June 18, 2014

June 18, 2014

Looking back on my life, I obviously wasted a lot of time.  But on the other hand I had a sense of immense enjoyment as well.  Regret is knowing something and ignoring that urge. I on the other hand never ignored an urge on my part.  For instance, recalling that now, I should have never worked in the workforce and become just another drone in the world of financially surviving.  There is no crime being poor, but truly there is something indecent about not doing what you want to do.  But even then, I enjoyed my life greatly.  The one thing that impressed me as a child was watching “Have Gun Will Travel,” for whom the main character Paladin, was a gentleman, a scholar, a connoisseur of fine wine, women, and living the life in wild west era San Francisco.  But like in real life, the dualities that we are willing to live in, Paladin makes his money by being a hired gun. Although this is a television show, I find it implications in real life fascinating.

Ted Kaczynski is an interesting figure as well, because on one hand he is a murderer, yet he has an interesting philosophy with respect how one lives in a world where nature is slowly or quickly in some cases are murdered by today’s world.  By what we see or hear of Kaczynski, he was or is a remarkable fellow.  Accepted to Harvard when he was only 16, and graduated from that school when he was 20.  Eventually he went to University of Michigan where he got his PhD in mathematics.   His speciality was a branch of complex analysis known as geometric function theory.  Also noted by his professors at the time, that Kaczynski’s thesis “Boundary Functions” was so advanced, that only “maybe 10 or 12 men in the country understood or appreciate it.” In 1967, Kaczynski became an assistant professor at the University of California, Berkeley where he taught courses in geometry and calculus.  He was the youngest professor ever hired by the University.  But alas, he wasn’t a competent teacher.  Students stated that he was often stuttering and mumbling during class lectures, and were remote from his students.  Without providing a reason to his superiors, he left to wander in the hills outside of Lincoln, Montana.  He was living in a cabin that had no running water or electricity.  Still, it was a good location to make a bomb or two in complete privacy.

If I had to opt for Paladin and Kaczynski, I would take the third choice, Raymond Radiguet, who was a novelist and poet and a very dear friend to Jean Cocteau.  Like Kaczynski, Radiguet was quite young. In fact, he died of typhoid fever when he was only 20 years old. But before that he wrote two remarkable novels “The Devil in the Flesh” and “The Count’s Ball.” As I am just about 60, I am surprised that I didn’t write a book decades ago.  Both the lives of Paladin and Kaczynski I sort of can admire, but to live in the shoes of Radiguet, even though his life only lasted a matter of seconds, compared to the other two, his life was a dream.  Being supported by the great Cocteau, although one can wonder how much that support was for Radiguet’s talent as a writer or as a gentleman of certain pleasures.

Death at an early age puts a frame around one’s talent and personality.  It is just like adding the period after Radiguet.  Paladin didn’t exist, but yet his “existence” did, and therefore never disappointed me. The life of Kaczynski could have been perfect as well, but he made choices that I’m not happy with.  Regardless of the fact that his message is quite clear, his actions were not. Regardless of the fact that he’s still alive, it is like he’s living a death behind bars. He’s a memory that eventually will be a footnote in true crime history.  One doesn’t read emotion in his character, till one realizes that he fell under the charm of a sentiment, that he will never successfully spread, due to his heartless sense of justice.  Rage can be a beneficial tool, but it is best to use it for the pen on the paper.

The one true perfect moment for me is when I watched The Ed Sullivan show after “Have Gun Will Travel” and realizing what will come next would for at least a moment or two, brought a huge group of people together by a few Yeah, Yeah’s - and the world of black and white turned into a beautiful technicolor point of view of the planet. But alas, like a lot of dreams it turned sour.  For me, I have to live in a life projected by a light beam, because I can't deal with the disappointments that surround one's life.  Yet, with hindsight, one can cherry pick the highs and can leave the lows in the trash bin that is history.

June 17, 2014

June 17, 2014

Without a doubt, life is difficult.  Time is a problem. I would wish to state I fear the horror that is out there, but mostly I just groan, and put my head under the pillow.  As a kid, I was surrounded by posters of prints by M. C. Escher, that showed the possibility of infinity in tightly closed terrain. Either his work was about expanding your consciousness, or for me, it was being caught up in a maze that is a horror show. In other words, the 21st century conveys the feeling of being stuck in an endless loop of Catch-22 situations, which are not only being trapped by contradictory rules, but it seems life and nature itself has adapted to the phrase.

Around the same time when I was surrounded by Escher posters, I got into Wally Wood’s work for Daredevil.  I was intrigued that a blind man can be a superhero, and often I would close my eyes for a significant period of time, just trying to imagine that type of world. Yet, I realized that being sightless, itself is a maze of sorts. When I opened my eyes I pretend to see the world in a new light.  I have to say I was slightly hurt when I read Wood’s statement “If I had it all to do over again, I’d cut off my hands.” I then closed my eyes again, trying to imagine a world that is better for me and maybe for you as well.

