Lob Job

_ It’s hardball, Bob...

_ Bobby ain’t here.

_ Funny how the game changes as you get older.

_ The game, as you call it, is nothing but change.

_ You sound like a bitter man...

_ I wouldn’t know.

_ ... like life has passed you by.

_ There ain’t no life passing anyone by. I think you need your joint rubbed with some cayenne pepper paste.

_ It’s hardball, B.

_ My neighbor was on a diet. He could eat anything he wanted, provided he used this nineteen pound fork he got in the mail. He lost nineteen pounds the very first day when he threw the fucking fork out the fucking window.

_ Chai?

_ Chai.

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     ... Remember me to Mnemosyne.

     ... Day, night, day... while no one watches. 


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Heavy Vanilla

_ The greatest skill a person can develop is the ability to quiet the mind, and to listen.

_ That’s two.

_ The air takes on a certain viscosity. In putting on a shirt, one realizes that, as the arm slides through the sleeve, the body is all things. The fetters of conditioned living fall away as the inner voice participates in the long, sweet song. We, like heat off of tarmac, dissipate; shimmering and ascending, life flows into nothingness.

_ What about those of us left behind? What are we supposed to do?

_ You’ll manage... Bourbon and water, please...

_ The closest thing that they have to bourbon is vanilla extract.

_ That’ll do; go very light on the water.

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     ... Thus, within the huddle of the spoon, this.

     ... I walked to the cafe today. Hi. I am at home among the sprigs of no meaning, which garnish the platter holding the world’s weary head.


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The Clothes Have No Emperor

_ Yoooo-hooooo...
_ Over here, Gladys.
_ My, my, my...
_ I suppose you've heard the big news?
_ No.
_ Neither have I.
_ Hummina, hummina, hummina...
_ I'm becoming overly concerned regarding my ability to negotiate my way in the future; things aren't going well...
_ That, my friend, is because you are a horse's ass.
_ I knew you'd help.
_ Overly concerned with blah, blah, blah. Be done with such thinking.
_ I'm done! Let's have some chai.

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     ... I'm not sure where the crayons in my box came from.

     ... I play softball. I work the count until I get two strikes on me, and then choke-up on the bat. I don't need to hit a home run, just a good, sharp rap where nobody is. Ideally, I purposefully foul off about sixteen pitches, to the opposite field, and then smoke one down the line. I want to get into the  pitcher's head and loosen some of the screws. Yoooo-hoooo...

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Lump

_ What the hell kind of shoes are you wearing?

_ Espadrilles. They are made out of rope. What’s his face wore them.

_ Fucking hell, Tony...

_ My name’s not Tony.

_ Neither is mine; small world. Who’s what’s his face?

_ Picasso. Espadrilles were worn by peasants. Unfortunately they can no longer afford them, stylish as they are. I’m trying to simplify my life.

_ Is it possible to try simplicity? Considering the universe is in reverse I would suggest that all we need do is to cease striving.

_ Picasso had a dog named Lump.

_ And Lump had a human named Picasso. These espadrilles you have on... What is the rope made out of?

_ Ask Tony.

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     ... Imagine... as if we have a choice. Create; sustain; let go. Imagine time... imagine incense, reminding you of a life you don’t remember, but can’t forget. I’ve heard that we are born; I’ve heard that we die. Imagine not knowing.

     ... I once worked for a very special person. He never spoke, instead communicating in a silent manner; sometimes he would write a note. He referred to the infinite without of space as ‘Tony’. 


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You Are Here?

_ Howsaboy? 

_ Consuming and being consumed. And you?

_ Present and clear.

_ Birds chirp and sing the day’s dawning but they’re really not very nice.

_ All birds are birds of prey; they are just like you - consuming and being consumed. As far as nice goes, they’re just like me - present and clear. Personally, I have no idea what nice is, or what it leads to; I’d just as soon live without it.

