Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Discovering the Higgs Field at 76

I have always had a paranoia about  cosmologists, usually  shaped a bit rotund, like the planet.
Sometimes they are a bit more athletic, like de Grasse Tyson, but in most cases, something like old blues players, "Blind, Lane and Crippled Horribly."
It is my belief that cosmologist through the ages, have always been tyrants or politicians,
(Like possibly mistaken Aristotle, "The sun goes around the earth, therefore I should rule..?"

...Certainly the position of the Roman Catholic Church for a millenilum or two.

I had entertained such thoughts until I met Cosmo.

Cosmo, who in appearance, was a little like Deepak Chopra, finally set me straight.
Synchronicity. Yes. Nothing is absolutely so.
Cosmo, perhaps like Dante, suggested to me the only way out of a major problem--was down,
Was he drunk across the hastily wiped table at the English pub?

"The only way out is down.

I was poised at my dumpster, looking for not-yet-stale dated meat.

In the wind, a hlundred dollar bill few by.
Which I plucked forth.
Corollary: Fuck it up completely, and only then will the truth be supplied."





Thursday, August 28, 2014

Writing, just for therapy, on the fly, or, rather on the wobbly walk

Not so steady on my feet these days, I nevertheless  had a drink in a lady's apartment, and after a quarter bottle of rye, went out to the balcony-- and promptly lay flat unable to move.
My lady panicked and dialled 911.
Crap, here we go again. Ambulance, hospital EEGs, outfitted with the usual patient "Borg"
gear.

I didn't want to go through that again, especially in a smoke free hospital (aren't they all smoke free,
the goody-two- shoes medicos?) When they were finished with the EEG "You've got an irregular hearbeat") I picked  a moment while they walked away with the EGG and printout--left my gurney--and made a run for home and freedom.

Over my shoulder, I almost yelled an explanation: "F*ck this noise."

Fugitive.
They called my home the next day to ascertain I was home. It was likely that my heart was okay, but my walking, even before drinking, wasn't so hot.

Trardest thou an antiseptic smoke-free hospital for the comfort of your own home where people could at least monitor you? No. Strike a blow for freedom. Pull all that crap from you chest and arms an flock off.

I wouldn't recommend this escape to anyone, but it seems in the short run...victory!  Lol.



Sunday, August 10, 2014

"Create your own song now."

1966.
Summertime, and the publishing was easy.
What other college could have people going around asking, begging,
 to have something printed by you. Yes, you.
That was back in the day,when you were, you thought, at already   twenty-something, that you were brilliant.At least your peers told you you were.
You'd made your mark in the student paper, now they were after you for the literary magazine and the yearbook.
And you did deliver.
Success, at least locally.
Now at the bars, a "Wine-stoned Cowboy."
 
Not the same thing forty yours later, with a cant, when brilliant and broke just doesn't cut it any more.
 
That old song:
 Nobody wants you when you're down and out.
Three million words in print, and one can't even get a bank loan. And the leprechaun in your head, so recently played by the CasinoRama floka, , yelps, "Ya wanna go, Ya wanna go?"
Ya, I wanna go, but these days, I can hardly walk.
But there must be some optimism left.
I can still try to scribble.
 
"Scribble, scribble scrible, eh Jones?"
 
The line out the song, "On Broadway:"
 
"And I you don't think  you'll get that far
But I can play this here guitar
"And I won't quit till I'm a star
On Broadway"
 
Well, the Broadway days are gone.
Radio. TV. The recording.
 
I go out into the street hunting for butts and booze.
 
At the stoplight somebody suddenly call out to you.
 
"Hey, I saw you on television."
 
"Forty years ago?"
 
"Yes, forty years ago."
 
Well, I can't quit now.
 
That was some lodestar.