I did not order that...

She was cute, efficient, terribly nice and worked for the Fascist State…

I ordered no coleslaw, I expected no coleslaw… she brought me coleslaw.

It is well known that Coleslaw is the International Symbol of the Fascists… where would Hitler have been without the creamy cabbage side dish? George Bush loved coleslaw and I have heard it said that the real reason Dick Cheney shot his friend was a failure to procure.

Coleslaw is a hard drug. It is addictive. It is petulant and by the gods coleslaw plays a dangerous game!

Fact is that innocent people do not accidentally order coleslaw… it just NEVER happens. You never hear even the most senile pepper pot say “Oh dear, I did not mean to order coleslaw.” Never. You will hear “I CAN’T eat THAT!” often enough.

After my protestations the coleslaw is banished from the table amid nervous laughter and side long glances. A voice rises from the din… “That’s Sky. She’s a poet.”

The befuddled male looks across the table and says. “A poet? What do you do?”

“I write poems” I said, confident that the occupation of a poet is in fact poetry.

“No, I mean, what is your REAL job?”

He was cute, perky, with a devilish grin and dimpled chin…

and he was also as dumb as a board.

just a moment of weakness

Interpersonal negotiations are as tricky as anything else in the world… mostly when there is a refusal to talk about the same issue at the same time… which really is the problem isn’t it when you get right down to the brass tacks… setting aside personal feelings and shit like that… which of course you can’t do because in the final analysis it is all about personal feelings. Let me tell you right now that I am not the greatest at telling people when I am upset… not a skill that I have learned to do… mostly all I need is time and space… support… understanding… a moment to be heard… cake... cake is always good... which I know is asking a lot… it is high maintenance really… but I do ask for it. Most of the time I get that because I have made painful efforts to acquire the space which I need to calm myself and focus on the issue at hand… but not always.

Today I had one of those moments where I really needed to be heard… not agreed with… not stroked… just heard… you know the drill, just a chance to let it out… to say what was frustrating me and get it out in the open… to have some one, anyone listen to me and understand what was bothering me… needless to say I did not get that or I would not be here right now crying on your shoulder about a stupid thing like a web site…

My god… it’s not real… it is a web site… and even though I love it and really enjoy it there are those unfortunate moments when the fires burns… the anger grows… frustration complications….

Tell you this much… logic in that situation ain’t worth a used paper match stick… just a small boat in an angry sea… no, that is wrong… just an angry boat in a calm sea… any port in a storm right? But where do you go when you are the storm?

Maelstrom she says and looks at me with that silent laugh… head slightly cocked and that glint of glee just twinkles… Sky baby, I love you so much but there comes a time when you ought to flip them the bird. Not because you are right, I don’t know or care about that… this is doubtfully a moment when being right matters… all that matters is that they are hurting you. Push them back.

So like there I was with reams of devastatingly crapporific poetry and my Jenny makes me laugh… so what do you do with self indulgent poorly written poetry?

MAGAZINES!!!!

ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah

machines

It is easy to get lost in the curling and coiling of heat rising… the gentle destruction beneath the plumage… drifting solo on the currents across pale blue skies… does not mean anything unless it happens to be your house that is the source… then it takes on a whole new meaning…

Reading smoke signals on the horizon out over the distant slate grey of cold waters… the spires and tower rise as a sea urchin clinging tenaciously to the shore line… tidal pools of people in transit rushing in and out along the chronometers pulls for here gravity, the moon, and god have no sway… the evil natured robots are programmed to destroy us… why do people say “I don’t have time” as they look at their wrist watches? They have nothing but time…

Good Times… Bad Times… Hard Times…

An appointment is an apartment of time allotted to specific use… predominately waste… an uneven scale leaning towards the grave leaving behind a trail of tears of regret… the knowledge that there was more… while I think of Nemesis once more… the missing and forgotten value of Universal Justice… or maybe the flavour of summer savory while running across a meadow… my butterscotch world runs slow without the adornment of the affectation of importance as the machines break down…

RE: Popcorn… a day spent in self awareness and exploration of the emotio0nal foundations of my own brand of humanity along with the comfort food and affections of friends is a form of salvation… in the mirror I see myself reflected back with questions… put on the stereo and let the music wash into my aches and pains…

Unit three thousand twenty one is warning
Makes a humming sound - when its circuits
Duplicate emotions - and a sense of coldness detaches
As it tries to comfort your sadness -

The Flaming Lips “One More Robot - Sympathy 3000-21”
Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots

Some of the time the answer is not as important as the asking…
the reaching and struggle is the prize…
the breaking free of the logical patterns and stepping into the rational…
that strange relevance of the question…

“How Do You Feel?”

As the dawn began to break - I had to surrender
The universe will have its way - to powerful to master
Oh-oh-oh-what is love and what is hate
And why does it matter - is to love just a waste
Why does it matter - oh - oh - ooh - ???

