caveat emptor

On Dogs and People

You cannot teach a dog to fly
She never will get off the ground
He'll whine and whimper and try and try
But dogs, like us, are all earthbound

- from Dogs by Ima Ginary

Some humans loves dogs and hate other humans. Dogs, meanwhile, are more practical. Dogs know the value of a human who feeds you. If you're a dog, no other creature will feed you. Only a human will do it. And, if they ever stop feeding you, you can just eat them and find another human to feed you. Humans are suckers for dogs, some more than others. I once knew an old, burnt-out hippie who sold used books for a living. The guy barely had a dollar to his name. He lived in a dilapidated house in the country and drove a rattle-trap van. He could hardly afford to feed himself. But, he took in every stray dog he found. He had dozens of them. He spent every rare dime he acquired to feed and care for them. He would often lament, over a bummed cup of coffee, the futility of his struggle to care for all of his beloved animal friends. Some of them would get sick and die because he couldn't afford veterinary care or medicine for them. They would breed and breed and breed and the pack would grow and grow and grow. Had they been more compassionate, the dogs would have eaten him and put him out of his misery, but they weren't fools. Where were they going to find another sucker like him out there in the middle of nowhere? A poor provider is better than none at all. Besides, there was hardly a scrap of meat on the scrawny old flower child, with his long grey hair and his scraggly sideburns and an extra heart where his brain should have been.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Ideas for TV Shows with Orthogonal Asides

Idea for a TV show: Tempires. It's a sitcom about "young" vampires making a living in New York doing temp office jobs. The underlying joke is that, although the temps stay on forever, the permanent staff keeps disappearing and being replaced. I'm not going to do anything with it. Feel free to write and produce it and make millions. Good luck.

As for me, I've become too lost to look for myself any longer, too overcome with life to attempt living. I'm frozen in place by activity, like some quantum effect they never teach you about because fuck you, that's why. "No one told me about it, why should I tell you?" So we just seize up and vibrate, uninformed quanta of uncertain principles, negative, but attracted to the positive, density collapsing toward singularity, with us balanced precariously at the event horizon. "Supernova is what you hope for," says a voice from somewhere nearby. "It's the last, best chance for escape."

But enough of that.

My life, let's be honest, is easy and good. Hands reach out from all sides to pat me on the back. I sleep floating in an ocean of warm adoration. Lips kiss me awake. Cool breezes blow through my soul. I am fire and snow and mountain and flight, the firmament and the heavens of my own dream land. I am free to lament the silky chains that shackle me to beauty and peace and love. I have time to write letters of grievance between my orgasms of laughter and joy. I pick dramatically at the locks that hang loose on the open gates of my paradise, carelessly playing the prisoner. What am I to do? How shall I survive?

Idea for a TV show: Pantocrime. It's about cops who are mimes. The dialogue writes itself. Again, feel free to run with the idea.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Enemy Mine

Of all the nemeses I've had, you were, by far, the most diabiolical and the most adorable. I was never a match for you, we both knew that. Struggling against you these last three years forced me to stay sharp and frosty, pushed me to be better every day just to survive.

Now that you're gone I'm not sure what will become of me. Battling you has become the reason I get up in the morning, my motivation, my focus. Now I am diminished, my life pointless. I will miss you, my enemy, my friend.

Rest in peace, Maisie.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Randomnia Insanitized

The voices in my head argue with the voices in my glove box as I drive to work each day. It started a few months ago and it's getting worse. I'm beginning to worry that it might be developing into an unhealthy thing. Generally the voices in my head are more radical and angry than the voices in my glove box, which are typically reasoned and calm, though obstinate. They argue about politics and science and religion and music. They never agree about anything. Too many voices in the car. I can barely hear the MP3 player.

Insanity isn't all it's cracked up to be. You'd have to be crazy to live your life insane these days, what with all the easily available medications and firearms. Who has time for prescriptions when waiting patients wait patiently in roomy waiting rooms while doctors try patience and patients try doctors, taking a second to get a second opinion? I don't know, though. Good old-fashioned crazy just feels more organic and honest to me. I don't like to feel medicated and I hate that muffled sound the voices make when I drug myself, like someone stuffed a sock in their mouth. I'm a believer in the first amendment, in the end. Let all the voices be heard.

