several signs of autumn

There are several signs of autumn already in the north east that add to my general sense of heartbreak. Keep these thoughts out of rumination zone I keep thinking but it's hard so I prepare a canvas and lay down some words. One word actually, a series of one. Initial thoughts are go and I'm rather pleased with it. But in the blankness of my reply in my non structured meditation I work a few more hours and go wandering. To the bar where I find a wry crowd.
Who's this guy?
Me? I'm one man young.
And what's that supposed to mean?
I'm just playin' with words cowbell. (I specifically call him cowbell)
You're playin' with fire son is what your playin' with.
I stood staring at him, thinking about it, almost walk away and say, then throw down tinkle boy.
Bar stools scrape the floor, chests puff.
What's with the tinkle boy shit boy?
You gots the tiny tinkle right? That's why you're hemmin' and hawin' cowbell.
Then he swung and caught me on the forearm as I tipped back off my stool landing hard on the floor. Before I knew it I was out the door getting strangled by a fat bouncer.
I let myself relax and waited him out. When he let up I popped him quick and hard on the ear, struggled free and trotted down the road to safety. So it goes on a Friday night in the country. I may have to leave here I thought. (I always think that).

Back at the studio I check the mail. There in tiny child's writing is a message from my six year old niece Amber, "Dear Uncle Rose, Thank you for coming to my party and for the gift. Love, Amber." It took up the whole card in a good use of space. I tack it to the wall with a good long pause and think, I may have to leave this place soon.

here are some words I can never tell you

< @ Shelf Lake, Yellowstone National Park, Tuesday morning. >

In the mountains I am most at home and blank. I don't come here to write the great American novel or to photograph or much of anything else. I come here to blank then to dream again. Not the type of dream that amounts to future life or children or career, cars or other absurd shit. To physically dream. The city sapped it out of me - no words, no dreams, nothing. Here in the elevations I hear voices and see ghosts and pulse with history which are all welcome things. High up after a day of strenuous work and load in a pinch from past traumas I talk to God but she is silent.
What is your prayer?
That's what I'd like to know.
What do you think it is?
This pain. The pain of my body.
And that's enough?
No.
Why not?
Because you are love. Is love pain?
Silence.
(silence)
< end >

I look to my love
Here are some words I can never tell you.
I can not tell you that I get what I ask for, I do.
I can not tell you your love, my love.
I can not say that the beach is a sand pit and I came down to you for it.
I can not send light from above.
I ask for hope and you open the ocean.
I can not ask you for more.
You ask for hope and I open the sea.
You may not ask for more.
But these words I can never tell you because they're in service of high Romanticism and essentially bullshit and you can never tell me more.

more coming soon...

Sodom and Gomorrah

Maria and I brought Faf to the Hill Cumorah Pageant and sneaked her in back. We actually got caught but convinced the kindly guards that she was harmless and that we'd be quiet (even while Faf did her super cute girly howl for being held up) so they let us through. In all my years living among the Mormon's I generally like the folks - they tend to be kind, sober and inviting. Unless you're gay or a drunk or otherwise human and were born on the inside but since that isn't my experience and since it doesn't pain me to be an outsider I rather enjoy their company. The company of the Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints, not Mormon - an insistence of obvious psychology that many of the post adolescent "elders" probably don't realize has worked on their delicate spongy masses since before birth. The perception of innocence is a wondrous thing, never let the man drag it from you. On the way in there were, of course, protesters - men with booming voices and bullhorns shouting bible verse at the wayward cult of Mormons.
"That's just fucking awesome," were the first words I said to the faithful parking attendant.
"I think you just told the parking guy that those protesters were 'fucking' awesome," Maria repeated wryly.
"Shit, I suppose I did. I just love this Sodom and Gomorrah Pageant, it's just fucking perfect."
Maria laughed.
And we were in, a beautifully clear night in the remote upstate village of Palmyra, NY. Home of Joseph Smith and his polygamous cult. Perfectly absurd, perfectly American. I'd do anything I could to defend these people. I wouldn't follow a single policy, I thought as we sipped on the outlawed wine from our blanket in the fields, but I'd go down defending the absurd.

