tangledupinblue

"I followed you beneath the stars
hounded by your memory
and all your raging glory"


It'll come as no shock that I think our worst moments frequently double as gateways to our best. I'm dry man, dry. Broken down and empty like a creek bed.

Rain on the way.

I figure that nothing very bad has failed to segue into something better somewhere down the line.

That's not the same as accepting certain things. It's not the same as granting free reign to circumstance and petulance in the self and others.

But what it is . . . huh huh huh huh huh huh

What it is, maybe is an appreciation of flow and context?

There can't be so much invested in any one moment any more because really what are they if not conduits?

I've written on this and talked to others about it. We lose our chances at happiness and I think maybe our minds, or our best minds when we look to the results and forget about the process.

"So I'll take my own advice and leave her behind and go sailing the wide world over."

I'm apart from things a bit, because I made them as a different thinker, not a different man, but one who saw thinks "from a different plateau".

"So if your travelling in the north country fair, where the winds hit heavy on the borderline, remember me to one who lives there. She once was a true love of mine."

The north country. The light is different now, so much weaker. I can even see it in photos. Even when trees are green, I can tell when the summer's dead.

And it's dead.

Cold winds blowing already and there are some howling cats in alleys knowing the worst is yet to come. But man, if it's just a step to somewhere else, a drip on the stone, a cow chewing grass, the wind maybe ain't so cold.

Trick of the light engineered on oneself. Don't know.

Goddamn it I don't know. I really don't know and if that isn't good enough for you, too fucking bad, because the things I don't know far outnumber those I do -- and I guarantee you those I do know you never wanted to hear.

Whatever. Put it on that other side of the ledger.

"Listen to the river sing sweet songs to rock my soul"

Howl baby, howl.

"Rave on Mr. Yeats, Rave on theough the writing of A Vision, rave on rave on rave on rave on rave on rave on rave on raveeeee on John Donne."


They sat there late that night and fashioned a bong out of a Rheingold can. An old Irish bar trapped inside a new bar, that got older as the night went on. Nothing beats a good bartender. Nothing beats 5am conference and walking into the graveyard rather than sprinting by the Tombstones singing at the top of your lungs. Is there any question that what we pay to get a look is worth it? How funny to run external and internal at once. You've solved the riddle of the Sphinx while you are talking about the rise of rents in Astoria.
And then there is everyone else in the town. Some going to work in overalls and some coming home in suits or garters. Some feeling like tomorrow is a day of worship and some thinking of the day very differently. Do any of us live in the same world?

I think we may just wander into each other's from time to time, and if we are lucky, we learn the language, at least enough to order off the menu. But I guess everyone riffs on dislocation, and is everyone actually united in that lack of meaningful company?

Like Gilbert and Sullivan said

"If everybody's somebody, than no one's anybody"

"If a body catch a body coming through the Rye"

I like my mind for all the trouble it causes me. I'm glad I like my own company, I think that's a good thing to have in your back pocket.

It's better than a harmonica. I can always learn "Tangled up in Blue"

I don't know that I could learn to dig my dark corners just as easily.

See ya, cyber space, strange anonymous place filled with firefly connections.