_ We can live without a lot of stuff, and, if you don’t mind the alienation from your brethren, be a lot better off because of it.

_ I often wonder if its a coincidence that we all want the same shit at the same time; and how it magically appears on the shelf, in the showroom, or in your grocer’s freezer.

_ Or why we all hate the same people.

_ I’m not very patriotic.

_ Patriotism is a flawed attempt at realizing the essential unity of all.

_ Flawed? If it is the cause of suffering it is not flawed.

_ Consuming and being consumed...

_ Nice.

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... The numbing repetitiveness with which we go about living our lives  will ultimately be brought into question; unsought change will do so. And then what?

... I like to visit more than one cafe in a day’s time. Sometimes I even enter into conversations with somewhat rational people. For instance: Yesterday I was sitting in a cafe with my youngest daughter, enjoying the South American equivalent of Mayan chai - yerba mate; she contented herself with a steamed, mulled cider. I steered the conversation in the direction of the similarities existing between snorkeling and sitting on a stool sipping yerba. It’s all contingent on breathing... one wrong move and you’re dead. The young lady attending to our beverages agreed wholeheartedly. 


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The Jaded Dog

_ I have a bad case of the 'Ooo la-la's' today.
_ I know a lady who has no soul. She is held together by the synergistic glue produced when random thought processes are combined with copious amounts of alcohol. She lives on Hariboo's Egg Farm and is a very happy woman.
_ With thusness leading to such suchness, I find it necessary to drink my chai before I wake, whilst the Lord is deciding if my soul is ripe for the plucking.
_ You speak Spanish?
_ My dog speaks Japanese while humping the leg of the jade Buddha. He shits rice cakes; a raft in the swollen river.
_ Of course he does. He understands the ceremony.
_ Ooo la-la.

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     ... Digression is an impossibility when one is firmly situated within the unity in which all things are possible. When such is not the case we live forever in digression.

     ... I'm going to break you into the 'Walrus Factor' very gently. The basic premise is that everybody's fucked up. The rest orbits around the artist's shattering of form via form, with the result being the wide-eyed smile at the broken pieces of what was. It - shit - just happened, and the lack of an echo means it was either duck-like, or it never really happened. What I mean is: The past... is the memory of it, it? If not, what is the past? More on this later.

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Kind of Rain

_ What would you say is the essence of kindness?

_ A particular ordering of the alphabet.

_ I don’t suppose it would be of any use for me to say ‘You know what I mean’.

_ My answer to your inquiry was kindly. Picture kindness as rain. It has a beginning; it has an end; different flowers do different things with it. The rain - kindness - is an expression. If I want it to be sunny, and it is raining, I am at a loss due to my desire. The kindness of rain is in its insistent vagueness; it allows me to suffer. Kindness is not shaving when the razor is dull, nor when the mirror is broken. Kindness is that which leads to the end of suffering; kindness is the shattering of the illusion of self. All acts are acts of kindness. It - kindness - is the stranger who appears in our time of greatest need, and disappears without a trace. Look over there.

_ Where? Hey... Where are you going?

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     ... Have you heard? We are to die.

     ... Insistence and resistance... What is love?


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Look It Up

_ You are looking somewhat refreshed. Where do you find the time in a world wherein the onslaught is ongoing?
_ I don't find the time; I don't do anything.
_ There is a pause between the in-breath and out-breath, and vice versa. It, like you in fielding a compliment, is shattering of expectation.
_ Girlfriend wore nothing, save for a mantilla...
_ Ah, the spoils of war...
_ The spoils of war?
_ Manubiae... it's an old Latin word.
_ There aren't many new one's.
_ Oh, you'd be surprised. Read the dictionary.
_ A lace mantilla... a lot of girlfriend, and just a little lace.
_ What would you say to some Turkish coffee and some Moroccan hash?
_ I'm enjoying life as a vegetarian this here week, but the coffee sounds good.
_ I didn't know about the girlfriend.
_ There's a lot you don't know.