The last public guillotining in France was in 1939, which surprised me for some reason.  Seeing someone’s head being cut off in bright daylight in front of an audience strikes me as being offensive. Surely the French and others, got that out of their system in the French Revolution.  Did it need to go on till the middle of the 20th century?  As time marches on, I find myself surrounded by death, dead things and dead people.  Often, I wonder if I’m dead, but my depression makes me feel alive.  I embrace feeling. Even if it is bad feelings, I rather have that, than no feelings.  I shut down eyes and I imagine that I was at the guillotine party, and I wonder what I would have for lunch that day.

Last night I had a dream where I was wondering through Harlem with Carl Van Vechen, and as he was taking photographs, I noticed that he didn’t have any film in his camera.  I didn’t know how to approach him regarding his mistake, but I wanted to somehow bring this to a positive light - and alas, I woke up this very morning feeling a tad depressed and not sure what I can do this morning.  As one knows by now, I have been writing a story a day, and I do that to give myself a structure, after leaving a job that I had for 25 years.  It felt like I had a hand chopped off, and now with my remaining left (thank god) hand I write down my thoughts, even though they’re pathetic in parts, it keeps me "up" in a funny “down” way.

The one image I do have when I close my eyes is seeing the face of Setsuko Hara.   In her films, especially the one’s directed by Yasujirō Ozu, she often plays a woman who is confronted by the new, when still facing old transitional situations.  To be a modern woman, yet tied to traditional culture, which will or can eventually kill her.  She exists to be alive in a moment of time that is clearly stated if she will be OK.  But as a fan, I know she will live and be able to withstand all the horrors that are in her filmic life.  With that, I feel encourage to wake up fully and jump into the pool that is my life, and I will do so with my eyes wide open.

June 16, 2014

June 16, 2014

Passiflora incarnate, better known as Maypop, is a commonly known wildflower in the mill town Alcolu, located in South Carolina. It’s a very beautiful flower. Yet it has its medicinal uses, such as treating nervous anxiety and insomnia.   But, here the main interest of the flower is its natural beauty.  In a small town one dies for a little aesthetic attention of a flower growing wild in its area. On March 23, 1944, Betty June Binnicker, age 11 and her best friend, Mary Emma Thames, age 8 went off looking for the Maypop flower on their bikes.  As they passed the property of the Stinney family, they asked young George Stinney and his sister Katherine if they knew where to search for Maypops. History doesn’t know what the answer was to their question, but nevertheless the two little girls disappeared, and were found the next morning in a ditch filled with muddy water.  Both were dead, and both had suffered severe head wounds.

The young African-American teenager, George, that the two little girls asked about the flowers before their death, was arrested on suspicion of murdering the two girls.  The only thing connecting the 14-year old boy to the murder, was that he talked to the girls, and due to that fact, if even that is true, is the testimony of three police officers.  Who it seems, testified at the adolescent boy’s trial that lasted for barely two hours.

With respect to young George’s immediate arrest, his parents were given the choice of leaving the town, or getting lynched.  George’s family was forced to flee, leaving their young son with no support during his trial, and of course, his execution.   No physical evidence was brought up in the trial, and the police officers as well as the jury were all white, which of course was perfectly normal for a segregated community.  The entire trial, including selecting the jury, took one day.  George’s court-appointed defense counsel was a tax commissioner, who at the time, was campaigning for election to a political office in that town.  The only other people who testified at the trial besides the three police officers were the man who discovered the two bodies in the muddy ditch and the two doctors who performed the post mortem examination.  The police claimed that George confessed to the crime, but he claimed that wasn’t true, and there was nothing on paper or a signed confession presented to the court.  The lawyer for George, did not contest or questioned any of the witnesses in the case.  The entire trial from start to finish took 2 and a half hours.  The jury spent ten minutes to deliberate, which they returned with a guilty verdict.

George Stinney’s execution took place on June 16, 1944, in Columbia, South Carolina.  Ironically, Columbia is known by its citizens as “The City of Dreams.” George at the age of 14, was led into the execution chamber with a Bible under his arm.   Due to his size, they had to use that Bible as a booster seat on the electric chair.  Since at the time of his death, he was 5 feet 2 inches tall and weighed 90 pounds.  Technically his size was too small for the electric chair, so the authorities had some difficulty in strapping him to the chair.  Also difficulty in fitting the face-mask as well.  The mask kept falling off his face, revealing his wide-open eyes and saliva coming from his opened mouth.   It took two jolts of electricity before the boy died.  From the time of the actual murders to George’s execution was exactly 81 days.  So in other words, just under two and a half months.