The truth is I cannot stand to sleep all night and I cannot lie awake all night so I write myself notes on the back of my eyelids, checking every few seconds to see if I've replied. Blink.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Seen Better Days

Facing away from the shower head, letting the warm water massage my shoulders and back, I draw pictures in the steam and mist on the glass of the shower wall and watch the spray slowly erase them. Standing still helps me avoid the little throbs and stabs of pain that come from age and poor fitness. For a while I close my eyes and enjoy the extra time I gain by waking up earlier than I have to. When I open my eyes again, the words "seen better days" are fading from where I must have written them. I don't remember doing so, but I'm coasting mentally, my mind and fingers conspiring to surprise me. It sounds so mournful, the writing on the wall, but it makes me smile and sigh. I tip my head back into the flow of water. Warm drops run from the corners of my eyes down my cheeks. We are water creatures parched in a dry desert world most of the time. Let us linger in the flow when we can.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

The Simplest Explanation is Always the Most Plausible

I read a biography of Mark Twain once. "Why should I care about that?" you might be asking yourself. Well, it leads to a point I'm going to make below. Just keep reading. (Asshole.)

Mark Twain, it seems, was born during an appearance of Halley's Comet. The author made much of this because, as it turns out, Halley's Comet was also visiting when Mark Twain died. The author seemed to imply that some part of Mark Twain's soul, something inherent to Mark Twain, was brought to Earth by Halley's Comet and then taken back again when it returned. It's a neat, silly idea. Mark Twain, the comet man. I don't know.

The reason I mention this is because I want to draw a parallel. I have a similar relationship with storms. I feel more alive when storms are raging. I feel as though some portion of my soul lives in storms, howling all over the earth. It comes home to me and completes me while the storm is here, but it leaves with the storm and I am diminished once again, standing sheepishly in the mud, wet and insignificant as thunder rumbles faintly in the distance and then is gone.

The most obvious explanation for this is that I am Thor, the God of Thunder. I must have been banished here by Odin, my father, for some offense, my memory erased. One day, perhaps when this mortal body dies, my banishment will be over and I will find Mjöllnir, my hammer, and return to Bilskirnir, my home. There will be great rejoicing in Þrúðheimr and all of Asgard.

Feel free to come see me there. I won't forget you. I'll also visit you from time to time. Mostly in the Spring. You might want to keep an umbrella handy.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Reason in the Vacuum of Rhyme

Poets always want to know the same thing. "How," they will ask, if you slow down long enough for them to approach you on the street, "can the stars and galaxies have formed in this manner? There's simply not enough matter out there to explain it. Things should be very different."

You might sigh, depressed that the poets have lost their way. "Dark matter," you might respond. "Physicist are working now to prove that it exists. Neutrinos. MACHOS. WIMPS. Dark matter must exist out there. We just cannot see it."

Poets always struggle with the notion of dark matter, refusing to believe in something you can only see through math. "I think that I shall never see..." they might say, trailing off into silence. Poets, now that they don't have to struggle with meter or rhyme, have too much time on their hands. This leads to their constant vexation over subjects upon which poets have no business dwelling.

"The sunset is lovely this evening," you might suggest to them, trying to get them back on track.

"What?" they may respond, peering up and through you as absently as any professor of physics. A poet should never look through a person as if the person isn't there. A physicist might pass right through, as might a neutrino. A poet, however, should lose themselves in the depths of a person's gaze, or find themselves. A poet should notice the damned sunset. "Everything caves in. Even light cannot escape. Singularity."

At least it's a haiku. That's something, I guess.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Tonight's the Night! The Pods Arrive at 11:00 PM!

This is it, people. As you've been informed, the pods arrive tonight at 11:00 PM Central Time just outside Elkshorn, Texas. There's only room for seventy-five people, and you know who you are. Don't bring anyone else, please. The passenger compartment will be full but there will still be plenty of room in the food pantry and our hosts will eat almost anything, if you catch my drift.

Here are a few last minute instructions I've gotten from the diplomat: Only one large-suitcase and one carry-on bag per person, no exceptions. Too much weight and we won't be able to jump to hyperspace. You can bring your cell phones, but you cannot use them during liftoff. Once we're in space you're welcome to try. While you're in your container (it's like a seat) please keep your waste and food tubes attached and/or inserted. Don't wear any heavy perfumes as these can cause allergies/aftertastes.

See you tonight! The adventure begins!

