blank blank fullness

Names
Big names in lights
My neck hurts from looking up at them
How had society convinced me that's the place they should be, my eyes, those flashbulb lights
There's really only one thing I want to look up to
A sky filled with light, clouds, birds, I don't care,
Whatever nature seeks to serve.
As for the humans,
Accomplished as they may be
Their pedastals are breaking necks, resting on backs
And those necks will tear them down
For their own chance at wearing a crown.
No.
No no no no no.
Look around you, there's angels amongst us
And the glorified sirs and madames,
Step down gracefully
Admit this isn't what you wanted, entirely
The other end of the equation will cede mercifully


Maybe He was created by those ancient wisemen,
Observing well the follies of Kings and Pharoahs
So that in our futures, we wouldn't do this to each other
To ourselves.
Easier to revere
A man whose course you simply cannot steer
Without
Steering yourself
Right?
We do it anyway
Still in vain, in the Name of _ _ _ ... _ _ _ _ _
Pressure to choose yourself to be chosen
So heavy.
Even when it happens naturally,
Hands of fate guiding steadily
Lead us to the truths
Hearts breaking in cardiac arrest

Can't pretend to know the answer
In what these eyes have only seen
Being's another elixir
Experience 'living the dream',
Your dream
Don't leave a detail out
Imagine as much as you can
What's your limit? The limit? His, her, their limit?
Half of the discovery is, testing that question
Evolutionarily unknown progress
Moving forward nonethelesss
Rationally sensible
Consciously
Chaotically
Soon to change its meaning,
Chaos more than
Order moving in reverse
Uniting this blessing and the curse

Not in the same place we started here, are we?

What I'd really like to know is what drives someone to enlist in the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, etc.?
Pride? Duty? The corrupted sense of these?
The rigid structure of these establishments can be a life saver for some, I'd guess. Marshall's clear directives comforting during an age of total uncertainty-- late teens, early twenties.
Then there's the hype, media and otherwise, the powerful myth spurred, spun through a materially comfortable Nation's eyes, that our 'democracy' is on their side.
Are we teaching these men and women how to fish, how to help other cultures eat? Or using them as bait? For what? For whose true gain?
Fueled by the pretense of eliminating world, desert-state hate... with... kill kill kill?
Does 'eliminate' take care of providing it's opposite? No, I don't think so... But is that the point, really? To fill the gaps new power blasts in the mountains of old, desert real estate a kind of gold, modern warfare a new form of laundering, perhaps. Oh, whoa I digress..........
What even goes on over there?
I bet they're much like 'us' somedays, waiting around for the other shoe to drop, checkin their MySpace on the reserve base, happy to see a friend's face.
Anyway, that was brought on by this, another forward, no less.

But I'll ask, What Does This Mean:

1/2 boy 1/2 man

The average age of the military man is 19 years.
He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who,
under normal  circumstances is considered by
society as half man, half boy.  Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but  old enough to die for his country. He never really cared  much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his  father's, but he has never collected unemployment either.



He's a recent High  School graduate; he was probably an average student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away. He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing  and a 155mm howitzer.

He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he
was at home because he is working or fighting
from  before dawn to well after dusk. He has
trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time in the dark. He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must.

He digs  foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional.

He can march until he is told to stop, or stop until he  is told to march.

He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity. He is self-sufficient.

He has two  sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry.

He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts.

If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food. He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low.

He has learned to use his hands like weapons
and weapons like they were his hands.

He can save your life - or take it, because that is his job.


He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay, and still find ironic humor in it all.

He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime.

He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed..


He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to  'square-away ' those around him who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking.
In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful. 

Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great-grandfather,  he is paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not, he is not a boy. He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free for over 200 years.


He has asked nothing in return, except
our friendship and understanding.
Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.

And now we even have women over there in danger,  doing their part in this tradition of going to War when our nation calls us to do so.


As you go to bed tonight,  remember this shot...

A short lull, a little shade and a picture of
loved ones in their helmets.

There's this inkling where many a person thinks, never that
Not me
I'm special, I'm not like them
But then we'd all watch, in the comfort of home, the place where the guard drops down
The place where we blind our eyes to life, get vulnerable for the sake of sanity, sleep, all our own
We'd all watch those others
Cookie-cutters
And just let them be, like that, exposed on T.V.
Act out on the stage of taped 'reality'
Reality?
Actuality, may be more the case
But they're human,
Either way
And so are the watchers,
Mouth open, brows furrowed
"No way"
Laughter peels, at least they get that much
Those working long, repeating days
But then I'll wonder
With the quest to be so individual
We're still not entirely indivisible
From those things that set us apart
From our common brothers
Stay different cause it's your destiny
But aching for the simplicity of belonging, easily
Comfortably, for periods extending beyond just me
These places we spend our time
Bringing us closer to keeping us apart
Cause most of it goes on in our minds, plugged up fire wires
Watching you, watching me
Watch myself

standing shoulder to shoulder
talking life and this cold cold weather
persons passing by, begs a cigarette this one guy
another follows in his wake
rappin wacky, seeming straight
maybe it was just our licked up state
we're all cool so it stays engaged
give a nod to design, balls stacked in an xmas fir line
color comments, pink and red
night light changes the look
the well-acquainted lady said
back to the sir, tiger's name on his breath
with martini and riesling on the rest
"you know i have this doctor friend"
"says there's only nuff blood to operate but one head"
laughter, we'd all heard it before
toasted "to not being stupid" at the outset of our fun
then a question "how can we know the other one?"