Interestingly enough a pastor from the area named Mr. W. Wallace Fridy wrote a letter on the behalf of George, and the then Governor of South Carolina, Olin D. Johston wrote back to the pastor claiming that George raped the dead older girl, which there were no evidence of sexual play whatsoever.  In other words, the letter was a complete lie.  What interests me is the way the whole system worked together to kill George Stinney.  Hand-in-hand they all went and marched the poor young teenager to his death.   I have a grainy newspaper photograph showing Stinney and another prisoner entering the death house in the state prison.  Both were executed on that day.

I spent yesterday reading a biography on Bertolt Brecht and watching the 1931 film version of “The Threepenny Opera.” The film and musical exposes how a system works, and how each member of society plays the role that will make the machinery go into motion.  Brecht saw the world as being controlled by police, gangsters and thugs, and in turn, when there is a need, both groups will work together for their “common” good.   One has to think why did this young boy had to die, and be treated in such a manner by the entire town, the whole district and eventually the state of South Carolina.  Clearly this was a trial that had no claims to the truth, because there was no evidence that George killed those unfortunate girls.  But as a culture, or a system, it was needed to have George killed in that electric chair.  Even using his Bible, as a prop to lift his body to the electrical wires.  Time has passed, but nothing has changed.  A system in place is a system that needs to be questioned.

June 15, 2014

June 15, 2014

Time is just like a dream.  Loving you is a world that is strange.  Who knows if it is real, or both dreaming of.  Seemed to be a new day now, but it can be a beginning of a love.   The oddness of my feelings, as it is now, is like a wisp of a dream I had last night.  I can’t recall all of it, but I believe I woke up with a feeling of bitterness.  When I go to an image of you on Facebook, it is always a fleeting feeling.  Perhaps due that you only have images of flowers and pets on your page, but once in a while someone posts an image of you.  I should have captured it, because you eventually took it off your page.  Loving you made my whole life change.  Loving you, I could not grow old.  On the other hand, my memory of you exists, and therefore maybe you never existed.

I lived my life in countless comic strips.  Thomas the Engine took me to places that I could only dream about, but alas, even then I realized it was just an illusion.  As I got older, I went on adventures with "Corto Maltese," and eventually ended up in Siberia and the Salt Sea.  When Maltese realized he had no fate line on the palm of his hand, he carved his own with his father’s razor, determining that his fate was his to choose. A pirate’s wit is a young boy’s fantasy of a better world, yet, if I remember correctly, you were devoted to “Teena.” I had to get a book at The Secret Headquarters in Silver Lake, to keep it as a memory of our disagreements.  “Teena” was perhaps the first teenager in the comic strips, and yet, we were much older than that, and yet we bonded with fictional characters, that occasionally we forgot that they didn’t exist.  In our world, it was a precious one, where we had to balance our desires equally, yet owing to our temperament, we fought for our heroes quite dramatically.

You often treated me like I was a Harry Langdon character, a man who you felt was childlike, even an innocent who is wondering into a dark forest by himself.  Yet, I was devoted to Johnny Hallyday and Harry Nilsson, both artists that were easy to be misunderstood.   I often think of the Nilsson line “Well, in 1941, the happy father had a son And in 1944, the father walked right out the door.” Well, that’s the way it was.  You had an obsession with Waylon Jennings, due to him being handsome, yet, I think the only recording of his that I like is “MacArthur Park.” I remember how shocked I was, that you never heard his recording of that song.  At this time, I realize the distance between us.  Spring was never there waiting for us.  It seemed it was just the fall and winter.  I have a clear memory of your yellow cotton dress on the ground around your knees.  That’s my lasting memory of you.

Sometimes the memory is too painful.  I remembered when I was in elementary school, and we had a festival on the premise.  They built booths and brought a ferris wheel on the school grounds.  I didn’t think I could take it.  It’s the only memory I have of that you were you were not part of.  Lash LaRue, a cowboy star of my youth made an appearance, and with two quarters you could buy his 8x11” black and white photo with his name stamped on the image.   At the time, I was so excited. It was almost if he took his whip out and did a presentation of some sort.  A friend of mine who was there, told me that this didn’t happen.  He was truly there, but all he had with him were a dark suit and a black cowboy hat.  Even that, my images of my past life are fading into a world of my own making.