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     ... The wet crow, bruising in its appearance, arriving out of nowhere, is here to feed on the babies living in the nest under the eaves. The crow is big, almost too big, for a rainy May morning; somewhere a songbird sings. We all have to eat. The big crow caws: Num-num eat 'em up!

     ... I like to occasionally answer inquiries about my well-being with stony silence.  I like to let people know, through the universal application of silence, that just because they have arrived by boat doesn't mean that we are going to be talking about yachting. Stony silence... as cool as a sea cucumber, forty fathoms down.

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Kentucky Whatever

_ Are you putting any money on the derby this year?
_ I like to wear mine at a rakish angle, so it would most likely fall off.
_ The Kentucky Derby.
_ I actually got it at the Susquehanna Hat Company.
_ The run for the roses.
_ The point of no return supplanting the 'You Are Here' sign with a new one that states 'You Are Here'. Sort of like retracing your steps through the trackless desert of time, and wondering why you've sand in your shoes.
_ Slip into the mainstream every now and then, kiddo. It might do you some good. Hell, it might do us all a world of good to have you wet your beak in the same birdbath as the rest of us. Besides, you might get lucky and pick a winner; maybe you'll win a couple of quid.
_ The Kentucky Derby... now I remember. As I recall, the last thing you want your man in the silks seeing is a horse's ass. Ride 'em high on the haunches... Two mint juleps here, Colonel. And here's a hundred to put on the slowest horse in the race. In fact, if the nag were smart, it wouldn't move at all. It's already there, so why burn the morning oats? Just stand right where you are, horsie, and win what the others are running like damn fools after - renown.
_ There's a place for horses who don't run after they've been saddled-up and had a midget loaded on their backs. It's called the dog food farm.
_ We all gotta eat.

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     ... Flying carpets made of wool, silk and macadam. We travel on cushions of air. On what does air travel? We travel, travel, travel... busy men and busy women; our children are raised by strangers. We know and condone this because we get paid for our silence concerning it. No worries... All roads lead to home. And we all ride on a cushion of air, with the dwarf, who abides in the middle, unshaken though the seas are roiling. He would slyly smile, but that would blow his transcendent cool.
        " ... Supporting this mighty universe with but a single fragment of My self, I remain unchanged and transcendent."
                                                                   Srimad Bhagavad Gita 10:42

     ... When something strange happens are you aware of the strangeness of the backdrop wherein nothing happens? Does it occur to any of us that within all of the insane happenings of life, nothing is ever happening? I would say that my socks don't match, but they do. They match the one's that are not here. You know that as well as I do. My hat, though worn at a rakish angle, matches perfectly with the derby in Kentucky.

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Uno

_ How did you know that you were in love, the first time you were in love?
_ Ahhh... my first love... ol' what's her name...
_ It must harken back to a remembrance.
_ Go easy, cream-puff. No remembrances allowed.
_ All knowledge is recollection.
_ I don't know about that. Maybe you just thought you were in love based on something you saw in the movies, or read in a book. Maybe you didn't know; maybe all of this shit is alien to us and we try to act like it isn't.
_ What is knowing?
_ Everybody knows what knowing is. Knowing is the end result of thinking real hard, and when you grunt, you're done... you know. What I want to know is what, and where, is the 'wazoo'?
_ Were you anyone's first love?
_ Apart from my own? No. I was more like training wheels to a whole bevy of beauties; I left the mental gymnastics to the 'Trevor's' of the world.
_ You're like a cartoon character.
_ Please... I have a hard time taking anyone who wears tube socks seriously. I consider myself the human equivalent of a double-espresso - to be sipped and enjoyed, as one would a fine liqueur. With the masses intent on quantity, quality is reserved for the more refined tastes. I am at my peak flavor right now. I am to be taken straight and unadorned. I offer no substitutions, I accept no excuses. The masses opt for Plan 'B' because Plan 'A' requires effort and focus. I am not part of any plan, so plan accordingly.
_ Whoa, Nellie!
_ What can I say? I'm an incurable romantic; I sweat when I talk about love.
_ True love is never known, it is lived.
_ You are full of shit.
_ Excuse me?
_ You are so full of shit that my eyes are turning brown.
_ True love is lived!
_ You live alone.
_ A, B, C...? You've me there...
_ Checkmate.

