RECORDIATION

EVERYBODY DRANK.  ALL THE TIME.
^{22 October 2024}

I AM TAKING A FEW DAYS off.. (drinking.. I am drinking.. I am drinking mindfully and with purpose).. Drinking makes everything ugly.   That has been my experience all along.  It is such a loss of control that it resembles a "demon possession," but how ridiculous is that?  The feelings of shame that accompany a drinking bout.. have I ever really gotten over that?  

Shame is a thing that needs to be overcome.  It doesn't seem to me that many do.. rather we find a place where our shame fits and stay there.  Sobriety, this is to say, should not be an imposition.  I should not fear a "relapse," into drinking.. like it's a thing that can blow in like a hurricane.. 

I'd love to write a book, you know, THE TERROR THAT IS NICKY.. just to show her how special she is.. but you know, we go around and around with this thing until life is incomprehensible.. and the only question that we will ever benefit from answering is "why are we incomprehensible?" 

Let me say Nicky does not fit into anything that is my constitution.  And this is the main reason I cannot "block," her existence.  She won't have it anyway.  All the counselors.. all our A.A. friends.. all history and good logic says, "you will destroy each other," and yet.. and yet.. and yet..

I'd like to ask, why can't there be something of a mindful drinking binge?  It's like we go to parents, and parents tell us what will happen.. and it never does.

***

I AM THE GREAT I AM.. and the words seem silly now.  When a man rises so high in his own estimation that there is no place to look but down on himself.. how can he not?

My earliest memories are of being outnumbered.  There was the "Wizard of Oz," day.. the apple peal getting stuck in my throat, running to the bathroom, and the entirety of the environment laughing at me.  I was the smallest.  The Omega dog.  And understanding wasn't to come for a great great while.

I could not read.  I could not look at a page covered in text without feeling weighed down.  Even now, in control of it, I want to scream.  Have I become a man?

Ernest Hemingway was all the shit then and I wanted to be Hemingway.. a Hemingway.. it was sitting through English.. and how I hated it.. it was the sound of the word "Hemingway."  The reverence.. like "Shakespeare."  Only much different.. there was a greater feel.  Somehow the greatest man in the world had been topped.  And none of it fit at home.  Somehow school, the outside world, kids, and all the rest, none of it fit at home.  There was something so dominant.. like thick air.. and it's the feeling there is nowhere to go.  There is nowhere to go.  Nowhere to run to.

I just got an email.. "start your home buying journey."  Wow.. how lucky am I to be me..

The black guys I ran into then didn't have any conception of buying homes.. along the way, you might say.. what was that all about.. it's a good question.. until you're too drunk.  

And, well you know, this has to be the best, but I could talk about Nicky all day and night.  We are "alcoholics."  That is somehow to maintain dominance in our heads.  It's going to make my piece of literature crap, but, what if Hemingway's head was full of "feedback?"  

It's when she's not here and when she is.  Or against when she is.  The Nicky inside me.  She is about my perfect opposite and complimentary color and I wonder if green hates red on the canvas, being put there and forced to sit by all this red for all eternity.. 

I really loved the guys in prison.  I remember it as being in and out of "transport."  You know.. first, they call your name.. then you're standing in a little group of people.. herded to an elevator.  You're all in ill-fitted brown clothes, the absolute worst clothes anyone's ever dressed you in.  You're standing by big men, really big men, all starched black, with shining steel, and silver.. and for me it was like climbing on Aunt Renee.. (the nun).. she was so big and starched and unlike any other surface on the earth.  That's a thing that will never go away, her face pressed in that hat thing.  And it was the same with the guards.  The transport guys.  They are indifferent to you.  And it's just certain hallways now that stand out.. 

It is of myself now that I say she needs a thing she can trust.  I put it out there with trepidation.  And I have to be it.  And the kid wails, you know, why does this all have to feel so bad?  But I am a pillar of security.. I have to be here.  Everything else was always "I have to be here;" why not this?

I was thinking science need a little more humanity but it's got all it can handle.. these technicians.. filling their day, much like the "unibomber," we gotta do something.  And the kids, you know, there's no escaping the kids.. they're just there all the time.  The authorities are bringing youtube into prison.. they have to.  Who am I is I've been there.  And thank god for Moses Rivera.  How and who else is anyone going to thank?  

Moses just drew respect.  There was no fucking with him.  Everybody knew it.  And alright, we'll go with that for a minute.  

He got a "two-to-four," for manslaughter.  We all got sent to Livingston, everybody that was a year or less to their parole hearing.  I was there on a one-to-four for DWI.  We started playing chess.  