June 14, 2014

June 14, 2014

The phrase “Un poète doit laisser des traces de son passage, non des preuves. Seules les traces font rêver” (A poet must leave traces of his passage, not proof. Only traces are dreaming) come to mind with respect the reason why I put pen onto paper.  Every day I wake up early with a shattering dream of some sort. I usually can’t remember the dream, but it leaves me depressed, and it takes an hour or so for me to shake that depression out of my being.  It is somewhat like using a rag to soak up liquid and then wringing the cloth to do away with the moisture.  Usually by my first cup of coffee, I ‘m free of morbid thoughts and then continue with my day.

For the past year, I have been working on a literary journal of young writers called “The Artistic Age.” Being an editor is difficult, because I tend to be a writer that thinks about his work first, and everything else comes second.   I was approached by friends to co-edit this journal, but now thinking, this was not a good idea.  For one thing, I’m much older, and I think age is a significant factor in writing.  Of course there is the cliche of having experience to draw from, but in my case, as I get older, I feel more stupid.  Instead of things becoming clearer, it becomes more muddy-like.  My memory is sharp, but I can see I choose to re-edit the facts in my life, and rely on my dreams more and more.  Even though my dreams are faint at best, I know my true identity speaks in a deep sleep. Once I wake up, it is like emerging from the deep waters to air, and I have the memory of fighting for air.  Therefore I have to refine my life with my dreams to be whole.

There have always been a wall around me to distance myself from those who want to get close to me.  I need the space around me so I can fill it with my inner-thoughts.   Each time I throw the dice, to find out where I am heading, opens up another territory for me to explore.  Therefore that is the reason why I write.  For me, the boundaries must be established, and therefore I just want to write narratives that are only on one page.  What I find the least interesting part of a narrative is the order of beginning, middle and the end.  To be honest I don’t like to have endings in my stories, because it sets me in a world that is restricted and I need, at the very least, the ability to be seen beyond the wall of my own making.

As a child I was fascinated with the television series “Bat Masterson, ” due to the fact it was a western, yet the way the actor Gene Barry played him, he was a man out of his time.  The Dandy aspect also appealed to me, because he looked so superficial against his surroundings.  Over the years, I have built my character up to be sort of dream-like version of Masterson.  Even though clearly, I can see myself that there is a sizable distance between Bat and the writer of this journal - nevertheless it shows up in my dreams, which as I mentioned causes a certain amount of disappointment and dread.  I can only hope that what I will continually run to the border of dream and life, and therefore, and hopefully, can master the two territories that contain yours truly.

June 13, 2014

June 13, 2014

I’m a member of the Rhymers’ Club, which is a bunch of us poets who get together to read, write and recite poetry to each other.  It’s a private group, and we often meet in complete secrecy.   From time-to-time we have made a journal, but the printing is only enough for membership and no one else.  So in other words, we produce literature for only ourselves and no one else.  Everyone in the group is obsessed with keeping the poetry as pure as possible.  To be honest, I’m even forbidden to discuss or write about this group, even in this journal.  Nevertheless I feel compelled to expose myself, because when you come upon such perfect moments, I have a tendency to want to share them with someone.

The Rhymers’ Club started in London about 125 years ago, where meetings took place in various private homes and pubs.  Ever since then there is a secret signal between members where they shake hands, but one member scratches the palm of the other’s hand, by their middle finger.  Sometime identities are covered up either by fake names, and in some cases, by wearing a disguise.  I remember in our last meeting, one of us was even dressed up as a woman, not in a sexual sense, but just to throw off anyone trying to find out the identity of the figure.  It has been rumored and almost common knowledge among its members that the Irish poet W. B. Yeats was an early member of this group.  In fact, he may have organized the first meetings, and invented the secret handshake among its members.  Oscar Wilde was rumored to be a part of the group as well, but there is no solid proof of that.

The meetings, to this very day, are arranged by the throw of the dice.  If certain numbers come up, that is the date for the get-together.  An ad is placed in a publication announcing the date, time and location for the meeting.  Of course, all of this information in the ad is under a secret code, that can only be read by its members.   Usually by a rhyme of some sort.   Last night I went to a meeting at the 321 Lounge at Taix, where we have a table reserved for the group under the name “Basil Rathbone.” Once there I approached all the members with the secret handshake, and then we got down to business to discuss the poet Fernando Pessoa.  In each meeting we agree to discuss a specific poet, and debate about their work.  Afterwards we share our poetry, and each member can read up to five poems to the group.   We discuss the work, and eventually make plans to make a journal, which again, we only print up enough copies for the group and no one else.  The journal is called “The Rhymers’ Club, ” and we also encourage its members to either save each issue, or destroy it, to make sure it doesn’t leave the group.