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     ... I've studied a few languages over the course of time, and I have to say that English is the one which has given me the most trouble, especially two words - 'I do'.

     ... It's not easy being a single man these days, although, I suppose, it's impossible to be a double man, or a triple man. Whatever. The dating game has changed. It's turned into a perverse version of  'Can You Top This?'. Before I get too carried away in thinking that the person I am out with is so interesting, I pause for a second to reflect on the fact that if I didn't ask this interesting person out, they would be sitting home alone; same goes for me. I went out on a date the other night with a woman I met at a poetry reading. We were swatting around the conversation ball when she, somewhat absentmindedly, scratched her head. I, in an effort to introduce the present moment into our conversation, said, " What's with the scratching? Do you have fleas?" Our date ended thirty seconds later.

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Ocean(s)?

_ Morning.
_ Morning.
_ If it ain't broke, don't fix it.
_ If it ain't broke, you can't fix it.
_ Order me a chai. I'm going to see of the Indian Ocean is where it's supposed to be.

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     ... Shade tree mechanics are a thing of the past. I remember when you could fix an exhaust system with a tomato paste can, some wire and a pair of pliers. Does any one even use pliers anymore? Now we have to worry about emissions. Emissions? We're burning oil... What do you expect? If you want to reduce emissions I suggest you walk; if you drive a car, you are polluting.

     ... I heard someone once say that when you have children, your life, as you know it, is over... forever. I thought that was being overly dramatic; I thought that was somewhat narcissistic; I thought it was the stupidest thing that I have ever heard. 'Your life', as you know it, will be buried under the sands of time, just  like every other idiots life, as they knew it, was. Usually I give people a pass when they say what I feel are stupid statements - we've all said stupid things. But this time I didn't. I turned towards the guy who said it and started, very slowly, shuffling over towards him. Inch by inch, silent and expressionless, I closed the gap between us. When I invaded 'his space' and kept on a-shuffling he grew quite uneasy. Finally, when I was about two inches from him, and closing, mind you, he said, " What the hell do you think you're doing?" I kept on a-shuffling, expressionless and silent. He moved back, sputtering with indignation. I kept up the relentlessly slow pace, ever moving forward. Whether he understood it or not, his life, as he knew it, was over; so was mine.

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The Big Picture

_ I thought up a new word today...

_ Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink. 

_ ... Perplexion - the glow emanating from the face of one who is clueless. What do you think?

_ I heard a scratching noise coming from outside of my window today as i was watering my cactus. I found it to be a lost leaf.

_ Am I glowing? Is my face emanating a strange heretofore undefined light?... Call me old school, but I didn’t know that leaves got lost.

_ Leaf... peeper... child... thought; there is no difference, no separation, only illusion; only ignorance. We are all mindlessly searching for home. We scratch on many doors, yet all we find, at best, is temporary shelter from the storm ongoing. No matter how fast the joining, all things must pass. No matter how intense the coupling, all things must pass. No matter how deep the certainty, all things must pass. All of our attachments are as a drop to the sea - one and the same, but not, for though the drop becomes the sea, the sea is not limited by the drop. Within each drop, within each attachment are behemoths. How vast the drop... yet it knows not the sea.

 _ What sea are we talking about? I’m ready to get unsteady upon my feet.

_ The entirety of the ocean of life. Metaphors, similes, allegories... Is the subtlety of life lost on you? Know the drop as being ocean... Did you grow up in a closet? I’m talking about the whole fucking schmear! The entire ocean, the impossibility of life... all participating in a vast unknowability. What the hell is wrong with you? What do you want to talk about? The price of fucking gas? The Sam Eness Show? What sea are we talking about? I feel that now I am glowing with the newly minted cast of perplexion. Lace up your deep sea booties, my very good friend...

