9/12/13
9/10/13
September Tenth
Through some shared numb-skullery between me and my doctor's office, I went off my meds last Thursday. It's something I take, and a real light dosage at that, to help with anxiety and depression but my script ran out and I detoxed off the shit, hideous skin-crawling withdrawals and everything, all weekend. Strung out in front of my kids just like I promised myself I'd never be again. Called around to all my friends in recovery trying to score pills, had some big laughs about it. However I got a legitimate refill last night. Today is the closest estimation of the phrase "Back on Track" that I can imagine. This is the chemical approach to the idea of Self Care and as indignant or hostile as I may be toward it, it has been helpful. We take care of ourselves first. So that we may then therefore take better care of our children. Or each other. I guess helping daddy bring in groceries and put them away while he lays down for a bit is not the same thing as watching daddy sleep off a bender all day on the couch.
I told my son once about the idea of having a wound of the mind. It was just after a friend of his, age four, the same age as his sister, had died suddenly and unexpectedly. She was the red headed daughter of a carpenter I work with, she was sweet and funny as hell and everybody loved her. Actually we had the conversation well before that point, when he asked me why I was moving out and not living with him, his mother and his sister anymore. I explained to him, that because of some things that had happened to me, I had something I considered a wound of the mind, and that I needed to do somethings to work on it. When his friend the little girl died, he asked if her father would have a wound of the mind because of it. I said, yes, that was the idea of it, and that was something he'd have to deal with for probably a long time.
So today is September tenth and this morning, after I realized the date, felt like writing something here. Whenever I run across firemen, be it in the grocery store parking lot or riding my motorcycle past a firehouse, I always try to make it a point to blip the throttle one time and wave or else look them each in the eye and say good morning. I never go any further than that. They look at me like I'm a nut anyway which I may very well be, but I never explain to them I was in New York city on the eleventh. I never tell them that I knew people who lost half their family that day or for years I'd watch the stupid memorial shows on tv and cry my fucking eyes out whenever everybody would march down there and play the stupid fucking bagpipes and all that shit. It took me a couple years before I figured out the wound in my own mind did not necessarily include what happened on September 11th 2001 just because I was there. But because I was there strode in to work the next morning to put on a tool belt and do what I could, when there were hardly any subways running and not a single car in the city, I can feel some ownership of it, and that for that reason, I've always felt a kinship to firemen whenever I see them, like they're my brothers of some higher nobility. I don't know, maybe I'm just crazy and stupid. Maybe when I'm an old man, I'll stop one of them or else wander down to the firehall and sit a young guy down and tell them my story, touching them occasionally on the arm to make sure they're still paying attention to me.
I told my son once about the idea of having a wound of the mind. It was just after a friend of his, age four, the same age as his sister, had died suddenly and unexpectedly. She was the red headed daughter of a carpenter I work with, she was sweet and funny as hell and everybody loved her. Actually we had the conversation well before that point, when he asked me why I was moving out and not living with him, his mother and his sister anymore. I explained to him, that because of some things that had happened to me, I had something I considered a wound of the mind, and that I needed to do somethings to work on it. When his friend the little girl died, he asked if her father would have a wound of the mind because of it. I said, yes, that was the idea of it, and that was something he'd have to deal with for probably a long time.
So today is September tenth and this morning, after I realized the date, felt like writing something here. Whenever I run across firemen, be it in the grocery store parking lot or riding my motorcycle past a firehouse, I always try to make it a point to blip the throttle one time and wave or else look them each in the eye and say good morning. I never go any further than that. They look at me like I'm a nut anyway which I may very well be, but I never explain to them I was in New York city on the eleventh. I never tell them that I knew people who lost half their family that day or for years I'd watch the stupid memorial shows on tv and cry my fucking eyes out whenever everybody would march down there and play the stupid fucking bagpipes and all that shit. It took me a couple years before I figured out the wound in my own mind did not necessarily include what happened on September 11th 2001 just because I was there. But because I was there strode in to work the next morning to put on a tool belt and do what I could, when there were hardly any subways running and not a single car in the city, I can feel some ownership of it, and that for that reason, I've always felt a kinship to firemen whenever I see them, like they're my brothers of some higher nobility. I don't know, maybe I'm just crazy and stupid. Maybe when I'm an old man, I'll stop one of them or else wander down to the firehall and sit a young guy down and tell them my story, touching them occasionally on the arm to make sure they're still paying attention to me.
9/9/13
Eve
I might have posted this before. I don't care.
--Uploaded on Dec 7, 2011
--Uploaded on Dec 7, 2011
"EVE' is the title of the fifth album
from UFOMAMMUT. Recorded at Locomotore Studio in Roma by Lorenzo
Stecconi (Soundlord on Idolum), Eve is a 45 minutes long single track
developing in 5 main movements. Passing through the massive atmospheres
of Idolum and filtered by the mastodontic riffs of Snailking, 'EVE' is a
totally new step in the sonic adventure of Ufomammut, another level in
the band's sound research. This album is a homage to the first Woman on
Earth, Eve and the rebellion to her creator for bringing knowledge to
Man.
9/7/13
8/28/13
8/22/13
Avenue of Champions
I haven't written anything in a couple of months. Met with my editor buddy two weeks ago and he said, meh, don't worry about it, print out everything I got, give it all to him and we'll start stitching this monster together. Just printing it all out is a daunting proposition. I got something like twelve chapters from one computer, plus whatever shortie shorts I put up here plus I think another three on a little old dell laptop my dad gave me. The little dell has a bad display that I have to fix before I can get whatever I have in there out. I still haven't written the big stuff, the middle, and the end. It's okay, I keep telling myself, don't get stressed out, it's happening, just slower than I would like. Life happens. I started working on old houses again, doing restoration carpentry in Church Hill, decided to focus on work a little more. It's okay, I can get back to it. My editor or somebody recently brought up that song by the Band, When I Paint my Masterpiece. That's what it is, just a big ass painting. I drive around this city and see more shit I want to put in it. The sensation of hand sanitizer drying on greasy hands, the smell of hot trash. Fuck it. It's gonna happen. Fuck the Band, fuck Bob Dylan.
This week I'm not writing anything. I'm getting my motorcycle ready for Saturday when I drive the 640 miles between here and Chattanooga. Family reunion on Sunday, up to my aunt's cabin on Sunday night, then over the mountain Monday morning and up the Blue Ridge parkway. Again. I don't know why I can't come up with a better trip. Maybe I want to learn that road till every lonely stretch becomes as familiar as a lover's body. Run every empty curve til my mind empties and there's nothing left except breathing.
This week I'm not writing anything. I'm getting my motorcycle ready for Saturday when I drive the 640 miles between here and Chattanooga. Family reunion on Sunday, up to my aunt's cabin on Sunday night, then over the mountain Monday morning and up the Blue Ridge parkway. Again. I don't know why I can't come up with a better trip. Maybe I want to learn that road till every lonely stretch becomes as familiar as a lover's body. Run every empty curve til my mind empties and there's nothing left except breathing.
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