Every so often there are poets in the group, that are quite famous, but not for writing poetry.  The comic actor Paul Lynde was a member of the group right up to his death, and he was once on a TV program called “Hollywood Squares” where he often gave messages on the show for the members.  Of course it was coded, and for anyone listening in, they would think they were just listening to a joke, but that was not the case whatsoever.  It has been stated within the group that Lindsay Anderson’s film “O Lucky Man” is a coded version of The Rhymers’ Club” and that the film’s star Malcolm McDowell who wrote the story, may have been a member,  but more likely his father who owned the pub, where some of the secret meetings took place, either was a member himself or at least knew about the group.

What is still an ongoing rule for the group is that only males can belong to The Rhymers’ Club.  Occasionally we allow only one woman in our meetings, and this only started when legendary photographer Jacques Henri Lartigue was part of the group.  It was almost a fetish for him to bring an attractive woman to the group’s meetings.   Ever since, for tradition sake, we permit one member of the group to bring a woman of his choice into a meeting.  But she is not allowed to participate in the discussion nor in the readings of the poetry.   Also her identity is not exposed to the members, and she is often just called “The Muse, ” among our members.

We do have a membership card, but it has no name or wording.  It is an image of King Ludwig looking over Richard Wagner as he plays the piano.  For whatever reasons, we don’t know why this image was chosen.  It has been rumored that Yeats himself chose this image as a membership card, to be used to announce oneself to another member.  Secrets are the foundation of our culture.  We must keep them.  After reading this, please destroy it.

June 12, 2014

June 12, 2014

When I visited Amsterdam sometime in the early 90s, I began to keep a daily journal.  I had obsessive thoughts that when I leave this world, there will be no record of my existence.   I can’t accept the thought that I have been here for sixty years, and yet, there is nothing to show for it.  The journal would not be made for those who are with me now, but for future generations to know what it was like to be “me” in the 20th and 21st century.   A series of decades that were full of insecurities and alienation.  Not only emotionally, but also the fact that one could not possibly connect to the world around them.   It angers me that people participate in the voting system, which is obviously a farce.   Most cases you are choosing Heckle over Jeckle and you are getting heck results where one moves a mere inches instead of yards.

I often felt like Cinderella in that my life was pushed around by people I have no control of.   I felt ugly, yet when I see myself in a mirror I think I do have some good features, but alas, people can’t look beyond the image, and therefore I decided “OK, if that is what they want, I’ll give them the image.” I commissioned a painter to do a portrait of me, but dressed in the style of the late 19th century.  Since I just wanted to convey a sense of false riches, I insisted that the portrait should be about something of one's class and as a gentleman of wealth.  I had to sit for the painting for at least 8 hours.  It wasn’t so repentant of a process.  I sat in my seat staring at the painter, and meditated as the time slowly moved along.  One of my favorite films is “Goldfinger,” and I insisted that the image of the golden girl be placed somewhere behind me.   He placed my portrait as someone sitting on the end of a bed, with the golden girl either dead or laying on the top of the bed.  For me it had some erotic overtures, but often death and life are sort of sensual tango, and one gets charged from it.

I slowly realized that I can live a life, but since I’m writing the journal as well as having my portrait done, I can control my narrative as it happens.  The world is one thing, but with my participation in that world I can somehow make it “my” world.  The obsensity of someone like Hermann Göring living off the art of the Jewish population that he wished to obliterate, and riches that he never earned but stolen, strikes me as an act of desperation in trying to make yourself a presence on this earth.  I must learn not to imitate someone else's mistakes.

One of the best dressed men that made an impression on me is the British blues singer Long (due that he was tall) John Baldry. The essence that he stood out due to his height, which could be regarded upon as a minus, but alas, his dress sense or style turned that into a plus.  I imagine myself in his role as a dandy, and not someone who surrounds themselves from other’s wealth.  If I make a mark on this world, it will be through my character - no matter how damage that may be.

June 11, 2014

June 11, 2014

In the late 1970s, I was living in Manhattan, and pretty avoiding the music scene that was taking place in the East Village and the Bowery.  I craved music that would gently caress my broken soul, and that was seeing and hearing Hazel Scott at the Milford Hotel Plaza on 8th Avenue, not far from Times Square.  At the time, I only had one vinyl album, and one portable turntable, and basically that was that, if you wanted to include several stripped t-shirts and one winter coat, with a pair of blue jeans and boots.  One can say my finances were non-existent. Yet I knew the doorman at the hotel, and he always got me in to see the Scott trio.

The one album I owned was Hazel Scott’s “Relaxed Piano Moods” with the backing of Charles Mingus on bass and Max Roach on drums.  I often lay on the floor by the turntable and its small speakers, and let her music soak into my ear drums, and throughout my body.  I was likewise staying at the Milford, due to a small inheritance that I was living on.  I was fascinated with the idea of not working, and finding out what will happen once the money dried up.  At the time, I was curious to know if eventually what my behavior would be like if I die from the elements, or the lack of food.  The idea of that being the case with me in the middle of Manhattan had a great appeal for me.