_ What sea?

_ Well... certainly not the one we gaze at from any shore, for even the  most proud of the seven seas is but a drop when as compared to the one that rips our clawing, bloodied fingers from the rocks to which we hold in an attempt to spare ourselves from our own end. The sea that pulls us under; that is the one I am talking about. Who are we to turn a deaf ear to a lost leaf? Who are we to turn our backs to one of our own scratching upon the door? The very door, mind you, that we all scratch at; the very door that leads to the vibrant silence, which houses all of infinite space. My goodness, man!... We had better get some sawdust on the floor for the jismo is running out of my ears, like a thin porridge down the face of the aged.

_ Remember ‘The Giant Behemoth’? That was a classic in the annals of filmdom.

_ Your attempts at dismantling my passionate elucidations do not go unnoticed; yet as long as I am in the boat, on the surface of said sea, I will continue rowing. And though I row in circles, the sea remains vast and uncharted.

_ ‘The Giant Behemoth’... What a movie!

_ Most of us view behemoths as huge creatures. We can readily picture one, though we’ve never seen. We see them as being capable of ruling vast swatches of earth, sea and sky. Child’s play, my boy, for the true b’himah spans all worlds, and is not limited by size, nor by condition. Knowing this, can we understand, somewhat, the power and sway of our attachment to the things of this miniscule world? Though we form them of an instant, they - our attachments - are b’himah, inhabiting the measureless sea of time, and sky of mind, both of which dwarf the sea and sky upon which we gaze. The sea of which I speak is so vast, and hosts such an infinitude of life, that the world of thought, though it be the b’himah of b’himah’s, circles aimlessly in its uncharted waters.

_ I’m taking my ‘You Are Here’ sign and enjoying whatever it is I choose to enjoy al fresco.

_ Tell Al I said hello.

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     ... The trees are leafing out so beautifully; and after such a harsh winter. The wonders we consider as being small are anything but; if, in fact, we consider wonder at all. We have all seen pictures of an embryo floating around in a sac of embryonic fluid. The appendages - legs, arms, etc. - push out and the sac expands accordingly - it being very elastic. That is us in this world; that is us as we move, nourished by the Mother, every day of our lives; very elastic love. 

     ... The toughest of men, the meanest cat in the alley, turns into less than a bowl of goo when they go sleepy-night. Upon awakening, after some initial confusion, the toughness and meanness return... From where?


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Funny Meat

_ We don't often talk about the meat and potatoes of life.
_ I'm a vegetarian.
_ Really? What if I told you I was a businessman? What would you say?
_ Try me.
_ I'm a businessman...
_ Try me.
_ You can be very difficult.
_ Expectations ruin everything. Relax a little... A businessman, huh? That's pretty funny. If you've ever read The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck, you may remember his defining of the process known as 'business': "Business is curious, ritualized thievery." You, and every other crook, or, rather, businessman should spend some time reflecting upon this. You're like a lizard, who has carved out a niche from where it can catch unsuspecting flies. A businessman... It's a phase. You'll get over it.
_I'm not a businessman.
_ You see? What did I tell you? Chai?
_ Grrrrh...

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     ... Sunshine bouncing off of thunderheads; marbles loose upon a mirror; broken lawnmowers; nervous people smoking cigarettes; someone who is good and stinkin' drunk while the Sun is out; bossy women who have no one to boss around. I enjoy all of the above.; I enjoy the cafe; I enjoy chai. I pretty much enjoy everything, but, honestly, I think people are fucked up.

     ... We can't deal with life - we mow grass; we can't deal with death - we rake leaves.

