The year my father died he melodramatically, as only he could, pulled me by my lapel down to his bedridden face and elicited a solemn promise that i would never quit writing - ergo i write, however painfully. If you have been reading the saga of my journey to face certain death, my last blog entry contained besides my usual smarmy self-righteous sanctimonious observations about my relative moral superiority - an account of having been knocked to the ground by a holiday hasty Mercedes Benz.’ (my christmas eve gift was a polite declination by the injury attorney i’d approached about the ‘scene of the crime’ due to the grey area of my ‘green light does too short of a yellow light’ transgression; however i was trumped by the offender’s apparent relationship clerking for a ‘cheese’ in the local star chamber.)
I used to believe with conviction in my capacity to overcome physical adversity of any kind, but this youthful fiction was always consistent with the ‘hothouse’ cultural environment my semi-privileged upbringing that suggested such a conceit was my birthright when my mortality and the un-prosecutable afore mentioned chariot of power drove over my arrogant presumption; i’m okay, having started out a little cock-eyed; i now possess just a little more character, a lot like gilding the lily. However, my existential stamina which has never been in short supply due to an apparently inexhaustible supply of cosmetic raison d’etre; is now nearly exhausted as an aged ex-expatt itinerant stone carver with a broken wrist and no prospects save an ignorant willingness to cross the DMZ of post-Jan 6th corporate insurrection ‘merica to stand shoulder to shoulder with any anti-corporate renegade brigade looking to face off against the nascent pre-apocalyptic ‘merican apologists. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke, or as the now deceased, but not forgotten Doug Rubardt, late of 60’s Telegraph Ave, Berserkly sandwich shop, cum restauranteur fame, “Joke ‘em if they can’t take a fuck” R·I·P·, may your personal decency ride through the eons of space and time to lovingly inform cosmic cardiac muscles anywhere.
Ma is in her deathbed and the ever mindful eldest has organized a ‘zoom’ Christmas that included me; though he was present on my arrival back into the states when i bought my first telephonic device in 8 years abroad - a ‘Consumer Cellular’ flip phone incapable of such techno feats; well played elder brother - you do Cain proud. The great thing about writing is that no matter what sanctimonious rabbit hole you wish to wander down in search of the holy grail of innocence - there you are - facing no one, but you yourself the author. In the background just now is the Xmas day gift opening ‘feeding frenzy’ that the holiday has become replete with matchbook toy track that has its own propelling device that sounds just like a poorly tuned sewing machine. The shrill captive birds understood this morning’s noise explosion as an invitation to ratchet up their incessant piercing plaintive squawk as though with the right decibel their ‘music’ might crack the barrier of my self-referential flinty heart which finds no welcome for the shrieks of delight that the material-gain of this holiday has come to represent.
The upside is that the dearth of feeling that object oriented’ celebrations have choked off, leave the region of compassionate understanding wide open - fallow fields long untilled and lacking appropriate DNA, ’heritage seed stock’ to grow anything other than what the corporate consumer shills have picked to propagate. I do not know what to plant and consider myself extremely fortunate to be able to string words together - the existential doubt that has replaced my former implacable confidence is now icing on the cake · my own twist on Marie’s sage pronouncement of “Let them eat cake.” Pop was right to wring from me the solemn promise to never stop writing, for having slogged through the past 48 hours cherry picking ideas from a shattered future and attempting to forge meaning in a life that is no longer anchored by the chimera of delusion i’ve used to hammer out meaning - my opinion about this holiday has no bearing for anyone but myself and my creative lodestone which had been yoked to recognition and ego is now fleeing down the ‘rabbit hole’ searching for any feeling of relevance which only ‘work’ can provide.
Previously my youthful focus on power, force, and grace created an endlessly uniform panorama that obscured the crevices and pitfalls that one can only recognize from within whatever limited perspective into which one has tumbled - much like the Arizona landscape one views on approaching the Grand Canyon. To get in and out of those vastly different terrains, one must know and understand the use and function of which skill to use when - a skill which when developed using slight modifications, and clear well thought out purpose allows for a much easier and effective transition from smooth uninterrupted landscape to many varieties of challenging landscapes; all that is necessary to master these gifts is that desire which Martin Luther King so eloquently articulated “If you can’t fly, then run; if you can’t run, then walk; if you can’t walk then crawl, but whatever you do you have to keep moving forward.”
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joyeux du noël - a sonnet ·
what i love - laughing at a poem title;
don't knock it 'til you've tried it, like blank verse -
starts out oafish but skeins to pin-point subtle
nestling nicely with guffaws plucked from tears
what's to any holy day without joy?
solemnity devoid of nurturing;
compulsory gifting · love me - buy toy
seating in our soul's throne a long dead king?
we calcify if we will not alter
the Tao said when you die, you are rigid
when are born you flex and are like water;
odd that men’s life maker is called turgid
frolic has no place not knowing sorrow
just as now is becoming tomorrow
jts 122422 Christmas Eve Day
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