I spent most of my daylight hours at the New York Central library reading New York poets.  Frank O’Hara had a huge appeal for me, because it’s a life I know I won’t ever have.   I guess I could if I agreed to get a job, and basically spent my hard earned dole on food, books, and music  - but I was struck by the idea of doing nothing, and walking to the library to read books and then come back to the hotel to listen to the album, and then seeing that artist play later that night.   Now come to think of it, life was really perfect.

At the time, I avoided all social contacts, and in fact, besides the doorman to the hotel, and a waiter or waitress here or there, I didn’t really talk to people.  The inner-dialogue I had with myself, gave me food and I really didn’t have anything to say to others.  In my hotel room, I decorated the walls with images by Julia Margaret Cameron, because I love the idea that she only focused on the world around her, and nothing else.   I stole a lot of the images from photo magazines that were placed in the collection at the library.  I did the famous loud cough as I tore a page one at a time.  The only images I had in my room were the album cover and various portraits by Cameron.

When I was living in Los Angeles, I was a fan of Shelley Manne, and I sort of had this fantasy that I could be Peter Gunn, going to “Mothers” night club to see my non-existent, but fantasy girlfriend sing a number or two.  It was at Manne’s jazz club where I first saw Hazel Scott. I don’t want to say I followed her to New York, because that sounds sort of creepy.  But truth to be told, it was her and my love for Manhattan culture, which clearly was another fantasy on my part.  Till then, the only thing I knew about Manhattan was through books and old episodes of “Naked City” TV series.   Once I came to the big apple, I was surprised that my dream location was exactly the same as reality.  Or maybe I just make fantasy into reality.

June 10, 2014

June 10, 2014

The moment that I became upon, the one that I was dreading from the very beginning of this writing project… has happened.  There comes a time when you wake up and you approach your laptop, you turn it on, adjust the music of one’s choice, and then… nothing.  Vapid of course, but all you are seeing in front of you is a very enormous concrete wall, and you know what you desire is behind the wall, but the problem is what do I desire?  After that, you realize maybe you’re not as good as you think you are, and other self-defeating thoughts, which at first, slowly creeps in, but then all of sudden it is like a damn breaking, and your overwhelmed with dread, with thoughts of failure.  And it is not even 9 AM!   I looked out the window.  I see the same cars parked that are always there, and I go looking for inspiration in the everyday occurrence, but alas, was that even interesting?  How can I make the uninteresting, interesting?

To change the scenery I decided to take a shower, got dressed, and went on the 96 metro bus to 6TH and Grand, and walked over to the Yorkshire Grill for breakfast.  Obviously, I wasn’t feeling hungry so I just ordered a side of rye toast and a cup of coffee. I sat at the counter of course, and oddly enough, I was the only person there. That alone doesn’t really bother me, because I like being in public spaces and being the only one there.  I often feel ‘entitled’ to areas that technically belong to everyone.  While sitting there I found myself silently humming a song to myself “A Cup of Coffee, a Sandwich, and You” written by Al Dubin and Harry Warren.  Dublin continued to be a hero to me, because I think a sense of failure was always chasing him around.  Even though he wrote the lyrics to “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” and “Shuffle Off to Buffalo” the happiness that was expressed in those lyrics doesn’t fully gel with the man who wrote them.   Throughout his life he had to struggle with alcohol and drugs - especially doctor prescribed barbiturates, which eventually killed him.  At the peak of his struggling career was the depression.  The irony of his writing songs like “Lullaby of Broadway” while he was at his worst and with the whole U.S. culture dealing with the aftereffects of such a devastating era. Is very moving to me, as well as an inspiration to my occasional writer’s block issues.

My character is among misery.  I sought to hide it time-to-time, but it oozes out from either my writing, or when I’m home alone having a drink.  I don’t like to share that side of my personality with the world - or at least face-to-face.  But the truth is I don’t like to be in the presence of people that much anymore.  Usually I feel dread, then around the corner comes boredom.  As I sat on the counter slowly drinking my cup of coffee, I realized that what I fear the most is social responsibility and with that, boredom is hooked up as well.

After my breakfast, I walked around downtown, which is my favorite destination for a walk.  It is not until I travel without a map in an area that I sort of know, is where I find the greatest adventure.  I always run across a building or entrance way that I never noticed before, and I wonder why?  This starts my brain cells to make progress in a certain way, and all of sudden the concrete wall in front of me, is starting to chip away piece by piece.  The process is extremely slow, but I’m thankful that there is some sort of movement happening.  When I got back to my writing area, which tends to be in my library, I looked at a self-portrait by Gustave Courbet, a French artist of the 19th century.   The painting is called "The Desperate Man," and it wasn't till now, that I realized that what drew me to this specific painting was that I saw myself in that work.   Then I realized that it was a form of theater for Courbet, in that he used himself as a character in his own making.  Therefore I realized that as a writer, I too have to become a character in my own story.   The concrete wall now has an opening, and at this point, I can stick my head through the wall to find out what was on the other side.