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Up and Down the Dial

There are an infinite number of ways to experience any given situation. Like frequencies or wavelengths these perspectives and attitudes are all potential, all there, all the time. We just have to be tuned in, in phase, focused in the right way. Sometimes I cycle through the bands randomly. One moment the wind is blowing symbolically through the metaphor of my long hair as I speed, road music blaring, down the imagery of a highway. The next moment I'm on the mountainside, looking out at the disappearing sun, storm clouds roiling, damp wind crackling with danger all around, and expansive John Williams theme music swelling in my chest. Then it's jazz tapping my toe, a joint hanging loosely from the corner of my lips, black coffee, poetry, facial hair, angst and mad, mad energy, man. Then, sometimes, the signal is lost. Glancing around I see the bright sun glaring on the quiet, dusty stillness of clarity. I blink and squint, watching all the people who still seem to be getting a signal. None of them notice me, not the real me. I want to say something, to wake everyone up, to bring them all here with me, but then I get a signal again. Life is the ending of a sad movie. The credits roll. The music is longing and painful. I never thought it would end like this, and I wonder what is next.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Resolve, However Weak

In the end we must be the parent and guardian of the child that we are. Others might play that role for us from time to time - lending a hand, leading by example - but we are ultimately responsible for raising ourselves, for protecting ourselves, for teaching ourselves. Looking back at my recent past I can see that the adult in me has been lying in bed for weeks, staring blankly at the wall, imagining himself unable to handle what might be seen if he opened his eyes. Meanwhile the child in me has been making a mess of things, overindulging, running amok. I'm not a creature of guilt and shame - I never have been - but I know when things need to change. I can feel the adult in me sitting bleary-eyed on the edge of the bed, sighing at the task at hand, gathering himself. I've never been a model man, never one to do everything right all of the time. I'm a bit of a mess, but I'm not a deadbeat father to myself. I love the child that I am too much to let it die of neglect.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Live, Dammit! Live!

I will throw my joy at the obdurate blankness of the dispassionate universe and revel in the mess I make against its imperviousness. If you stare, unfeeling, at my antics then I will poke you in the eye with frivolity. I will wrench and claw your voice from behind your clenched teeth. Refuse to laugh with me and I'll make you laugh at me. Refuse to laugh at me and I'll force you to curse me. I'll not play dead in this short season of life. I will live or die trying, and so will you.

Let's consider the sun for a moment:

The sun is so dramatic this morning, peeking through the gaps in the scattered grey clouds, lining them in gold, sending majestic rays bursting forth in every direction. The sun is a diva, no subtlety in her ostentatious display. But marketing works, however impervious we believe ourselves to be. I am stirred in spite of myself.

Meanwhile the sun floats alone in space millions of miles away. The sun has never seen a cloud, never seen a silver lining, never seen a stirring sunburst on a product package. The sun has never read the New York Times. The sun is completely out of touch with fashion. She just burns and shines and burns and shines. The sun has no idea that she's been unfairly personified as some gaudy showgirl. She has no idea at all.

The clouds are so dramatic this morning, draping themselves flamboyantly across the sun.

If you frown at my story I will paint over it with a smile. If you try to stop me then paint will get everywhere, ruining your beautiful new clothing. Consider the cost and relent. Resistance is pointless. Come and play with me.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

To Gather Paradise

Every day lives are crushed by injustice. Horrors abound. I know this. I can hear it in the background rumble along with the Top Forty and the slow drone of scattered silence, white noise. There are too many voices directing me to too many right paths, there are too many gods looking for prophets, panning for profits. Forgive me if I give only a casual nod to your life in flames. It's not that I misunderstand the gravity of your plight, it's just that gravity pulls me in a different direction to the same ultimate destination. We are forced to laugh in spite of awful sadness if we are to laugh at all. There are also a million shouts of joy, and we cannot heed them all. Sometimes my mind aspires to enlightened hope, and sometimes my hands clap on the downbeat. Some would wrest my soul free to spiritual Nirvana, and often would I gladly go. Today, however, I search for animal heaven. Today I kiss her neck, lost in her long, dark hair. Today I pull her close and, smiling, growl into her ear. To be a human is to balance and experience as much as we can of all the choices and voices with only two hands, two feet, two eyes, two ears, one mouth, one mind and no idea what comes next. Today I will not throw myself into the flames in despair. Today I will grow just enough to embrace just a little more. I will do this each day for as long as I can.

Hello, friends. What will you do today?

Later. Love.

(from 03/30/2007)

Show Me the Way (Again)

Everyone is an option, but not really. You have to be careful doing it, but I recommend exploring everyone around you. Pick them up. Listen to them. Really, really look at them. Figure them out. Then put them back down. Try not to be obvious when you do this. If they realize what you're doing they won't act naturally. You'll get scripted life like reality television. It may get written poorly, it may get written on the spot, but it's still written. You don't want this. What you want is to invade them where they live, to intrude where they think you cannot come, to catch them unaware.