Moses was probably "good looking," but to me dark, with hard stubble.  My feeling for him was good.  There isn't a lot of talking about individual crimes in there, beyond the official words, but Moses told me he had shot a drug dealer because that was his "M.O."  He robbed drug dealers.  I think he liked my curiosity.  I think he saw my struggle to relate.  I think it took us both back to safe childhood.  I think with people like Moses there's no guessing.  You know his maximum.  You know what he will do.  All these others you do not know.  This is why the murderer is your best friend.

In there.

People talk the worst bullshit out here.  People are conditioned to really believe they've been somewhere on TV.  

But then when you get there...

When you finally smell the girl.  I suppose it's like the diamond mines; you get used to it.

FOR THOSE LOCKED UP
^{20 October 2024}

MY HERE AND NOW IS NOT A GREAT DEAL different and this will be as difficult for the "free" world to comprehend as the men locked away; people believe jails and prisons are full of society's absolute worst, as these places were created to rid their streets of every undesirable person, but what escapes their awareness is that the very best of humanity is also locked away, and what's left is the most mediocre sort of unimaginative rabble, people who don't do very much good or harm at all, making it an intolerable place for any man of great feeling and honor.. people are too dull to see crime as a retaliation against crime.. the worst of all crime, maintaining and teaching others to maintain that what is bad is good.

I've been treated very well in life, in the worst of the institutions and jails and this would be the reason for writing "my story," or giving an opinion at all; what we call "recidivism," is blamed on the "convict," but there is a worse disrespect of humanity out here and being locked up inside is no better.  

I think, looking out at the U.S.A. and the rest of the world, Noam Chomsky summed things up best when he spoke of the earth as being dominated by what amounts to a couple handfuls of warring MAFIA families.. people are controlled by fear.. and this is why the very best of us die violent deaths and get locked away.. those of us who can't stand the sight of it.  We die by suicide and drug overdose.. (we can't get far enough away).  Noam goes on to describe the institution of the wage-labor system of survival is basically a "slavery," and worse because it is constituted within the laborer.. rather than inflicted from without; the crime is worse because the constitution is instilled in one's own children as opposed to those bought and sold in the market.

So I hope that my story, my feelings, expressions and opinions, my take on things, would bring some comfort to those that are so gravely affected, knowing I am of the most mediocre class of man.. but I know from being inside a man will read anything he can get his hands on.. his soul aches for connection, or "solace."  There are much more brilliant men than me and wisdom is everywhere and free.. it is, in my experience, the only real solace any of us can hope to attain.

^{(SCAN/COPY WEBSTER'S DICTIONARY 1956)}

Tonight there is no solace, no relief, no cheer.. no comfort.  

^{HERE IS MY HOME
ink and watercolor on mounted paper roughly 5 1/2 x 6 inches}

IT IS A "MADE UP," PLACE ABOUT as big as you see.. every now and then an image paints itself, and this one reminds me of something I've come across that's somehow been attributed to the "Native American," but might also be practiced elsewhere; the naming of children on the basis of attributes "given," to that little boy or girl.. (on sight).. this one, (above), is (the farm), as all that was attributed to that place, the place of my first real memories, remains in my mind.  There's a whole story behind that, (nobody ever called it "the farm" until after we moved away from it).. but the main emphasis I would think important is the sharing of this little image.. and how has that all come about.

***

^INTRODUCTION

RECORDIATION IS A WORD I MADE UP a couple days ago.. along the lines of KLANGORSKRAWLER on the whole.. it's fun.. for me, I should say.. and tack on the explanation that I've found it to be fun, (a very private and personal fun), through experience.  Of the jumble of sounds coursing through my mind, all battling for dominance.. I'd say it was, and continues to be, inevitable that some are going to rise to the top and rule the lot, (so to speak).. and I can punctuate the sounds any way I please.

This goes back to something my father used to say fairly often, having had it thrust upon him the necessity of communicating with us, (his children), and not being very good at it.. he used to grow a bit exasperated and none of us knew what that was exactly beyond its not feeling good.. he'd look at us one to another and back.. pausing at each face a moment.. maybe three or four times apiece.. in silence.. you could see something creep into him.. a smile, you'd think, his taking in how stupid we must have all looked staring back at him in our growing horror at the incomprehensible noises coming out of his mouth.. he'd say, "Jesus.. let's have a little fun with this thing."

And there is my nod to my "dad," and I could say with an eye toward my "son," because these two collections of sounds have become the dominant noise in my head of late.. I could say every morning begins as every other morning has all my life with a joyous leap out of bed.  And I say this in all sincerity and truth; waking up was, always has been, and is now a pure joy.  How long it lasts is another story and it is an ever changing story from one day to the next.  I might feel good for ten hours.. I might feel good for five minutes.. I might not feel good at all because the amount of time I just spent joyous is so minuscule I missed the fucking thing entirely.. it all depends on something I don't really know, beyond the noise in my head.. that's there.. it's always been there.. and there's no real reason to believe it's going to go anywhere soon.