I'll never forget my first adult encounter with the genus species Capra aegagrus hircus, the common goat. My first ever encounter I, sadly, cannot remember but from the stories I've heard of my toddler self on a farm, I'm sure there was some form of pulling, prodding and general light animal abuse on my behalf.
But the meaningful cross came during a trip to Mali. There were goats everywhere. That's like saying there was sand everywhere, but it's true. Of the few animals to roam the villages and in between, the goat was the most common and most valuable. The attraction I felt to this animal was pretty strong. I mean, they were so CUTE! And the vibe they gave off was akin to the laid back, slinky yet pouncy style I find so accommodating with cats, kittens. So as we are trekking between two villages along a dusty, barren trail, we run into a heard of goats, scattered, grazing on what little vegetation they could find. And then I hear a cry. A distinct, and almost human-like wail coming from my right. It was a baby goat who had been estranged from his/her mother, frantically running in circles, head and neck stiff and searching the horizon. Head down, following the ground in search for food, baby goat must have lost itself in the intricacies of foraging, all the while losing track of its clan. Now it was in panic mode, sending out a wild call in hopes the familiar warmth of his mommy would reply. And reply she did. This was a moment, let me tell you. Almost moved me to tears. Equally engrossed in the hunt for sustenance, in fact, probably more engrossed since she was a nursing goat, baby goat's mother, upon hearing the familiar cry of her young, jolted upright and began to adjust her course in the direction of the sounding kid. She replied "baaa" (I'm pretty sure goats baa as well) or maybe it was "maa", a tinge of concern in her voice. From across the plain they called to one another. And eventually, recognized one another. The mother trotted towards her young, who was, no joke, sprinting, shaky-legged and still baa-ing, or maa-ing, as if to confirm he was running towards the right goat. And upon meeting one another, this baby goat went straight for the teat. Just, bam, right back to the source. One of those National Geographic moments, for sure.
LOOK AT THIS THING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Another thing that fascinates (and creeps me out) about goats are their rectangular pupils.  The Russian avant garde painter Kasimir Malevich revered the square and rectangle and focused almost exclusively on exploring its metaphysical and spiritual significance in art, and its distinct absence in nature. Upon seeing these m-fckers eyes I immediately thought back to KM. Though not a perfectly linear rectangle, the shape certainly does exist in their eyes.

I was having a conversation with a successful 50-something creative director at a major cable network the other night.
He was the keeper of his little quirks, he understands what drives him- in life, in the workplace; and he knows what he likes, what he wants-- and doesn't need to justify it or change it for anyone.
But there was a sadness. He felt it, I felt it. An element of his life he had given up on, having never really tried to begin with...
He loves women. Beautiful women, smart women, interesting women. Women. (period). And on this I heartily concurred. There is absolutely nothing more moving than a full woman who engages the senses, the imagination. Call it the feminine mystique, whatever you will; but male, female, child, elderly-- we can all appreciate that other half who, with a full-hearted grin can over-take a moment to make things a smidge more interesting (regardless of her I.Q.).
And although he was single and, I got the sense, accepting of the possibility that he probably always would be, I knew behind those successful, career-satisfied-eyes, he wouldn't have minded if things were different. His parents were married, had been for ever. He had 3 other brothers who all, like him, were not married. He began to psycho-deconstruct it, "My brothers and I, we don't get it, none of us are married yet we come from a parents who happily are and have been."
I brought it to the real-time. The element of time. "Well it's all about what you allow. What you make time for in your head." I challenged him: "I think we all have the potential for a lot more than we imagine. We are capable of devoting ourselves to elements beyond what we've habitually established, but we just don't allow it."
Indeed, why must it so often be one or the other? We make our choices and we choose it to be, contentedly, taking full accountability and pride in our decisions. But there comes a time in many people's lives when, having built their success, their empires, they realize there's still more, or, to look at it conversely, less-- something missing. And the feeling of "what have I been denying while my full energy and attention has been elsewhere?"
Can we be successful and multi-dimensional? Does success necessitate a full immersion, one-minded, fully-dedicated consciousness? Or can we stretch the limits of our desires (as little or big as they may be), our abilities to obtain those desires, to co-exist with the things we know, are comfortable with, have set up for life, seemingly, not to compromise on. Or are those phases on our personal evolutions strictly individual, immovable to the hand of choice?
Growth, the vision of new directions; I wanted to impart that ability on my new drinking buddy. Maybe if, as I speak of my ideas and visions, I blow my cigarette smoke in his direction those tiny wishes will adhere to the particles of exhaust and penetrate his habits of thought, of action, of belief; I thought.
Of course the potential exists in us all to have those things we want, indeed to first imagine them the way they'd be best. And what of fulfillment? Maybe all we need is the permission -- someone to tell us it's possible simply by introducing the novel idea at the right time, with the right dose of osmosis. And then the tides of change can begin their work...
You never know who will drop in on you to help.
Let's be there for each other, people.