In most people I see the key to living happily. All around me people tell me, without knowing it, the better way. I take careful notes and resolve to become that person. I will wear what they wear. I will eat what they eat. I will know what they know and love what they love. I will hold my mouth like that, with the little upturn on the lips, pursed together, eyes looking intently between here and there at the minute details of nothing at all. Every day I learn the way. Every day I really understand, for the first time, what it all means.

Still here I am. Day after day. Month after month. Life after life after life. My experiences do not accumulate. I'm karmic Teflon. Tomorrow will be today, as was yesterday. I felt this same way in France, in Egypt, in Mesopotamia, in the Pangæan Sea. Only one time around, in a distant life, did I believe in transmigration of the soul. Mostly, in the other lives, I've been the skeptical sort. I've no use for such nonsense. I never have. Well, once I did.

There is a girl, I'd say two or three years old, holding her juice with both hands high above her head as she walks. I will do this. From now on, I will do this. It is so obviously the right way.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

(Originally posted 06/24/2008. Sorry for the repost. Busy.)

Octopus Invasion

The octopus doesn't belong here. You know it and it bothers you, but you aren't sure what to do about it. Octopuses (octopi? octopodes?) are dangerous. You're pretty sure you once saw a documentary in which the dangers of octopus proximity were heralded. So, you sit uncomfortable and agitated over this ectopic cephalopod.

Meanwhile the octopus sits in your regular spot at the coffee shop with the newspaper in two tentacles drinking six cups of coffee. That seems a little much, doesn't it? Six? Just because you have that many tentacles doesn't mean you have to use all of them, right?

"It smells a little fishy in here," you say, flushing in embarrassment at your inability to be more patient. "I think I'll go blog at the bottom of the ocean." If the octopus hears you it betrays nothing. You sit there and stew but you don't really leave because there's no wireless at the bottom of the ocean and you have to breathe oxygen anyway. You were bluffing.

There's an octopus sitting in your spot and it bothers you more than it should. Maybe you should see a shrink. There are probably underlying issues.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

I Stir. I Dream.

Dark. I open eyes. Middle of the night. Quiet. A bit too warm. I slide the covers off. Turn over. The new bed, big like a vast field. You breathe. I reach over, touch your back so far away. Cool, your skin. Adjust my pillow, heavy and dense, the one you hate. Yours is light and fluffy, the one I hate. New cool fabric on my cheek. My head sinks in. I slip away again.

In dreams you are still there. Closer, like in that old bed, the one we threw out. I reach out for you, but not too far.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Why the Stars Flaminkle

At the center of the galaxy there is an Asian man on a wooden stool playing flamenco guitar. His name is Wally. It is unclear whether this is his real name or a stage name. If you ask him a question he'll murmur, "Just a second," and keep playing the guitar. Scientists don't know what to make of Wally, but they're fairly certain he is significant in some way. He must be. He's at the center of the galaxy, isn't he?

"As a robot," explains Mr. Tammany, "my primary desire is to know what it's like to be human, to be truly alive." Mr. Tammany sits at the small table on the back patio of the expensive hospital for insane people. He is not, according to medical examinations, a robot. His family all agree. He's never been a robot. "What does happiness feel like?" he might ask you. He'll listen patiently if you choose to answer. However eloquent you might be in your reply, however, he will frown. "It does not compute," he'll say, taking a sip of tea. It's spring in Missouri and the weather is lovely, a bit cool this morning. Mr. Tammany wears khaki pants, blue house shoes, a white T-shirt and a tan cardigan sweater. "He just started thinking he's a robot one day," his daughter explained to the doctors. "It's all he ever talks about now." The doctors assure her that he'll get the best possible care. "He'll be a self-aware human again in no time," they say, smiling. "The sunrise this morning was beautiful," Mr. Tammany says, absent-mindedly, staring off toward the horizon. It's a strange observation for a robot, but technology is getting better all the time.

At night I leave the window open so I can hear Wally softly playing far away. The stars twinkle flamenco around here. Have you noticed? They flaminkle.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Playing With Words About Time, A Habit Of Mine

Sometimes I sit for hours wondering to myself where the time goes.