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Lee Harvey

_ Such suchness... What separates the jug from the water within?... O my, but ain't I something! Anyway, aren't you a sight today...
_ Get me an expresso.
_ It's espresso, axxhole.
_ Lee Harvey! Just because you have a bullet in your gun doesn't mean you have to start a war.
_ Just trying to keep it real. I'm waiting for the lenses in my glasses to change over from outdoor to indoor shading in order that I can see what the hell I am doing. That reminds me... I have an extra salad dryer. Would you like it?
_ A salad dryer?
_ Yeah. It's like a tilt-a-whirl for salad greens.
_ Is it possible to ingest a product that will allow for one to understand what it is someone means apart from what it is they say?
_ Have you ever tried the butterscotch tea?
_ Get me an essssspahwessso!
_ A bit of early afternoon sophistication?
_ Make it a double.
_ Cross your eyes, for there is no other.
_ You know what? I'm going to switch to a butterscotch tea.
_ Howsaboy?
_ Woof-woof.

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     ... The walk back through time passes the place wherein we all became brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, friends and enemies. We are to continue onward, backward, ridding ourselves of all attachment, all accessories, all stories; we are to rid ourselves of time... of ourselves. Is there a single grain of sand upon which this whole world is built? Be done with it and go behind that locked door.

     ... The color 'red'... What color is it? I saw the old girl this here afternoon on my walk back from the cafe. She looked as though she had escaped from the dining hall of the All Alone Home. She was elegantly turned out - a gravy-coated smock, mismatched shoes, and a hat that fell over her ears. I paused to greet her, having never met her before. She asked me what color was red. I told her that just before dawn, when the cosmic winds blow the unfiltered light of pure being into our lives, and the veil is lifted, she is to breathe. Then, when the great orb crosses over into the rise in a shower of downward rays, she is to release her breath in a soft song.
         She toodle-ooed, her hat waving as she went.

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Echoes absorbed

_ What's happening?
_ What's not happening?
_ I understand. The basic strangeness of being; organic participants, yet forever alienated, in a world of change.
_ That's not happening?
_ That's correct, chief.
_ Meditate more, my son.
_ Echoes banging off of the never visited vistas of silence. Dare I say that I am forever in the memory of the oneness of breath and mind?
_ And the senses? What of the senses?
_ Likewise, babe. All pointing to the relinquishment of all conditions, the very conditions that are part and parcel of our very selves. By the way, what is it about nipples? Very few things are as absorbing of our attention.
_ Gaze upon your own; call someone in the morning.
_ Nipples on men... that's all the confusion one ever need seek in this world.
_ There is an oath taken by the generals in the Indian Army, and it is the only instruction they ever receive. Upon taking this oath, they then walk around, some say aimlessly, with nothing more than a begging bowl and a staff. They, like the turkey buzzards on Mendicant Mountain, accept what is offered.
_ What is the oath?
_ The oath is ahimsa: To refrain from harm, in thought, word and deed. The perfection of this oath leads to the realization of the One. Striving ceases upon this realization, and, like a drop of water upon a hot rock, anguish vanishes. The foe has been conquered.
_ Two chai, for there is no plural. Two chai to redundancy! To echoes! To the soundless bounce of a ball against a wall dismantled!
_ What he said.

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     ... I walked to the cafe today. Hi... I tire easily. I am at home among the sprigs of no meaning that garnish the plate upon which the world rests its severed head. Bread and the Sun. Earth; water; fire; wind; space. Redundant oneness... I seek the perfect brew. Cafe-ward!... I am off.

     ... My favorite bird is the Cordon Bleu jay, the hard to barn swallow, the Baltimore oriole perched upon the Quiet One's slide guitar. The little gray bird is a longtime fave; so, too, the self-basting Butterball turkey buzzard. They walk, they squawk, they fart glistening salvos skyward; they sing a lonely man happy. They are as one resting; nesting upon Mendicant Mountain; the never-melting snows awaiting their return. I long for a good, strong chai. Cafe-ward!... I am off.

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How far North is South?