The good and bad of this phenomenon.. (the phoneamonin).. phone-a-moan-in.. is its never ending insistence that it come out of my mouth too.. and this is the big decision of the day.. who's going to have to hear it all besides me?

I think it's a good bet neither "KLANGORSKRAWLER," nor "RECORDIATION," is going to translate very accurately into any other language so I might advise the reader to go out and get himself a good dose of English before venturing any further into this particular piece of literature.  Because I made those sounds up the real meaning is only known to me.. and this is, or has to be, good enough.  I can't make it any better. 

People are telling their "own," stories now, or ever increasingly so, (it seems), so that's it's all becoming a whole lot of hoopty-fucking-doo, again, (and again), to me.  It would be just too stupid to say something along the lines of, "my life is your life," because nobody is going to believe that on any level that is going to bring about any significant change, or rather, the changes I would like to see happen all around me, and inside too.. certain nervous-systems, (as governing bodies in an organism), have got to be so completely damaged and polluted there's no restoring them to proper functioning, or "maximum," adaptability.. as there is ample evidence to support; some dudes are just too fucked up.  And I'll only speak for the men in this thing.. although, I have to say, of the contributing factors that go into making up a "good life," the various sources of "knowledge," that might aid a person in their quest to secure one, I'd say nothing tops the input of an honest woman, (for a man).. nothing quite so beautiful and really "worthwhile," than to see a woman open, completely.. and it may be the same for a woman, to witness such a thing in a man.. but alas, (we can just as easily say), this unbelievable experience, (most can only dream of), is how people say, "reserved," for a pitiful few.  

And I say "pitiful," as that is such the most general conditioning of the children in the U.S.A. (largely); as children respond most to the exchange or transfer of pride and shame betwixt and between the peoples everywhere, (there are always people everywhere).. it's been my personal quest to somehow extricate myself from this see-saw spectrum of feeling, or this particular feature of it.. mainly because pity is the ultimate recourse.. the only outcome.. (there is no other).. and few have the time to sort it out and choose something better, if there is a choice anymore; we pity.. we pity our selves.. we pity each other.. we pity the dog, the cat, the homeless, the hapless, the whole of the heap.. it's the only way to remain "above it all."

The beauty of the thing is basically this: if I was to tell my story it would be mine alone to tell any way I saw fit.. mine to take full authorship of.. full authority in all decision-making.. full editorial power is granted.. by me.  And where else in life can a man say all that?  Where else, rather, is a man granted any sort of anything from anywhere but "above?"  We can go back to the story of Jesus to see that whole mess played out on the most "Godly," of all stages.. but does it give us any sort of clue in finding an answer to the eternal question: "from whence does such authority arise?"  Surely the baboons can answer it.. the hierarchy of caste and clone.. if one is have anything at all to do with other people he, (or she), is going to have to establish, or come to accept, the inherent inequality of "stature," that is possibly the only "universal," feature of all humanity.. the disagreement concerning who's in charge.. 

And here, we will leave it, "the introduction," for now...

WHAT IS LIFE?  FOR REAL?  WE ARE asking what life is?  Okay, let's think about this a minute.
^{20 October 2024}

LIFE IS A LOT OF FUCK YOU.. that's what life is.. that's how I would answer that question now, if I thought anyone really cared what I think or that it might do anyone else any good to know it.  But I don't.  

Life is a lot of fucking people pushing a lot of fucking stories around.. and most of us not very good at it.. or half of us anyway.  The other half is somewhere in the process of checking out.  

Life is a lot of people trying to get a lot of other people to do a lot of shit nobody wants to do.

"What are we?"  Just asking the question requires another douchebag to hear it.. and then what.. deliberate the issue?  It's a stupid question, "what are we."  Don't ask.

What is life?  

Here we got infinite answers, just as many answers as there are people.. 

Here's what I think.. I think life is a whole lot of "hey, I got an idea," mixed with a whole lot of "shut the fuck up."

Even though there's no time to think, think about it.. pushing stories around.. making them better.

Making everything better.  That's the good intention, right?  We gotta make everything better.. 

The fucking bonsai tree is a good example.. beautiful.. perfect.. lovely.. and wow..

But you gotta ask, after all that you did to it, all the years of clipping and binding and turning the fucking thing this way and that.. showing it to all your friends.. telling the story of the bonsai.. meditating on the metaphor.. etc. etc. etc.. what are you going to do then, eat the thing?

Life is a lot of "don't kill me, I'm useful," mixed with just as much, "no, you're not."