To be perfectly honest, I don't believe in time. I know that scientific and mathematical geniuses have many complex models and theories that make much of time, but I don't believe in science or math either, so that's okay. Time is nothing. Time is how we personify or reify the idea that one thing happens before another thing. The actions we perform, however, burn away in the flash of happening, leaving smokey puffs of memory behind. Our past actions do not exist anywhen, nor those future. Only the present is real. Time is nothing. It's a perception we have. We're going to do something tomorrow, so tomorrow must exist, right? No. It doesn't exist. It never will. "But what about time zones? The international date line?" Artificial classifications, all. It's always now everywhere, regardless of how you number it. "You can see the past when light from distant stars reaches you." You do not see the past. You only see the present of the light here and now. That light might have been changed a thousand times between there and here. You cannot see what it was, only what it is. See?

An afternoon can burn away as you ponder a single question. The evening comes and then the dusk. You fall asleep and the answer comes to you as a beautiful young girl in bare feet and a flowery summer dress. "You've fallen asleep," she says. "You should really wake up and go to your bed." "But what is the answer?" you ask, yawning. "I am, of course" she replies, smiling. Then she kisses you on the forehead and you open your eyes.

The answer is so obvious once you know it. It's always been there. And when is always? Always is now, the beginning and the end of time.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

A Return After a Hiatus. Also a Susan Update.

I'm a little creaky at writing. I've done none for almost a week. I've forgotten so many words and punctuation marks. The muse has taken up knitting in my absence, something with which to stay busy during the writing hiatus. The good news is that, after almost a week with no literary outlet, I'm probably bursting at the seams with ideas begging to be expressed. Here goes:

...

Hmmm... nothing comes to mind. All of my thoughts are crowding back against the far wall, dodging and flinching as the grasping hand of my muse reaches in through the cave opening of my mind, trying to pluck one of them out into the written world. Perhaps I should leave them alone, the poor, frightened things. They're just small baby thoughts, after all. They need time to grow. When they're older they'll fill with boldness and burst forth uncoerced, no doubt.

Many of you follow me on the various social networking websites where I am quite popular and powerful, Facebook and Twitter and such, so you've already heard an update about my Susan and her cancer situation. For those few of you who are too socially awkward or otherwise occupied with more important matters to participate in such venues, here's an update:

After spending the past two months (four treatments) in aggressive chemotherapy, we went last week to The University of Texas M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. They did a PET scan. None of the several tumors that showed up on the scan before the chemotherapy showed up this time. This suggests a fairly complete positive reaction to the chemotherapy, which is exceedingly rare after only four treatments.

What I describe below is the road ahead, but I want to briefly underscore what I said in the previous paragraph. There is a chance, against incredible odds (97% against), that Susan has completely recovered and has no cancer in her at this time. This is such an amazingly unexpected outcome and I don't want it to get lost in the description below of the awful ordeal Susan still has ahead. It would be nice if technology were sufficient to examine her and declare her cancer-free so we could avoid the next steps, but caution in the vacuum of reliable diagnostic techniques requires that we proceed. Nevertheless, her response to this point is statistically remarkable and something to be celebrated as quite a victory in the first and most important battle of this ongoing war.

Because of this apparent progress, they have decided to allow Susan to participate in a combination of chemotherapy and radiation therapy, something they were unwilling to allow before due to the spread of the cancer outside of a single "field" of radiation. This is good, since it is a step on the road to recovery. So, Susan will begin, next week, a six-week regimen of chemotherapy combined with radiation therapy. The chemo will be smaller doses but more frequent (one infusion every Monday and three large pills every weekday). The radiation will be every weekday. We're not sure what to expect, but we suspect we'll be trading a hell of sickness every other weekend for a generally crappy exhaustion all the time. Ah, well. Susan is tough.

After the six weeks of chemoradiation, Susan will be allowed a break for about a month to recuperate and to allow the effects of the radiation dissipate, then they will reassess her condition and re-stage her cancer. If things still seem pretty clear (no tumors), we will schedule surgery at M.D. Anderson. The surgery, we've been told, is a necessary step on the road to recovery. Even if there are no signs of cancer, the very high likelihood of recurrence dictates removal of Susan's esophagus and some part of her stomach, a serious and life-changing operation, as you might imagine. How she eats food afterwards depends upon her reaction to the surgery. She might be able to regulate her own intake and still eat small amounts of food orally like the rest of us. She might need a feeding tube. We don't know.

When the surgery and recovery are done, we enter into the constant reassessment period, checking continually for recurrence. So, there's still quite an ordeal ahead of us. I say, "us." Of course, her's is the hard part.

Anyway, that's the update.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.