The Flaming Lips “In The Morning of the Magicians”
Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots

the popcorn

It is hot buttered (real) popcorn (organic) and it is not half bad… makes a great excuse too…

I’m sorry, I was eating popcorn…

I don’t get along with phones and so I never use them… that is a personal paranoia… but there is a phone here that flashes, it does not ring. In a modern technical society people don’t understand this… no, I can’t come to the phone, or really more accurately, I won’t come to the phone. I do get messages…

I like messages a lot… there is something about note writing that is a bit of a dying art. I have lovely stationary for sending notes too… and a nice pen to write them with. I like getting a well-written note as well… even more so when it too is on nice stationary. Yes, I keep them. I keep love letters too… old photographs etc…

I opened the box to place in a card I received announcing the death of a child. It came on official stationary and was likely printed out… could have been a form letter really… I half expected a request to donate more until I got to the attachment… there in shaky hand writing, in uncertain English and equally shaky French was scrawled a message from the dead child’s sister thanking me for all I had done in letting them go to school…

Oh my little angels, if there is anything Divine may there be mercy for you all.

I am eating popcorn since I have finished crying… but I don’t feel very good… but I shall cherish that note forever

eroticism

So my main writing site is missing in action… ain’t going to worry about that too much until I am given a reason to worry about it…

Instead I will talk about “Erotic” writing… which often is not “Erotic” very much. There are a million reasons for that and not a single one of them are very interesting… so really I am not going to talk about “Erotic” writing so much as “Erotic” writers…

Recently several people I know have decided (yes, they make a choice) to write what they consider to be erotic… and naturally they have asked me (oh so sweet and innocent) to read their erotic writing… and to comment upon it. Ok… so we can already see where this will go can’t we… something is steaming on the sidewalk ahead.

Should I be honest? Should I be supportive? Should I tell bold and tell obvious lies? Should I take a pill and put the “Do Not Disturb Sign” out? I didn’t do either because of the Uncertainty Principle… what are they really wanting from me… (I hope not masturbation.)

Here is the thing about eroticism… it exists but it is not universal… nor really all that natural either... it is very personal and prone to being poorly defined… think of it like a pineapple… we all know what it is, we all know what we think… but can you describe how it tastes properly so that some one who has never seen or tasted one will know what it is like? I find eroticism to fall into that area… like a pineapple, sweet and undefinable... just like Piet Hein said.

let it snow

There is a beauty in the cruelness of winter weather… the sharp cold wind, the snow and the ice… it runs along in the veins of the inhabitants as we make our way towards the elusive goal of hibernation… we don’t have haunted buildings as much as haunted weather… and possibly scenery.

Isn’t it always the way that you come across the most amazing sight and don’t have a camera? This effect goes beyond the bonds of mere coincidence and moves harshly into the realms of conspiracy… or not… much depends on you view point about the good graces of that which lies beyond the view… does the weather care about a car wreck?

Frozen hearts… that comes into the mind as the bindings come off and we step into the strange zone of the skiers… I board. Everything goes great until we talk about the slopes and the moves… I don’t shoosh… I SCREAM… it is all about showing off… there is nothing gentle about it… my time on the slope is not about powder and grace… it is about adrenaline…. So dude boy walks away with that look on his face… judgmental egoism doesn’t work huh?… girls just want to have fun.

Cultural clique burns through the great divide… slobbery snobbery calls out for the Great Napkin in the Sky to drop down and wipe… but the fact is that as the economy goes into the great swirlie people are getting more snobbish with less reason to be so… but with more intent than ever before…

Hey… it is just playing! Baby, it’s cold out there.

Holiday Guest

First Holiday guest arrives unexpectedly. He lost his apartment while on tour due to the apartment shortage in the city. Nice to come back to no place to stay… so we agreed to let him come stay with us until he can grab anew place. The problem is of course storage.

James comes with his musical gear. Most people think that a guitar ain’t going to be a problem… an it ain’t… it is the other guitars and accessories like amps, floor modules, the computer that runs it, the cables, stands, and what-not all associated with being a modern road warrior guitar hero. Of course James does not use those terms… to him, what he does is entertains.

James is funny. He has a sense of humor, and is very polite. It is strange to watch him ask permission to make a cup of coffee. Well, of course an omelet is an extension of that too he says, You don’t even think about it… cup of coffee just means coffee, omelet toast and jam. Fact is that man can cook. So he is in the kitchen baking… singing… dancing. It’s fun. Jen is right there with him learning new recipes or showing her own. Talk about feasting.

Going to be an interesting time.

the dance of fire

The weather people are talking about a storm… lots of snow… or maybe not as much as they are predicting… you never can tell.

A candle burns with a motion to the flame… a dance on the breath… a touch of bronze on a cold winter’s night.

I love these quiet nights by the warm fire… a glass of wine through the moments of simply being… outside the furies of the weather… inside the comfort of companionship… and the warm glow of friends.

Let Sunday pass to Monday in peaceful rest.

PS My reading went better than ever before. I left feeling really good about it.

What do you need to be a writer?

So there it is, the question. What does one need to be a writer?

I suspect that a story is it… maybe access to a rock… a lamp? How about one single reader?

That is the easy and cute answer. Oddly, cute comes close to the truth, but I shall pass that over for the time being. Mostly you are a writer, and the rest is just how your are a writer. The stories are there and they flow like blood, so it helps to be wounded or have stigmata, but it is not essential.

This “flowing” explains why at the conclusion of writing a story one tends to feel drained a little bit.

Another useful device is a community like Pan Historia where you get to see what your work looks like, and how people receive it.

Quote Me

The difference between heaven and hell is who is the master…
the one certainty is that it will not be you…
but either way it is for eternity.

Quote Me

A lover does not make school lunches, mow the lawn or take out the trash.