_ Howsaboy?
_ Do you ever leave?
_ The easy opening Ethiopean door, also known as ' la puerta de la muerta'.
_ I didn't realize that Ethiopes spoke Spanish.
_ It's little more than a curtain, through which thin, dead people pass silently into silence. They're dead, and deliciously thin - by any magazine's standards.
_ Hmmm...
_ Bastards and bitches; saints and sinners; sons and daughters... Drab, in a colorless sort of way; passing silently into silence, a silence from which there is no return. Not a yowl, nor a hoot; neither holler nor howdy... nothing. A cotton curtain, so certain of its place, caresses the formerly screaming hordes passing through its transparency; a deathly quiet hangs in the air. No one has ever complained; there are no neighbors...
_ You know what I like about this place? You don't smell that sickeningly noxious fryer grease that hangs in the air, like a viscous, humid cloud, in the more successful places. If I ever see a chicken wing in here, I'm gone. Hair-do destroying chicken jism encapsulated in airborne blobs of restaurant-quality grease... If I ever see a chicken wing in here, I'm history.
_ Leg man?
_ Ankle man.
_ Ankle man?
_ Ankle man. Leg man?
_ Leg man.
_ Same diff... Ever try red bush?
_ Pardon?
_ Rooibus tea. It's from South Africa. 'Rooi' - red; 'bus' - bush... It's to die for.
_ Isn't South Africa  northern Antarctica?
_ No. The Antarctic is the northern North Pole. You get there by going north until you reach the North Pole, and then keep heading north. You'll eventually hit Antarctica.
_ Red bush?... I think I'll have some room-temperature ice water with about fourteen ounces of gin in it.
_ Nice choice.

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     ... Women... can't live without them

     ... Men... utterly redundant.

Well-balanced living

_ Here he is, out of the mystery and into our midst... And the word from the land of the twice-born is?...
_ 'The word'?... Any word will do; they refer each to the other. Until such time as we learn to meditate, and apply ourselves to its practice, we shall forever remain prisoners of the dictionary.
_ You are like lighting a match, except that you don't have the caveat pertaining to striking a match printed on your forehead: Close cover before striking.
_ Meditation has been likened to the pouring of oil from one vessel into another. the ancients refer to it as 'the unbroken flow'. You should try it.
_ What? Pouring oil? I do it all the time; my car has a leak.
_ Meditation.
_ Please. I am just now becoming somewhat proficient at handling a cup and a saucer while mingling amongst the tables.
_ You do appear very graceful when mingling. You move with the aplomb of a movie star. I can't help but notice how the cup is skillfully handled in one hand, with the saucer, ever at the ready, in the other. Sometimes it appears that the cup is beckoned saucer-ward, meeting said saucer as would lovers at a barbeque, taking the briefest of moments in which to share a kiss, or, perhaps, a touch of the hands in a short, but sweet, re-acquaintance I have noticed your determined application of social graces, and I must say that I am duly impressed.
_ One need only to look to see that I am somewhat graceful when working a room; and I never forget my manners. Ever the gentleman; the ladies will attest to that.
_ And a gentleman never causes a lady to beg.
_ Never?
_ Never.
_ Not even a little?
_ Well maybe just a little.
_ From one gentleman to another, I must say that we are in rare supply - there's damn few of us left. And should even the briefest mention of the word 'beg' escape from the lips of a lady, amidst the gasps and sighs of a night's romance, it only serves to cement our status as men in possession of qualities of a rare vintage.
_ Your cup is in danger of falling of of the saucer.
_ Let it fall... let it all fall. Who are we to stop it? We look good in monkey suits, so don't get too carried away with the rest of the equation. Our job, as gentleman, is to dance while the ship sinks. And though the ship is sinking, a bevy of beauties await their 'Astaire'; they await their turn around the floor.
_ You, my friend, are insane.
_ Flattery will get you nowhere... Dutch-treat today, chief.