June 9, 2014

June 9, 2014

Whenever I put a pencil onto a piece of paper, or type something in my computer, the one person that I always think of, almost on an everyday basis, is Cole Porter.   Ever since I was a teenager, I was enthralled with the idea of Cole, including his name, which I thought at the time (and still do) a superb sounding of two words put together.  Cole.  Porter.   Cole Porter.

It was around that time I decided to try my hand at writing lyrics, because basically, I couldn’t do anything else.   Luckily I met a friend at High School, who wrote songs - both lyrics and melody.  I offered him my services as his lyricist, and he took me up on it.   Once he said yes, I kept a school notebook and started either writing ideas for songs or actual lyrics.  Within three months, I gave him my notebook and told him to do what he must do.  Sadly I didn’t have the talent to sit around his piano and sing the lyrics to him.  It was very academic and literary to me.  Nevertheless he did make demos, and I thought that they were masterpieces.  Not only that, but that it was music that broke the boundaries that were set by my favorite bands and songwriters at the time.  Which were The Kinks (Ray), Syd Barrett, and dare I say it, even Robert Wyatt!  I was confident that we were better than those songwriters and artists, and it would be only a matter of time when the world will know about us, and eventually wealth will follow after the crushing fame.  Even then, although I secretly desired fame, I was ready to denounce it - it seemed fame was much cooler if you declared your hatred for it at the same time.  Dear reader, as you can gather by now, the fame and fortune didn’t happen.

First of all the notebook of my lyrics were stolen and held for ransom due that I wrote a put-down of a girl lyric, that is actually about a girl I know, and brilliantly (in honor of Bryan Ferry who did the same) I wrote her phone number as part of the sing-along chorus.  For obvious reasons, she hated that, and therefore took the notebook right out of Gary’s hands.  It took me about a year to get it back.  So typical of our relationship, in that it was barely a relationship.  It was more of a sinking ship with no loose lips.  And yes, that meant I never kissed her.

The doomed romantic that I was (or am). One can see or hear it through my lyrics at the time.  Basically all the songs were about being in love, then losing the girl, and then dying.   I wrote something like 100 lyrics and not once, did I change the theme or format - they were works that were full of word-play (like my idol Cole) and were intended to work on many different conscious levels.  My understanding that there are at least seven levels of consciousness, and surely my lyrics works on at the very least four or maybe five levels.  Actually on a good day, six.

On the other hand, like life, things didn’t go as planned.  The map was not the destination. It wasn’t even a pit-stop if you get my drift.  Countless years have passed, and eventually I went from doing nothing to doing nothing on a couch in my single apartment.  But then I thought, why not use the material I have on hand, and write a musical.  I was thinking of basing my musical on the great French chanson singer Barbara, but then realized that I couldn’t speak or pronounced one word in French, except for non.  Then I thought of a great idea of basing the idea of the musical on the Walt Disney “Silly Symphonies” cartoon “The Wise Little Hen.” The cartoon stars Donald Duck (his first appearance ever) and Peter Pig.  The plot of the story is that our two heroes avoid work by faking stomach aches (something I did in my youth - a lot) until Mrs. Hen teaches them the value of hard work.  Obviously I thought of the pig and Donald as me and Gary - but that as far as it goes.  I never thought of him as a pig or a duck, but alas, as an updated musical I couldn’t see how this would miss.

I sought to keep the characteristics of Donald Duck, but also added the seductive charm of Robert Cummings, who had a TV series called “Love That Bob.” Who interestingly enough was one of the first advocates of natural foods and a healthy diet, but also unknown to the public at the time was a methamphetamine addict as well. The combination of Donald and Bob made a delightful character.  So I wrote the book, the lyrics, and even the music, by humming melodies while taking a shower.  The thing is I couldn’t find a financial backer.  And worst of all, Walt Disney refused to give me permission to use either the cartoon or Donald Duck as a source for my musical. Nevertheless I gave up that dream and now focused on the world of finance by playing the stock market.  I lose big, but I retain a love for the songs I wrote with Gary, and the idea for the musical.  As long as I have my memories, I can’t really complain.