Heavy knit sweaters wrapped around 'em, seated in a big white box of a room, bright marker-art held in their hands, passin them around following the "let me see".
dissections it with words of.generations past built a language, sure to last
not as long as those things they describe
started early and then the dictionaries and societies arrive
but, of course
we're looking at art out of children's eyes
sharp sporadic darts
hot pinks, violent violets, deep acid greens
holes in some papers torn
intentioned 'signature'
or was that simply what these almost-grown up grown ups so assuredly only just assumed
Do the 2 to 4 year old Sally or Kelly Sues know what a signature signifies, or 'signature' all alone, sans the indefinite article, 'a'?
and what it means
probably, nowadays
with the internet and all
no but really,
their drawings are so good.
They'll be up tomorrow.
No, wait it's a tomorrow comes today day




------------------------------------
Post date!

Ah, memories. Just that much sweeter than the moment itself. Packaged up in perfectly pin-pointable context of a life span, section; maybe, maybe recoverable.
The quickness is an asset inextricable from the bountiful daily matrix of schedule.
Nonesuch agendas or grocery lists.
I want to SAVOR SHIT. (excuse the language. and the visual.)
I want my 35 minute morning in a sunny kitchen with the newspaper (not) and a plate of berries, a bowl of oatmeal. Those commercials- Lies! Who actually does that? IN A BATHROBE? More than twice a year?
Restructure the routine.
While flipping through some magazine, on some day of the week, in some library- I think it was Vogue- they profiled another up-and-coming, something or other stylist, fashion girl who's been working her ass off for years and might slip under the rug with the rest of the disposables but wait-- she said something worth holding on to.
Her 'style motto' or whatever the cutesy journalistic lingo was, emphasized the timeless. (ugh, yes I know).
But then I'll look at someone like my brother-in-law who packed it all in and moved to the States from the DE and what those things were that he made room for....
An unbreakable; in all categories of design, craftsmanship, usability, and necessity- Alessi espresso pot, it's nicked and worn and wonderfully broken in and makes the tastiest. His grandfather's crazy lighter which is wood and round and bulky and strange but damnit if it's not the coolest, most treasured lighter in East Harlem. Two small crates of records, and the Technics to make them sound. We've probably heard every record in there more than a fair share but they play so fresh each time (the medium is the message with that one.). Then there's a pair of mugs (it's not really a mug so much as a large tea cup) with a small pair of eyes watching you sip, reminding you that "kunst offert die augen", art gives eyes. A few choice pieces for die wardrobe (count a top hat and ascot- ahhah), tailored blazer, busted, trusted kicks and bye bye Berlin. The rest to be built up with (I imagine) the continued discretion of preference and taste. Bit by bit with some things lasting for the passing on. There's a pocket watch in there somewhere, too (obligatory).

Who said discrimination always has to be bad? There's no room for all the crap this world has produced, continues to produce. Can we get this memo out?? It's bad for the environment, it's bad for aesthetic sensibility, any semblance of character or sense of worth and/or value (human, material, spiritual, social), and, in many cases, it's a big ol write-off because no profits can be weasled out of increasingly tight wallets and, hopefully, increasingly sophisticated sensibilites. Chalk it up as a step in the wrong direction towards right, throw it into the $0.99 bin. Relics. Was the bottom line worth this?

::In search of the anomolies. Those misplaced days that don't fit in along the timeline of the others. The ones that will forever and always stick out in your memory because of that je ne sais quoi factor, that little bit of morning light that managed to catch you catching it. Mutual appreciation, ah.

I think I'll make myself a cuppa and stare wistfully out the window now.

Year = way = Experiment within the lab trial = Life = Not always, always what you make it

An ambitious idea, knowing my tendencies to err on the side of postpone
But who is Ms. Right if not Ms. Right Now?
Now, is all we've got with a pocket full of pay me mind in a painted picture of tomorrows,
I'm cashing in --
I'll call upon the energies of Sophie Calle and the Name inside working to gain light, by the weight of
éffort
time

One Year
365 Entries
Here.
No excuses, espeically those of the "this is silly, dumb, pointless" variety (they say Know Thy Self, I wish I didn't know that part well)
Élan vital, ensures me this can be more than some aired-out bore of a jour-n-al
Mademoiselle, listen to the brook
Had been doing fairly well, archives, take us back over '08's spell
What shall be found through recording of what otherwise passes in an instance?
Are we still walking this razor's edge? Man of your time,
Check the trending topics for what matters to the masses
Real time
Maybe we will find an overlap along this experiment's map
But
I doubt it.

And even if I have to post-date; I'll pretend like the past can still be had.

We all need our outlets