(days pass)

I started blinking more on purpose, until Cheryl from the design center noticed what I was doing and asked about it, "What are you doing?," She asked. "Why are you blinking so much?"
"I don't know, it makes me feel more productive."
"Oh I see. But you're not, you're not more productive right?"
"I'm not more productive? How's that? I'm blinking more furiously each moment," I said while putting a bit of extra emphasis into each blink.
"How's that productive?" She said. "You're just wasting energy squeezing your lids together forcefully. You're forcing it."
"Maybe," I replied. "But I'm getting it accomplished."
"Getting what accomplished? Those aren't accomplishments, it's just hard blinking."
"It's practice."
"For what?"
"For future blinking."
"But blinking just comes from a body, it's like breathing."
"Good point, people choose to alter their breathing all of the time right?"
"They do?"
"As in Yoga or controlled breathing, people with heart conditions, athletes, astronauts, all that stuff."
"That's different. That's a whole different deal when you're sick or in a fitness program, an athlete. Your forced blinking doesn't fit a purpose."
I kept doing it, her protest seemingly bolstering the effort.
"Now you're just trying to annoy me."
"Am I? You don't have to watch."
"It's distracting. (pause) And annoying."
"Don't let it get to you, just ignore it," I said blinking hard and in rapid succession, this time lifting my checks higher so it felt like they were touching my top lids. Then release. This extra effort amazed her.
"Well I'm not going to sit here and watch you blinking like this. I'm just not going to do it. It's dumb."
"Maybe, but I'm trying at least."
"Trying what? That's not productive, that's wasted effort," she replied visibly more shook up with each retort.
"Maybe," I replied again, blinking on.
Then she left. I just stood there for some time blinking, controlling it, pushing it, seeking future effort.

Grave of Italo Calvino

parallel the fall

Look at the power of that fucker. It'll smash you up in seconds, I said in mock Jersey speak.
Yea, it'll do that.
I'm sayin'.
Babe? (pause)
Yea? (pause)
Nothin'.

We stood staring at the American falls, that tiny side tributary separated by an island. It was a beautiful evening, soft, misty and comfortable. We made it there on a spontaneous visit after dropping Z and the boy off at the airport to meet the family.

Do you imagine yourself perpendicular to the fall or parallel to it?
Oh. I'd have to think about it. (time). I imagine myself parallel to it.
Really?, hm.
Yes, your head here and your feet there so you'd fall at once with your entire body, she said motioning the direction of the fall.
The funny thing was I pictured the same thing but I'd call it perpendicular because I imagined the front of the fall from head on.
Why, would you be parallel? she said.
No, I'd be perpendicular but I'd fall the same way with you. We'd both fall lengthwise.
Really?, she said. Hm.
hm?
hm? oh.
oh?
oh.

We just stood there grunting in the undercurrent and watched the glassine edge, soft and gentle and then the fall.

drawing by Steve Caruso

maria. avé.

Dash Snow's dead. (+) It came in a text from Youth.
Fuck, first MJ and now this.
Thoughts? asks Youth.
He's gone to the 27's. Done. Sad.
Aye.
That was that and we were alone again in our personal prisons. respectively. respectfully.

I'm not sure that we feel things the same.
Is that so? Why, why would you say that?
You wouldn't make those choices should you know.
That's what everyone says. It's common. The you wouldn't hurt me if you knew stuff stuff.
Maybe.
Not maybe, now sing a different song boy.
OK then, how's this - I've come to love on you.
Then love on me.
I have. I am.
What now?
What now?
You don't know? You're crazy then. You're bi-polar or something.
sigh. (silence).
You're using me.
(silence)

The Girl came back to town looking as gorgeous as ever and as lost as ever or as found as ever. So was I but we go in a good way. My thoughts were easy and free. I was happy. Until later. Later I kept thinking of buttercup sitting in that chair like the ambassador of beautiful (+) and how the days turn to weeks turn to months and all we want stops and become silent. "I thought she'd make a good story to you" she said but in a loving way. "I know you think that," I replied. I am what I say I am and be careful what you say. Even your thoughts become lakes, especially when you are compelled to exhibit them. That I do.

It's childish, you know better now.
I do know better but what's the point of knowing better.
Live forward. Live like a fish, hold a ten second memory and react to danger. Cover yourself in scales and slime. Spawn. Return. Be food for the biblical types on Fridays. Scour your clean waters. Clean your soiled ones, mercury, shit and all.

Who are these people?
Who are they? Lost Souls. They are the end. Watch them live forever.
You want that too? You want to live forever?
C'mon.
Just then Cathy pulled up her shirt to reveal a set of nipple clamps biting hard at her soft tits.
I keep them on all day in anticipation.
Anticipation of what?
Getting fucked later.
You keep them on through class and meetings and everything?
Yes.
Nice, I said and left it at that.
I stood there again and thought of Maria, her blue dress and my left ventricle heart part all cooed and ready, broken up and loose. Faf too. Avé. Avé & go.(+).