To remember yesterday: I write to recall the thoughts from a moment during which I dared transcribe my ideas about the time.
To feel alive: I jot down words on the page or the screen to communicate–feelings, confessions, apologies, offerings, desires, fears, hopes or sentiments–from my corner of the world to you.
To be heard: I scream–like Piri Thomas from the rooftops in the middle of a manic New York City night, like Bob Dylan from the rim of the Grand Canyon in the middle of a Cold War sunset, like Walt Whitman from the edge of a new American century–just to hear an echo of some kind.
To dream of tomorrow, I write and write and write.
Like all of you, today, I am grateful for the love that surrounds me, cognizant of the friendships that support me, beholden to the opportunities afforded me, appreciative of the lessons taught to me, pleased with the accomplishments credited to me, accepting of the losses taken from me and indebted to the sacrifices made for me.
For Professor Orlen, for my aunt, for my brother-in-law, for my grandmother and for my grandfather…
The leaves fall like snows
Then go where no one knows
And so the soul grows
Then leaves as the wind blows
Such nights fall like tears
Then fear the rising sun
And so the heart sears
Then fights the moving on
Rather than grade papers or work on the dissertation, I decided to get some R & R today after work. I have no money to pay for fun, so I took a break from the academic grind and recorded a new song: “Let This Smile Set” (click here to hear it).
I’ve been playing this tune for close to ten years now, but I never laid it down until tonight. Considering the paltry means of production, I’m rather happy with the quality of recording.
Let me know what you think.
For movie night with Andy and Tiffany, we screened The Big Chill. Say what you want about the film, I think most people–over the age of thirty–relate to one if not more of the characters, which, along with its incredible compilation soundtrack, makes it one of the better cinematic productions of the past thirty years.
Tonight, I found myself identifying with all of the men at different points during the film. How about you? to whom do you relate?
Tom Berenger … 
Glenn Close … 
Jeff Goldblum … 
William Hurt … 
Kevin Kline … 
Mary Kay Place … 
Meg Tilly … 
JoBeth Williams …
Filed under: Poetry
Stifling
Silencing
Trifling
Thought
Whipped
Worked
Kicked
Corked
Caught
Forced
Fucked
Worse
Bought
Lest we forget the Slain
Bought
Worse
Fucked
Forced
Caught
Corked
Kicked
Worked
Whipped
Thought
Trifling
Silencing
Stifling
Filed under: Music
Say what you want, I believe with every fiber of my soul that “Visions of Johanna” by Bob Dylan is the greatest song ever written.
Perhaps I say this because I’m faced with the task of teaching Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl” to a group of college undergraduates in the next forty-eight hours. Regardless, what songwriter juxtaposes such images as heat pipes coughing with the museums in which infinity goes up on trial? Oh, Lord Ginsberg must roll over in his grave as the jelly-fished women all sneeze! After all, jewels and binoculars explode.
Seriously, name me a song that means more and yet remains so unknown than that of Bob Dylan’s “Visions of Johanna” .
If it is not the stuff of poetry, then I resign myself to a life of meaningless jingle-jangles.
In a perfect world, my posts on the Kolog would constitute legitimate recordings. Well, to keep a dream alive, here’s the alternative side to the 45 that is my previous entry.
“I Hope That I Don’t Fall In Love With You“
Buddha and the Buddhists, at least those whose work I have read, say that life is suffering; and I choose to believe them. For with such a mindset, we prepare ourselves for the ultimate loss, which is death.
I was shocked to learn earlier yesterday, that my aunt Heidi had passed away on Friday night. She gave no indication of such a grave condition, which made her massive heart attack even more stunning. But, at the risk of sounding insensitive to her beloved husband, daughter and siblings whom she leaves behind, why should I cry? It could have been me who failed to rise from bed on Saturday morning. It could have been my sister or brother or father or mother. Having said that, what am I left to do but cry? For I remain among the living whose fate it is to suffer for all of those who are not so fortunate.
The last time I saw Aunt Heidi, I was playing the guitar on the back porch of Uncle Buzz and Aunt Laura’s house shortly after Missy’s wedding. Having not performed for a crowd, really, since the last time I was in Wichita for my grandmother’s funeral, I was left with few songs to perform other than the old standards. As many of you know, those standards in my repertoire consist mostly of Bob Dylan tunes. So, I played all of them that I knew, and Aunt Heidi sang with me word for word.
I wanted to record a version of one of those songs in memoriam of my late aunt, ; so I did. In fear of butchering the words for sake of the sentiment, I’ve also transcribed the lyrics to the tune that makes me think of her more than any other.