June 8, 2014

June 8, 2014

In the 1970s, I lived in the Fallingwater residence that was designed and built by Frank Lloyd Wright.  The one thing that was impressive was that one could not avoid the great man’s personality while living there.  It was a structure that was the property of nature, but only symbolically so.  The thing with nature, and why I do not love the natural world, is that it always wins in the end, especially when the human element tries to control it.  The only music that I find that fits the personality of the structure is music by Edmundo Rivero, whose tango ballads fits the temperament of the place.  After awhile the beauty of the location and the building, itself got to me.  It made me feel depressed and anxious at the same time.  A bad cocktail for me. 

Wright I imagine, thought he was contributing to nature, but wasn’t he trying to control or stamp his individuality over the environment?  I can understand the urges of the Kaufman family in owning the property and having a structure over a waterfall, or to be honest, on top of the waterfall.  Even that strikes me as offensive, to be on top of a magnificent imagery of wildness and power.  The flow of water is so powerful, yet to have a structure over it, says one, that yes we have control over nature.  On top of that, living here I not only have to be under the influence of Wright, but also the Kaufman family who has their own concerns regarding the room size of their three bedrooms as well as kitchen space.  And what does one do with human waste that goes through this structure to somewhere else in the natural world. 

The only book I brought with me on this stay was a copy of George Orwell’s “1984,” because I haven’t read it yet, and I feel that since I was going to be stuck in this part of the world and this specific structure, I needed a book that somewhat expresses the way the world was heading towards.  As a writer I’m obsessed with how language is utilized in the mainstream media, and both the Orwell book and Marshall McLuhan’s “Understanding Media” expresses the anxiety of how language becomes a tool of sorts.  As I sat on a chair designed by Wright, looking outside a window designed by Wright, I sometimes wonder if Wright himself didn’t design the landscape outside the window as well. 

In the late 1990s I read about Christopher McCandless, and I was impressed that he sort of took nature as not as a partner, but that it was a world that could not be reproduced in a human sensibility.  The fact that he went into the wilderness without a map, appears to me to be the only way to wander into another world.  Compared to Wright’s attention and relationship to nature, I can clearly understand McCarndless’ desire to be part of, and eventually be blotted out by the natural world.  Also the fact that he stripped all his belongs and even identity (took the name Alexander Supertramp), to be in a sense a forgotten man, but not even forgotten, a presence that wasn’t there.  Or perhaps he wanted to be part of nature, similar to Wright, but refused to be equal to the magnificent yet horrifying world of nature. 

June 7, 2014

June 7, 2014

It is no secret among my friends that I look up to le Roi-Soleil as my man-of-choice in all manners that’s good in life.  From an early age, I had an obsession with the Sun King, better known as Louis XIV.  At the time, I lived in a single apartment on Martel in West Hollywood, that was basically a room with a small kitchen, and even a smaller bathroom. Still, it was my first home away from the family, and I treasured my little spot as if it was my Palace of Versailles.  Therefore I decorated the one-room apartment with images of Louis XIV, and even chose furniture that was not a good imitation of furniture from that period.  The fact that it looked fake, made the surroundings more endearing to me. 

At the time, I was employed in my first job, which was Licorice Pizza, a record store chain in Southern California.  I would take a bus to Reseda boulevard, and then another to Sherman Way.  At the time, I thought of the bus as my royal transportation.  It was a bus with a lot of stinky people, but to me, it was my palace as well.  I made sure I sat in the very back, and in the middle of the aisle.  I wanted the sense that everyone who enters the bus, must come to me.  Of course all of this was an illusion, and part of the time, I knew that.  But most of the time, I just forgot that fact and went on with the fantasy.  The music I played at the store was usually baroque music of all sorts.  My favorite records were recordings by Jacques Champion de Chambonnières, Jean-Baptiste Lully, and François Couperin.  The latter was my favorite of them all, and was awarded the credit of being “organist du Roi, ” organist by appointment to Louis XIV.  In the era of the Jam and the Sex Pistols, it was very hard at the time to find recordings of Couperin’s music.  Nevertheless, I insisted on making a special section of his music in our bins at the time.  As far as I can remember we didn’t even have any classical music in stock.  And what made it even more sad, was that at the time I could only find one release that was in print at this time.  “L’Espagnole, IV. La Piemontoise 1727” released on the Telefunken record label out of Germany.   My educated guess is that we were the only store in the San Fernando Valley that carried this recording, and only one copy at that.

Here, I need to be honest with you, I wasn’t that popular with people around me.  I kept my world as a very private one, and rarely did I share it with others, or allowed anyone to get close to me.  I prefer the artifice of a representation of a life than a real relationship.  It reached a peak in my life that I would make love to girls, but only in front of a full-length mirror that was in my apartment.  In a sense, I wanted to be in my own movie of my own making.  But alas, I have changed since then, and now I have not one single full-length mirror in my “now” humble home.