

The MonstEr Blog has been watching quietly as the gray clouds slip and slide, in from the unseen West. Rain now. Coming in like big white linen sheets. Could this be harbinger? A Summer, that has seemed hoary and endless, fading finally into an unshiny Autumn gray? Friday's tarnished blues slide toward dusk.  --

"Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say."

                                                                      -- "Time,"  Pink Floyd

Are you the Monster, or am I? -- Maybe the Monster, actually, is both of us.

"Dad, I am pretty sure there is a Monster under my bed." -- Young RRE

Wish You Were Here

The question that keeps occuring to me is:

Are you the Monster, or am I -- or is the Monster, actually, both of us?

Some Think the 31st Year is the Hardest

I know that J.J. was just trying to kid me, on the phone, on that clear 9-15-10 morning. He said that the 31st year is the hardest. Still, as it turns out, he is probably going to be right. Asshole.  8-))


Those birthdays with zeroes on the end, man, there's something magical about them.
                                                                                                    
                                                                                                 -- Travis McGee

No Fear. No Worries.

Courage. Trust. No fear . . . . No more weaklings. Have patience.

I have decided to kil my old blog efforts. I want to go with this new one. Put your paws up. It's gonna get weird, and pretty fired up. I can just feel it.