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     ... Thousands of years of assumed living cloud the intimacy of now. Without knowing our true being, without Self-realization, intimacy is not only impossible, but is forever a ghost, which pines in the corner of a haunted house.

     ... I don't think painting has anything to do with art. As painters we are in service of the artist. That which is called 'a painting' is dried paint. The artist - the forever never to be seen - moves through us... hinting.

Sunday Best

_ You know what I did yesterday?

_ Not a clue. What was yesterday? Sunday? Probably something really strange.

_ Got good and smoked up, and listened to some music...all day long. And then, come eventide, I went down to the Club Cabernet for a couple of well-deserved cabernet and club’s.

_ You are a very strange person. I suppose you enjoyed yourself? 

_ To say the very least. I absolutely love bubbles. Anyway, a few denizens of the club were talking about which of the former Beatles composed the best album after their break-up. What do you think?

_ There are only two in the running for that: ‘Imagine’ or ‘All Things Must Pass’. In fact, if you were to compile a list of all the songs written by the four of them after they went their separate ways, you would find that John and George were, by far, the best of the group.

George was integral on both ‘Imagine’ and, of course, ‘All Things Must Pass’. He - George - was the ‘x-factor’ in that group; and had he and John been allowed to collaborate there’s no telling what might have been the result. If it was at all possible for The Beatles to attain to an even loftier perch than the one they have come to occupy, it would have been on the wings of George and John. Alas, the dynamic in the group was such that it was not a possibility. Play them all, which I’m sure you did.

_ Damn right I did! And then I played the piano, with all the pedals to the metal... Big, resounding notes!

_ You play?

_ Didn’t I just say so? Big, resounding notes...

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... Sunday’s are strange. I’d like to come to a place of rest wherein all things are on equal footing, with name and form mere ripples on an otherwise unfathomable ocean, but Sunday’s won’t let me rest. I’m going to have  to access my unlimited store of self-forgiveness in order to absolve myself of my limitations.

There now... Sunday’s, and I, are forgiven.

... I like Sunday’s; I like the fact that the cafe is closed. I think all commerce should be shut down at least one agreed upon day each week. Our culture, if it is remembered at all, will be considered as having been very shallow and very strange.

If I were a day of the week I’d be Tuesday. I’m that strange.     

Photo credit http://www.julieshiels.com.au/events/wp-content/uploads/2008/03/sunday-best.jpg

April showers

_ Sunshine... The Chinese call it 'a mango for the Emperor'.
_ Sunshine reminds me of the sea; it reminds me of lifeguard chairs.
_ Le cote sauvage - the savage coast.
_ You think I don't know French? Is that what you think? I can sing all seventeen verses of 'Albinos by Moonlight', in French, with a mouthful of breadcrumbs.
_ I wasn't insinuating that you didn't know French, I was merely talking to hear myself speak; to send a whispered greeting to the stillness.
_ Garson! Red wine, any color! And some stale bread, ci vous plait.
_ Sauve qui peut - let him save himself who can.
_ I know what it means.
_ Whispering...

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     ... Such a day! Such a beautiful, warm, sunny April day! Was winter ever here? I look around...so beautiful. I venture back inside in order to get the biggest pot I have in my kitchen and I bring it out into the glorious light. It fills with the sights and sounds, with incense from the flowers, barely containing themselves on such a day. The pot fills with sunlight... To the brim, Garson! Let the drops fall where they may... I cover the now full pot and bring it in.
     As the day ends, as all days do, I sit alone in the dark and remember the pot. I retrieve and remove the lid. The first few drops of what would turn out to be a long night's rain pelt against the windows. It is dark.

    .... I grew up as a Catholic. In economic terms that is the same as starting out a million dollars in the hole. There was a priest in our parish, in upper Manhattan, who hailed from Brooklyn. He'd mumbo-jumbo on and on, and then he look up, at no one in particular, and say.
     " Dank God fuh Latin woids."
     I think the man was insane.


photo credit